The house smelled musty and damp, and a little sweet, as if it were haunted by the ghosts of long-dead cookies.

I sat in the dark and thought: There’s no big apocalypse. Just an endless procession of little ones.

Sister Mary chose that moment to come in with the tea. Satanist or not, she'd also found a plate and arranged some iced biscuits on it.

The really important thing to be was yourself, just as hard as you could.

A story only matters, I suspect, to the extent that the people in the story change.

It sounded like a piece of blackboard being dragged over the nails of a wall of severed fingers.

When I was young I was a fool. So wrap me up in dreams and death.