I woke up in a pretty nice bed, and that’s how I knew I must be in hospital and not back home. The old decrepit wife took our king-size, and mum’s box room with its dodgy couch wasn’t exactly the Ritz.

Neither was this, but it was decent. The nurses were friendly too. 36DDs at least. They gave me a coffee, took some readings down on a clipboard, and told me someone would be with me shortly. I hoped it would be more nurses, perhaps with a little less on.

Then I remembered the dark glimmering things, the rush through the black doorway, and my chest leapt and twisted in rage. Kids these days needed to learn some respect, I thought. At least ask for your wallet before doing something like that.

I glugged my mug down and lifted myself up from the bed. I was still in my T-shirt and jeans, so at least no-one else had seen something that should not be. The room was a very boring white, with no furniture that wasn’t absolutely necessary. Outside, the brown roofs of Raughnen fell away from my second-floor window in all their distinctive boringness. But beyond the first few streets, all sorts of spires and towers and sculptures twisted up and away over the hills. Just another typical Yorkshire mess of monks and shit, but more so.

Eventually, a disappointingly male doctor came in. He was looking worryingly solemn. It was then that I started to think I hadn’t been mugged after all.

“It’s my heart, isn’t it?” I blurted. I’d developed a little bit of a pastry habit since the divorce. Since childhood, actually.

“No,” said the doctor. “Though looking at your blood pressure it may be best to get on the salads for a bit.”

It was at this point that I noticed the good doctor’s name badge was on upside down. It didn’t inspire confidence.

“Well, what am I in for then?”

“Curse scans,” he replied at once. He studied my blank face. “After the spirits got yer.”

The good news was that this doc got to the point. The bad news was that he was batshit crazy. I looked at the badge again and decided to remain silent. I also started to gauge the distance to the pavement out the window. I reckoned I’d break through to China if I tried that.

There was a moment’s awkward silence, then one of the nice nurses came in. She deposited a printed block of text into the doctor’s outstretched hand and departed. As the door re-opened, I caught the sharp echoes of some lass screeching in terror from down the corridor. I reassessed the route from the window.

The doctor started reading, then glanced up sternly. “The spirits are strong down ‘ere. Didn’t yer see the sign telling you, in no uncertain terms, not to approach the churches under pain of curse?”

I only stared. Maybe I’d hit my head and was hearing things all wrong. I could only hope.

“There’s really old ones in there,” continued Doc. “Some from the time of the Green ‘Uns. Someone once got cursed with a year’s bad luck, followed by slow and excruciating death. A little boy. Nine years ago. Just after we won the cricket.” He looked away wistfully. “It was a good day, other than the attack.”

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

“I think I need an actual doctor,” I ventured. I mean, I really didn’t like making fuss, but I also didn’t want to be stabbed by a raving loony. Plus it was getting to lunch time and I really couldn’t delay the grub any longer.

It was his turn to look annoyed. “Rest assured, sir, yer in the best curse treatment facility in the entire riding. Sir Walter Ridley memorial, ward four.”

I needed to keep him talking, so I started edging around the bed towards the door. “Oh yeah? And this Ridley bloke? Was he a- was he sane?”

“Oh yes,” said the doc. “Until the insanity curse hit him.”

“And was he cured?”

“No,” said the doctor simply.

I was starting to think that bad things really could happen to tourists. Especially tourists in Raughnen.

I was almost at the door when my saviour started to read from the list. “A few lasting marks, I’m afraid, sir. You were attacked by some pretty powerful ones today. I’ll have to call the council to get rid of ‘em.” He fingered the first point. “You will no longer be able to eat fish on a Tuesday.”

That was okay. Fish and chips day was a Friday. Obviously. And I always had black pud if I could get hold of it anyway.

But why was I listening to this gibberish?

“You may suffer an acute itching sensation on your left testicle from time to time.” No news there. “And chronic hay fever after hearing the word ‘thoroughbred’.”

As he said it, a big bloody sneeze rattled my schnoz and I looked up indignantly. “Cheers.”

The doctor shrugged apologetically. “Sorry Sir, but how’s yer gonna know without me saying it?”

“Write it down,” I snapped. I think that was my best stroke of genius like, ever. And it didn’t even get a smile from Doc. “Is that it?”

Doc drew the paper closer to his crooked nose. Frowned. And then there was a smart, short knock on the door. He gasped, eyes bulging, as three men entered my room.

They were all grey, gowned, dark-eyed, and more wrinkled than my big toes that time I fell asleep in the tub after a few cans. At least they were all short-arses, else they’d have been pretty scary.

I always hated visitors.

“What do you want?” I snapped. My throat was tickling something rotten. This wasn’t exactly turning into a good day out.

The visitors didn’t give a monkeys what I thought. They just slipped over to the doctor in their soft slipper things and nodded at the paper. Doc cleared his throat, and looked back at me unsteadily.

“Is that it?” I repeated, and bugger me, there was a bit of a wobble in my voice.

“No,” the doctor said. The men turned and gathered round the bed. As one, their bloodless lips curled back, revealing teeth that had last seen a dentist when Adam was a lad. I think they were actually trying to smile.

“No,” said the doctor again. “It turns out that you will also be subject to a year’s bad luck, followed by excruciating death.” The men grinned wider. The room darkened, even though the sun was still out. A hush filled the room, and from somewhere... around me, from thin air itself, I could hear voices chuckling and yabbering on.

I felt winded, and not just because I’d done three hundred steps that day already. I scrabbled for words. “Just like the boy,” the doctor added helpfully.

“I’m not a bloody goldfish!” I yelled from my bed. Spit flew from the corner of my mouth and the nearest old fogie didn’t move an inch. Disgusting. But now the room was getting colder, time slower, the grins were wider, and I felt like I was falling, not in real life, but somewhere inside my head, down a slope and into-

And then some spark lit up in the back of my noggin. A spark not from them. Mam always said I had a decent set of brains, and I suppose she was right.

“Can I go to the toilet?” I asked. I looked round hopefully at the three men by my bedside, who blinked, stepped back, and seemed almost to shake their remains of teeth back into their gums. As if they were... stretching.

Two finally looked to the other. He was about half an inch taller with his sticky out straggle of hair on top, so he must have been the boss.

“Err, of course.” His voice was just a croaky old man voice. I don’t know what I was expecting, because that’s all he was. He gestured with one bony arm. “Just go left down the corridor. Third door on the left.” I scrambled up from what I had begun to think was going to be my coffin, thanked him, and turned for the escape. Doc seemed to be furiously studying his file, avoiding my gaze. As I passed the last fogie, however, he clutched at my arm frantically with bird-like nails.

“You’ll be coming back, though?” he rasped. Aroma of pickled onion filled my face, but from crisps or from an actual jar I couldn’t really tell. “We were almost finished.”

“Of course,” I tried, but my voice had almost gone. I practically ran out of that door, and I could feel three pairs of eyes burning into my back even if I never turned round.

It was another stroke of genius in the space of two minutes. They were creepy dudes alright, but they were still Brits, and no self-respecting Brit would ever say no to the loo.

No self-respecting Brit would bugger off afterwards either, but never mind, because that’s exactly what I did.