Would I have the courage to escape? I should be careful what I wish for…

When I was five years old, I watched in horror as my mother was viciously attacked and murdered.

Now, as an adult, I find myself trapped in an abusive relationship, desperate to escape but too scared to leave.

Then I met Oliver, a decent guy on the rebound from a failed relationship. We connected, and I confessed to him about my abusive husband. That confession led Oliver down a dark and dangerous path.

How far would he go to protect me?

Oliver is about to find out as he is pushed to his very limits…

Apartment Six is a dark and twisty psychological thriller from bestselling author Stuart James. His writing and stories have been compared to Stephen King and Linwood Barclay.

Stuart James recently won The International Book Award for his chilling thriller, The House On Rectory Lane.

‘999, what’s your emergency? Hello, 999, what’s your–?’

‘Hello.’

‘Hello. What’s your emergency?’

‘It’s my mummy.’

‘You sound very young, sweetheart, how old are you?’

‘I’m five, but I’m nearly six.’

‘Who’s with you? Are you still on the line? Hello?’

‘My daddy.’

‘Okay. Can you put your daddy on the phone?’

‘He won’t come. He’s in his bedroom. It’s upstairs, and it’s dark, and it’s scary. He isn’t here much, but when he is, he stays in his room on the phone talking.’

‘Okay. I’m going to stay on the phone with you. Can you get him for me? Will you do that? You don’t need to be frightened, okay?’

‘I can’t. I already told you he’s in his room, and I can’t get past Mummy.’

‘What do you mean, you can’t get past Mummy, my love?’

‘She’s lying at the bottom of the stairs, and she’s not moving.’

‘Listen to me; what’s your name?’

‘My name is Meagan. But Mummy calls me Meggy for short.’

‘Okay. My name is Michelle; you can call me Shelly. Meagan, I need you to be brave, the bravest you’ve ever been. Can you do that for me, Meagan? Can you be really brave?’

‘I think so. What shall I do?’

‘I’m going to stay on the line; I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to get some people over who are going to help you. Is that okay?’

‘My daddy did it, you know.’

‘Your daddy did what, Meagan? What did your daddy do exactly?’

‘They were shouting, Mummy and Daddy. Mummy was upset, she pushed my daddy and he was really, really angry, the most I’ve seen him shouting. I had to block my ears; then Daddy pushed something into Mummy. She’s on the ground, and she’s not moving, and I’m scared.’

‘Meagan. Listen to me; help is on its way. You need to leave the house, do you understand? Leave the house now; I’m here. I’m on the line, okay? Move towards the front door quickly and get out of the house. Meagan. Are you there?’

‘Yes. I told a lie. Daddy shouted louder one time when I scribbled on the table with my new crayon set. But this time was really loud too.’

‘What are you doing, Meagan? Are you doing what I said?’

‘I’m walking to the front door. Mummy’s still not moving. When will she wake up? Do you think she’ll still cook me pancakes for breakfast? She promised me, and Mummy never breaks promises.’

‘Meagan, keep calm, don’t look at Mummy and go out of the front door. Whose phone are you ringing from?’

‘Mummy had her phone in her hand; I got it from her while she was sleeping. I know the password, three five five three. She doesn’t like me playing on her phone, she says it eats the battery, but I only play games mostly. Oh, it’s locked. I think Daddy locked the door.’

‘Okay. Listen. Can you see a catch? Turn the lock and pull the handle as hard as you can.’

‘I am, but it won’t pull. I’ll go to Daddy. He’s strong.’

‘No. Do not go up the stairs, do you hear me? I need you to stay down. Can you do that for me, Meagan?’

‘Mummy’s still sleeping. Oh, I think Daddy is out of his room now.’

‘Meagan, you need to listen. What’s your favourite hiding place? Somewhere you are never found? Think hard.’

‘Well, let me see. Once I hid for a long time in a cupboard where the noisy monster is. Mummy says it eats clothes.’

‘Okay. Move to the cupboard as quickly as you can. I need you to go fast, Meagan. I’m on the phone; nothing’s going to happen to you. You believe me, right?’

‘I’m going now; Daddy’s coming. I can hear him at the top of the stairs.’

‘Move fast, Meagan; you need to hide. Go quickly. If he calls you, don’t answer, do you understand? It will be our little game.’

‘Okay. I’m here now. The monster is quiet. Sometimes when it’s eating the clothes, it hurts my ears.’

‘Okay. We don’t like monsters, but it won’t hurt you. Are you inside the cupboard?’

‘I’m inside. I’ve shut the door. It’s dark in here. I don’t like it. I want to come out. Daddy’s calling me. He sounds angry.’

‘Meagan, nothing’s going to happen. You understand that? As long as you keep as quiet as you can and don’t answer Daddy.’

‘He’s running around. I can hear him breathing.’

‘Okay. I’m here, and you’re safe, but do not answer Daddy, you got that?’

‘He’s saying bad words. He calls Mummy that word all the time. Bitch. Mummy says that word isn’t nice. What’s a bitch?’

‘Your mummy is not that word. Your mummy is brave, Meagan, and so are you.’

‘I think he’s in the room; he’s standing with the monster that eats the clothes. Now he’s pounding it with his fist. I don’t think he likes the monster.’

‘Meagan, don’t speak for a minute. Please, you have to keep quiet.’

‘He’s moving; I think he’ll find me. What should I do?’

‘Stay very still, keep crouched on the floor and keep as quiet as you can. Remember the game, my love.’

‘He’s standing at the cupboard door. Now he’s looking around.’

‘Stay still Meagan; you can do this.’

‘He’s gone now. I think someone’s at the front door. I can hear people’s voices. Someone rang our bell. Daddy’s running; I can hear his footsteps. It sounds like they’re trying to break our front door.’

‘Oh, thank God. You did amazing Meagan; you’re the bravest little soldier I’ve ever met. I’m so proud of you, okay.’

‘Okay. Can I come out now?’

‘In a minute. Wait until the officers come and get you. I’ll let them know you’re in the best hiding place ever.’

‘But what if they can’t find me?’

‘They will; they’re going to help you, Meagan.’

I thought moving to a house in the woods would be the perfect escape from the chaos of Camden. But now, our dream home has become a nightmare.

After a knife-wielding stranger threatened me in our old neighborhood, Kate and I packed up our lives and our son Sean and relocated to a secluded house. From the start, the village's warnings and the overly friendly neighbors felt off. Then Kate saw a face at the window late at night.

The real terror began when we found a homemade DVD in the attic—a recording of the previous family, the Prescotts. What we saw chilled us to the bone. The Prescotts vanished without a trace, and now we fear we might be next.

The House on Rectory Lane, winner of The International Book Award in Horror Fiction at The American Book Fest, is a cross between Sinister, Vacancy, and The Strangers. Stuart James crafts a chilling tale where your dream home can turn into your worst nightmare.

They reached the trees together, clasping their arms around the rough bark, clinging on for dear life.

The two of them were exhausted, but they knew they couldn’t stop for long.

If only it were a fun run, Tough Mudder or maybe even paintballing. How they both wished it was something different.

It felt like they had been running for hours.

The forest was so dark, apart from the torch in the distance. The bright glare sliced through the dark, blinding them, their cue to duck, hide, and run. But it hadn’t been visible for a good ten minutes. The house was now half a mile away. They needed to make it there.

Listening for any movement, she turned to her husband. ‘What now?’

‘Give it another few minutes just to make sure it’s safe; then we make a run for the house.’

She was nodding whilst gasping for breath. After a few minutes, they steadied themselves. It was silent. Calm, even.

She burst into tears. ‘Where the hell are the kids? What do you think they’ve done with them?’

Her husband never answered.

She turned, still clinging to the tree, focusing through the mist.

He wasn’t there.

* * *

She ran through the house, screaming their names, but the place was empty. Her family were gone.

Dashing from the living room to the utility room, then the kitchen, she opened the back door. The garden was still. Void of life. Slamming the door behind her, she raced back through the hall. The grandfather clock sounded, echoing through the house, announcing 11pm, then the chimes.

Dong.

Dong.

Her head vibrated with the clunks. She could see the cobwebs tremble on the side of the big face. It had always bothered her. The clock gave a haunting feeling like it was possessed. Bringing bad luck.

The house seemed so full when the rest of her family were here. She had never appreciated it enough when they were all around.

Where the hell are they?

Her heart was beating much faster than it should as she crossed the hall in a daze. A shadow developed on the edge of her vision.

She spun around.

Someone was charging towards her from the kitchen. The light from the camera they were holding glared into her eyes.

In their other hand, the person was holding a crowbar.

‘No. God no. Don’t do this!’

She ran towards the stairs but fell at the bottom step, her hand reaching for the bannister. She pulled herself up and took the stairs two at a time.

At the top, she spun around. The intruder was already halfway up. Making her way past the upstairs rooms, she reached the end bedroom and slammed the door. She screamed out, ‘Help! For God’s sake, someone help me!’

She listened. Silence.

The door moved suddenly. The intruder was kicking it in.

BANG!

BANG!

She backed away, pressing her body against the wall. The door crashed open.

The intruder slowly crossed the room to her.

Do I believe in Creeper? I keep telling myself he's not real. He’s just a story…right?

Painswick has its own Bogeyman, a tale so terrifying the locals won’t mention his name. Eight women have vanished over the last twenty years, and now, a ninth woman is missing.

But Creeper is only an urban legend. He’s not real. Is he?

I’m Billy Huxton, an ex-private investigator living in a retirement home. I’ve been trying to persuade Declan Ryan, the local entertainer, to help me solve these cases. Meanwhile, Sean and Jenny, who make documentaries about the paranormal and unsolved mysteries, move into a rundown farmhouse on Gallows Lane with their children. As they dig into Creeper’s story, they begin to uncover the terrifying legend that haunts Painswick.

They say Creeper hides out front late at night or crawls around in basements, watching people as they sleep. As Sean and Jenny delve deeper, they realize this may not be just a story. Whatever happens, pray you don’t see Creeper…

From International Award Winning Author, Stuart James.

‘I think it’s on;

the red light was flashing, now it’s still. That means it’s recording, right? Okay, I’m sure it’s recording—oh God, where to start. You know, It’s weird, sat here, talking to myself, looking into the lens of a camcorder, alone in the house. At least I think I am. I have a few minutes, that’s it, no more, that’s all I have, so bear with me, watch this recording and make up your own mind, but promise me you’ll do something. I look dirty; my lengthy brown hair is tossed, dishevelled, I’ve aged ten years overnight. Bloody hell, I have grey wisps starting to show, strands of it, pushing through. Okay, I can see the laughter lines cut deep into the skin of my face, only there’s nothing to smile about. Not now, not anymore. ‘You may wonder why I’m whispering, my voice low, faint. The truth is, I’m fucking terrified. I’m guessing if you’re watching this, you’ve found the recording under the floor, at the back of a cupboard, maybe in the loft among the dust and dirt. Perhaps you’ve just moved in, and you’re settling down, making a new life for yourself. You have a family, a partner. Children. You’ve decided to make a better life, peace, quiet. Well, get out. Get the fuck out before it’s too late. Listen to me. Please.‘You’ll hear the stories, the rumours, that’s for sure. Whoever you are, I beg you, bring this recording to the police, put it on Youtube, Facebook, Instagram. All of your social media platforms. Make people aware. Tell them our story. Fucking Creeper. God, what were we thinking? Why didn’t we listen? We were so keen to make the documentary. Now look.‘I don’t have long; you need to understand our story, how I got here, sat in front of a camcorder, hiding in the upstairs bedroom, waiting. Don’t just watch this. Promise me if you’ve found it; you’ll do something, you’ll make people aware. You will, won’t you? It can’t all have been for nothing. I won’t let that happen.‘Hello. Who’s there? Hello. Sorry, I know my voice is low. It may be hard to hear me. I get it. I thought I heard the front door open. Hello.‘Shit. I think someone’s in the house. I knew it would happen. I knew it. All I ask is that you tell people about us. About Creeper. It sounds weird, right? You’re watching this, maybe months after I’ve made the recording, perhaps even years. I might look strange. My clothes may look peculiar, out of fashion, like an odd picture from a century ago resting on a mantlepiece. You may snigger, mock my appearance, laugh. Go on then. It doesn’t matter. I don’t care. ‘I need to stand; I have cramp; my legs are gone to sleep. My body is aching and sore. Wait, stay with me. I’m moving towards the bedroom door. I’ll keep quiet, it doesn’t mean I’ve gone or the battery has run out. I’m keeping quiet because I want to draw it out, being found. I want to last as long as possible. That’s all. Is it steady? Can you still see me? I can see my reflection in the glass of the lens, but only just. My worried expression. I have visions of the camcorder being blurry, the lens filthy and you won’t make anything out. Wow, that would be a waste of time, wouldn’t it? Can you imagine? How stupid would that make me look? I guess I’ll never know. I’ll never find out. I could say anything, couldn’t I? Think about it. I’ll lip-sync. I’ll exaggerate my voice. You need to hear what I’m saying. ‘C A L L  T H E  P O L I C E.  P U T  T H I S  O N  Y O U T U B E.  ‘There. I’ve made it clear. You have no excuse if the sound’s gone.‘You may think I’m delusional, drugged, pissed up. Well, I’m none of these. I wish I was. What I’d do for a drink. An ice cold beer — just the one to take the pain away and place it in the distance for a short while. ‘I’m stood at the bedroom door now, listening. I’m sure I heard the front door open a few minutes ago. I’m whispering. ‘Yes, there’s someone moving up the stairs, getting closer. They’re outside. I’m backing away to the middle of the bedroom. I’m going to place the camcorder in a bolt hole; there’s a cupboard behind me with a section cut out. I’ll place the camcorder in there. One of you will find it, I’m certain. I’m going now. The handle of the bedroom door is slowly moving downwards. That’s it. I think my time is up. Please do something. When you find this, do som___.’

What could be more wonderful than going on holiday?

We were just a family driving to the airport for a vacation. But as we drove along a quiet country lane, we saw a stranger standing alone in the middle of the road. He told us a tree had fallen and directed us to another path.

But as we took the detour, we came across a coach blocking the road. I got out of the car to investigate and was horrified to find the passengers tied to their seats. Then, a discarded phone started to ring…

If I call the police, everyone on board will die. Let the horrific game begin.

Described as Wrong Turn meets The Hills Have Eyes, Stranded by Stuart James will keep you on the edge of your seat. Can we survive the night?

I’ve always been taught to respect others; that’s the main rule.

The one I’ve followed all my life. I’m a gentleman. If you ask anyone for a character reference who knows me, they’d say the same. I hold doors open; I knock before entering a room.

I’m the last to sit at dinner, and the fork doesn’t enter my mouth until everyone else has started to eat. The cutlery must sit right, in the correct position. I use a napkin.

I stand when someone enters a room and welcome people, friend or stranger. The latter will usually become an associate. They’ll learn to trust me, and I’ll do anything for anyone.

I dress impeccably, and I compliment everyone. I may comment on the style of a person’s hair, their earrings, their beautiful dress, pressed shirt or elegant jacket. I’ll tell them how amazing they are, how I admire what they’re doing. I’ll talk about their beautiful family, and I’ll listen. That’s another trait of mine. If someone has something to talk about, I’ll give a hundred per cent concentration to what they’re saying. If it’s important to them, it’s important to me. I make eye contact, I make the person feel special. At ease. Everyone has a voice and we’re all unique in our own special way.

I never tell a rude joke, and I always laugh when someone says something funny. Of course, that’s once everyone else is laughing.

I haven’t laughed since the night it happened. Something snapped that night. See, I hate people who do wrong and go unpunished. It’s the major flaw in life. My main bugbear. It drives me crazy, insane, psychotic. I can’t control the rage as it builds inside my body. An error cannot occur without consequences.

So really there is only one way to deal with the anger.

I’m not a believer in waiting, in hearing people say that they’ll get their day or karma will come to their door. I will bring that day to them.

I have to discipline the injustice. Tonight.

It’s the only way.

How do you stop a murder when everyone could be the killer?

It all started when I received a link from a friend. The App promised a chance to win one hundred thousand pounds every Friday. Curiosity got the best of me, so I clicked it, downloaded the app, and entered a few basic details. Then came the rules: Do not delete the app. Do not tell anyone outside of your family. Send the link to one person close to you.

Breaking any rule meant my family’s life. A picture of my wife shopping in Oxford Street confirmed the threat was real. As I watched the streams of terror, I realized the truth. Every Friday, someone is chosen as a target, and app members must hunt them down. The prize? One hundred thousand pounds. But the cost? Unimaginable horror.

I have to do something. But how do you stop a murder when everyone could be the killer?

The App by Stuart James is a chilling, heart-pounding thriller compared to The Purge, The Ring, Squid Games, and The Chain. Get ready for a ride like nothing you’ve ever read.

Jonathan Rushmore stared at the TV in the living room as his mother walked in.

Her vanilla and rose perfume wafted towards him, making him sneeze.

‘Right, we’re off. Don’t answer the door to anyone, don’t leave the house and don’t watch too much TV.’

‘Mum, I’m sixteen, not six.’ Jonathan glanced at her long yellow dress and sensible flat shoes. Her cheeks were dusted with a dark red blusher, and her eyebrows were thick with black pencil. He turned back towards the TV; the next level began, the sound effects blaring as a yellow smiley face raced around collecting pellets.

Gill smirked at the almost comical irritated expression on her son’s face. His black, curly hair was messy and spiked at the front, clumped together with gel.

Gill glared at the screen. ‘So what’s this Pac-Man then?’

Jonathan placed the controller in his lap and turned towards her, his face now bright with excitement. ‘Oh, you have to collect all the pellets and avoid the ghosts. You want a go?’

‘Another time. We have to leave now if we’re going to catch the film. Your father’s taking me to see the new Bond film. For Your Eyes Only. It’s not my thing, but he loves all that macho stuff. But, Jonathan, please don’t play computer games all the time. Don’t make Dad and I regret getting it for you. There’s a reason we bought you that Chopper bike and roller skates. So you could go out with your friends and get some fresh air. It’s not healthy being cooped up all your life.’ 

‘All my friends play computer games. I’m not the only one.’

‘Right. That’s the back door locked. You ready, Gill?’ Adam, Jonathan’s father, interrupted, walking into the living room, dressed in a loud green jacket, blue jeans and Cuban boots. He’d combed his brown hair over to the right, covering the bald patch, and his moustache had been curled perfectly at each end. His cheap aftershave mixed with Gill’s perfume, creating a noxious scent. ‘What do you think, son? Your old man’s still got it.’

Jonathan wanted to laugh at his father’s dress sense, but only just managed to stem the explosion threatening to spill from his lips. Instead, he smiled awkwardly and turned back towards the TV.

‘Now, before we go, your mum and I have had a little chat. It’s the first time that we’re leaving you alone, but you have to earn our trust if you want to keep the freedom.’ Pointing his finger, Adam declared, ‘Behave. I don’t want any of the neighbours complaining to me about the loud music. Don’t let us down. We’re trusting you. I want you in bed by ten p.m. Understood?’

‘Understood,’ Jonathan muttered.

Adam stepped forward. ‘I didn’t quite hear that.’

‘Leave it, Adam,’ Gill insisted.

‘I said, understood.’

‘Good lad.’ His father left the room, opened the front door and walked out to the brown Ford Cortina parked on the drive.

In the living room, Gill rubbed a hand through Jonathan’s black curls. ‘We’ll be back by eleven thirty. Any problems, go next door to Mavis and wait with her until we return.’

‘Nothing’s going to happen. Just go. Enjoy the film.’

Gill leant forward, kissed her son on the forehead, then walked down the hallway to the raucous clatter of Pac-Man desperately trying to evade the ghosts.

The front door closed. Through the living room window, Jonathan watched the Ford Cortina spew smoke onto the drive. God, he was so embarrassed to have anything to do with it. A moment later, it was gone.

Picking up the walkie-talkie hidden under the sofa, Jonathan eagerly pressed his thumb against the side button. ‘Luke. Over.’

A loud, scrambling noise resounded, and a voice came through. ‘Here. Over.’

Again, Jonathan pressed firmly against the side button. ‘My parents have gone. Over and out.’

A few minutes later, the doorbell rang out, like an out-of-tune church organ, slowly giving up a fruitless call to its parishioners. It continued to reverberate as Jonathan walked along the hallway and answered the front door.

‘Man. You need to do something about that,’ Luke stated as he walked inside the house. He looked younger than sixteen. A baseball cap worn backwards hid his long black hair, and his voice was high-pitched and enthusiastic.

‘My dad thinks it’s cool. I hate it.’ Jonathan walked into the living room and sat on the sofa.

Luke joined him. ‘Oh wow. You got Pac-Man. Let me have a go.’

Handing the remote control to his friend, Jonathan walked out to the kitchen and filled two glasses with Coke.

Back in the living room, he placed the glasses on the coffee table. Luke was pounding the controller with vigour as he tried to evade the ghosts on the screen. He nearly knocked the drinks with all his enthusiasm.

‘Hey, watch it. Don’t spill the Coke. Dad will go crazy if we get any on the carpet.’

Luke nodded as the level finished, carefully reaching for a glass.

A white, Austin Morris Mini Van pulled onto the drive. Jonathan stood, peering out of the living room window. ‘He’s here. I’ll grab a video.’

‘Get something scary,’ Luke called. ‘There’s that werewolf film in London. That’s supposed to be sick.’

Jonathan walked along the hallway and out to the van.

‘Hey, Jonathan. You OK?’ Harry asked as he opened the van door and stepped onto the drive. As he spoke, a plume of condensation spilt from his mouth, and he zipped his jacket up to his neck with his fingerless gloves to keep warm. His thick black hair was floppy, his brown eyes damp, and his lips were chapped from the cold weather. 

Nodding, Jonathan declared, ‘We want something scary.’ He walked to the back of the van, the familiar smell of damp cardboard invading his senses as he leant over the rows of boxes, his eyes bulging at the array of films. Thrillers, romance, comedies, and some naughtier ones towards the back.

Jonathan knew what he wanted. He’d heard about them. A couple of older kids in the neighbourhood had seen them. He needed to ask. Reaching towards the back of the van, he placed a hand on one of the plain covers. ‘What are these?’

The guy looked at Jonathan, somewhat uncomfortable. ‘Mate, I don’t think you’ll like them. They’re a bit… what’s the word? Warped.’

Picking one of the plain cases out, Jonathan turned it over and read the back. A crocodile attack, the circus ringleader and the lion and other real-life footage. ‘I want this,’ Jonathan confirmed.

Harry turned, rubbing the stubble on his face. ‘Mate, your dad will kill me if he finds out. Can’t you get something else? I’ve seen a couple of these. Jonathan, man, they’re hideous. I can’t let you watch it.’

Jonathan dipped a hand into his pyjama pocket and held out the case to the driver. ‘This is the one I want.’ The driver hesitated, before sighing and taking the money as the teenager walked inside, closing the front door.

Back in the living room, Jonathan tipped the box on its side, spilling the video cassette into his hand, and then loaded it into the VHS player. Switching the lead in the back of the TV, he hit ‘play’, then took a seat as white noise and digits displaying the date of the recording appeared on the screen.

‘What’s this?’ Luke asked.

‘Just watch. You wanted something scary. This is scary.’

The picture of a man standing by the side of a lake flickered into life. Subtitles confirmed the location to be Florida. The sun gleamed from the sky, and the camera was shaky as it tried to focus on the horizon. It panned over a small mountain in the distance and across yellow-coloured fields stained by the heat until it returned to the man.

‘Are you going in?’ a woman’s voice asked from behind the camera.

The man turned, smiling into the lens as the camera zoomed in on his grey hair and down his tanned body. His bright shorts reached his knees, and as he kicked off his sandals, he stepped into the water. Relief from the warm day seemed to wash over him as he lowered himself into the water.

‘Is it nice?’

A large splash formed as the guy began swimming further into the lake. ‘Beautiful!’ he shouted.

‘Don’t go too far out, OK?’ the woman said. She tried to focus the camera on the man as he swam, but it became blurry, flickering, dancing between the lake and the sky.

It focused again on the lake, picking out a dark shadow gliding fast through the water towards him.

‘Bert! There’s something there,’ the woman shouted. ‘Get out of the water!’

There was a tremendous splash and screams echoed from the TV screen. Bert’s hand clasped the air, outstretched and then disappeared as his body was dragged under.

Luke sat on the edge of the sofa, too stunned to talk.

The tape cut to static before focusing again on another scene. A lion in a cage, possibly in a zoo or the back of a circus. Again, the footage was grainy and blurred. But this was more raw and clearer to see. The cage door opened, and the lion looked towards the man entering its space. The cameraman asked what the guy was doing.

‘It’s OK, just film. I’m used to this one. He’s a big softy. I want people to realise if you treat them with respect, feed them and show them love, they can be tame and love back.’

As the man edged towards the lion, the camera recorded his every move through the rusty iron bars. The sound of stones crunching under his shoes, his breaths sharp, tension rife in his voice as he told the person to keep filming. The lion pounced; a ferocious roar bellowed from the cage as it leapt on him, pinning him to the ground. The camera spun around, swirling and unfocused, the desperate pleas for help spilling from the cage as the cameraman screamed for help. The camera dropped to the ground, although on its side, it kept filming through the iron bars as the lion began taking chunks from the keeper’s limp body.

Luke stood, unsteady on his feet. ‘This stuff is twisted. No, you’re twisted, Jonathan. I can’t believe you like this shit.’ He clutched his stomach with one hand, the arm of the chair with the other. His face had gone pale. ‘Oh God, I think I’m gonna puke.’ He turned and threw up all over the sofa.

‘Luke! What the hell? My dad’s going to go crazy.’ Jonathan looked towards the vomit. ‘Clean it up. Clean it now, you idiot.’

‘Nah, no way. I need to get out of here.’ Racing from the living room, Luke ran out the front door and across the street to his house.

Jonathan turned off the video, cleaned up the vomit and put Pac-Man back on, watching as the yellow circular figure waltzed around the screen, collecting pellets, the ghosts desperate to get out and give chase.

It was all about the hunt.