Coincidence can be the most vicious beast of all. It stalks with furtive intent, its talons covered in blood on the whim of a power hidden from sky and earth.

On that late October day, I had no idea where my life was heading. Well, that isn't strictly true. I knew that I was heading home from work, via the Cooperative. A quick supper for me to nestle down with and the latest box set on Netflix. Money was tight, my vagabond lodger, Shane, had just upped and left – giving it a chance with the girlfriend, again – so I was forking out for all the bills. It was doable; the solitude was quite nice for a change. Sobering, even, literally.

The calm was sorely needed. I had to take stock of it. I could hold out for now, but in a couple of months I would feel the pinch, colder months, Christmas – bloody Christmas – new shoes, the converse had had it, fraying into nothingness.

That was the plan. Food, home, jumper on (did I mention the money was tight), sofa, blanket and the telly.

Coincidence, chance, maybe destiny. Call it whatever you like. All operate with transient strings, invisible to the naked eye. We are, puppets on a stage of furies. I gradually dragged my feet up the road and noticed the red post office van nestled in the layby. Its driver, Dave Smudge, further down the pathway, slumped, coughing up a a ton of lung butter by the look of it, swearing effortlessly as his fleece caught on the metal catch of an iron gate.

I smiled walking up to him. 'Alright, Dave? Under pressure?'

He pulled up the snot equivalent of Lake Windermere back into his nose and shook his head. 'Ah, mate. Shit.'

'That time of year, hey?'

'Just a bit.'

Dave was alright. Wouldn't say boo to a ghost. We had been at high school together. He had earned the name Sicknote while there. I liked him personally, but he tended to overplay the ill card. If he had the sniffles he would usually be found bathing in honey and whiskey and watching the shitest daytime telly you could muster.

'One more bloody parcel to go and I'm done, Bobby. And that old wanker over the street,' he pointed dramatically over to the house in the corner. 'Won't bloody answer his doorbell.'

'So just leave a note.'

'Well, I would but I haven't got any.'

I couldn't help smiling. 'And why is that?'

'Well, I did. I had a couple left over from yesterday but for some reason there wasn't any spare this morning. Forgot to put the order in or something, I dunno.'

'Oh, dear.'

'I couldn't leave it with you could I, Bobby?'

'You'll get in trouble mate.'

'I won't say anything, c'mon. How long have we known each other?'

'I don't know, Dave. It doesn't seem proper. Write a note, here I've got some paper, and a pen.' I foraged in my bag, deeply, and came to the realisation I had left it on my work bench, the boss had caught me at the last minute of the day, deflecting my keenness to get the hell home.

'You must have a pen, Dave. You're a bloody postman.'

'Um.'

'What?'

'Dropped it down the drain at Bygrove Close.'

I sighed. I was dying for a piss and the sheer incredulity of this was making me clammy.

He turned away, disappointed. 'Yeah, maybe you' re right. I'll stick around. Sure, the old fart won't be long, probably popped out to get eye of newt or something,' he joked, smiling, revealing heavy eyes, flushed cheeks, and a waterfall of mucus.

Better nature swirled in my throat and leapt through clenched teeth. 'Ah, shit Dave, you're a pain in my arse.'

'Ah, cheers, Bobby. You, sir, are a total ledge.'

'Alright calm down, just give me the package.'

'It's in the van, come on.'

I felt uneasy. I little dirty to be honest. But Dave looked like a barrel of shit and I was a total pushover.

'Just keep an eye out for him. I'm sure he won't be long.'

'No worries.'

He opened the back doors and pulled them open. The rest of the van was bare. Dave had truly done his bit.

'Looks heavy, mate,' I said.

'It isn't. Light as a feather to be honest.'

I leaned over and pulled it toward me. We both looked at each other and raised our eyebrows. 'Anything in here?' I asked.

'Fuck knows. I deliver some weird shit to him sometimes. Big boxes, small boxes. One time I dropped a parcel on his doorstep. It felt like the earth shook when it hit the deck. Nuts.'

I just shook my head. 'Right, give it here then. And you mate, get to bed, and if I end up in trouble I'll be knocking on your door.'

Dave tried a smile and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his red fleece.

'Cheers Bobby.'

I kept an eye out. Every half an hour or so I peered through the curtain to see if the old codger was about. He probably was but I found it hard to get motivated. After eight hours of work and a five o'clock alarm call I found it hard to prise myself from the couch, especially if I had a power nap. Which was generally the case.

I pulled myself from the sofa and saw the box standing there on the dining table, the dark afternoon painted it in an ominous light.

Stretching my back out I pulled on my tattered converse and decided to knock on the old fart's door. I shivered, a trickle of cool air sliding down the nape of my neck. I took a hoodie from the banister and stretched into it. 'Right, lets see if your daddy is home. Hope so, you're giving me the creeps.'

He wasn't.

I knocked a few times and tried to peer in his window. Dusk was setting in a treat, turning the skyline a heady orange. The sound of cars reverberated further up the road, but the cul-de-sac where I lived had took a subdued turn. Still. Two crows balanced on my rooftop and cawed loudly. A summons maybe, that mice were on the move, night was moving in steadily like a predator.

I'd try again in an hour. Well, that was the intention.

I'd fell asleep with the curtains open. That wasn't unusual. It was the blue flickering lights that illuminated the street which held my attention. I pulled myself from the couch and saw the ambulance parked in his drive. One solitary police car parked just shy off it on the road.

'Christ,' I muttered to myself. Rubbing my chin, and hair, then my neck. I looked behind me and saw the package on the table and then turned back frantically.

'Sake, Dave.'

The paramedics pulled the stretcher from the front door, and steadily descended the steps leading to the ambulance. It was dark, but I could see the curvature of the body beneath the black plastic, blue light shimmering across it like water rivulets.

Miss Johnson, the resident shit stirrer and nosey parker stepped from the lit doorway, talking to the policemen. My heart skipped a beat, maybe three, well it sort of burped and murmured and then levelled out at the entrance to my arse.

'Shit, shit shit shit, Dave.'

I pulled myself back from the window a little, I noticed my pits were a bit moist, a slight sheen of sweat across my brow.

'Fuck sake.'

I checked my mobile, a quarter pass eleven. Christ, I'd slept for four hours. I felt sick. Perhaps I'd caught Dave's bug. Or someone else's, there was plenty going about. I peered carefully around the window frame again and saw the paramedics loading the body into the ambulance. Miss Johnson kept relating her story with hand gestures, elucidating with the passion of an opera conductor. Silly old bitch.

I looked back toward the package, the black cube in the dark. All I good hear was my breathing, the telly had decided to turn itself off, even the hum from the refrigerator couldn't compete against the sickly hammering in my chest. I approached the package and laid my hand across the cardboard, felt the smooth surface and slick sheen of the tape. There was something about it to be sure. A mystery? No, more than that. It resonated with a deeper call, of unravelling the forbidden. Its very resonance brought forth memories of looking for Christmas presents as a youth, being the voyeur, sex in a public place, the fear of being caught – temptation. A velvet glove of curiosity clasped my heart and I pulled the package to me. Its weight was another paradox. It barely weighed of anything and yet the dimensions said otherwise. I started to pull at the crinkled tape at the side, slowly, as if this was the right thing to do. I stopped momentarily, thinking better of it and then the doorbell snatched me away from its hold.

'Christ.'

I wiped my brow with a teacloth and slung it back across the kitchen counter and made the long walk up the hallway toward the front door.

Plod, I thought. They'd come asking if I had seen anything. Heard anything. Informing me that the old fart had passed away. Miss Johnson stood on my doorstep, bold as brass, a beige anorak fitting her demeanour, blue eyes that spoke of a life beyond this town.

She pre-empted the conversation, asking for my name, though she knew it.

'Bobby,' I said. I wanted this done. My eyes were burning, and I just wanted my bed.

She smiled, feigningly. 'Just to let you know, Bobby, Mr Hibbert died earlier.'

'What? Really? That's terrible.'

Pur-lease

'Yes, it is indeed. I just thought you'd like to know.'

I rubbed my nose awkwardly. 'Well, thanks for the heads up.'

'No problem. As you popped round his earlier I didn't want you chasing your tail.'

Those blue eyes were like headlights, startling, bright. I was roadkill and felt like it also. I shrugged off her subtle comment.

'Yeah, he wanted to borrow a couple of tools of mine. Was gonna pop round later but I fell asleep. Early mornings.'

She smiled. 'Of course. Well, goodnight, Bobby.'

She turned on her heels and left as I closed the door, carefully. Not wanting to forego the illusion that I was in fact a gibbering mess.

'Oh.'

I opened it once again. She loitered on the garden path.

'It was a heart attack by the way, just so you know.'

I nodded sheepishly and closed the door, quietly, leaning my forehead against the cold glass. I held it there for a minute enjoying the cooling balm, trying not to think about anything. It didn't work. I locked the door and made my way upstairs, the package caught my attention on the table, black, alone, a buoy of mystery in tidal night.

It was all I could see.

My mind was drawn to it. The black magnet held me in sway. Every time I closed my eyes it was there, waiting. Yearning to be opened. I tossed and turned. My head now a thumping mess of drums.

Finally, just through exhaustion, my will snapped and I fell into a dark embrace of whispers and velvet comfort.

I woke, sun breaking through the frayed curtains to the realisation of morning and the indistinguishable klaxon buzzing through my brain that I was late for work.

I grabbed the nearest clothes, clean or dirty and hightailed it out of the front door.

Six hours later I returned. Hung my bag over banister and returned to my couch. Work had been okay about my lateness. I didn't do it that often. They just told me not to make a habit out of it.

It felt like someone had scalped me, scooped my brain out of my head and rolled it down a dirt track.

The package looked at me, a staring contest in which it would win naturally. I sighed and blinked and with what little energy I had left I pulled myself up and walked over to my new lodger.

'You win.'

I walked into the kitchen and pulled a knife out of the drawer; the faint sound of laughter could be heard next door. Which was odd considering no one was there. I took the knife and wiped my brow once more, the fever within running rampant.

What the hell. What did I have to lose? The old fart Hibbert was dead. Dave was blubbing into his mum's bosom. The package was mine – sort of.

I scored the line of tape with the knife. Laughter filtered through the walls once again. There was no going back now.

The packaging gave way to polystyrene padding and another box within. This one made of a thin plastic, clinical blue. Once dispensing with the polystyrene struts, I removed the second box and lifted the lid.

I had no idea what I was walking into, but the white bandages wrapped around the thing were tight, almost grafted to it, tiny sigils written in ink lavished the cotton. I had no idea what they meant. My mind began to wander and thought 'what the actual fuck' Hibbert had been into . . . this was way beyond me. I hesitated and placed the plastic lid back on, stepping back, taking a minute. I carried on, I had already done the deed.

Tapping the bandages, it felt solid beneath, rock-hard. Taking a pair of scissors, I started to clip away. It took me hours unwinding the linen trail. There must have been miles of it, thin, gossamer stretched linen that ended up in a pile beside the table. Once the last piece was prised away, I took a step back and studied the mound of white.

That's what it was, purest white. It even seemed to glimmer in the dimmed light. Frustrated even more, I touched the mound and felt the powdery substance, nicked a little of it and squeezed it between forefinger and thumb. I smelt it. Tasted it and winced.

'Salt.'

I noticed the salt started to decolour, turning a hue of yellow, like dirty cigarette fingers, the salt started to fall, sliding down into piles of sand. It didn't stop, an avalanche of salt falling to the table, spilling onto the floor.

I realised what I had done, the bandages had been a barrier, the air had disturbed the salt, decaying years of solid foundation. It poured even more, eventually showing the heart of the package. I stepped back, not just in shock but in bewilderment. Salt poured out of the eye sockets, the discoloured skull looking at me, Lillie stalks wrapped around its jaw, woven into a cat's cradle, protruding from eye sockets and a gash to the top of the skull.

My heart was in my mouth, beating frantically, its death stare unlike any I had ever seen, the laughter from next door had shifted, into my own eardrums it seemed. Frantically I pulled the box up from the floor and covered the skull once more.

'Fuckin' Dave.'

The laughter was like an earworm, burrowing into my head where it proceeded to nest in my brain, the sheer pressure of it made my legs buckle where I hurled up the contents of my dinner. It was sparse, a small sausage roll and an apple, the produce was laden with bile, A heavy slick of it. The pressure in my head was too much, turning on my knees I left the room, dizzied, hunched. The journey to my bedroom seemed to take an age, time slowed, the earworm creating a staccato nausea, gravity and limbs succumbing to a deluge of broken man.

'Wake up Bobby.'

I couldn't open my eyes. It was like the lids had been sealed with candlewax.

'Wake up . . . Bob-by'

'Who's that?'

'Shane.'

'What? What are you doing here?'

'She kicked me out.'

'What again?'

Shane grew nearer, I could sense him, leaning over the bed, rough stubble, razor-like, talking into my ear. 'I got a key. Just thought I'd pop in. Crash, ya know. I expect she'll calm down tomorrow.'

I couldn't even bring myself to continue the conversation. The burden of illness and my vagabond lodger weighing heavy.

'So, can I?'

'What?'

'Crash, Bob-by.'

I sighed deeply. 'You, you can't keep coming back. You have to decide, Shane.'

The chin came in for another close encounter. 'Thanks, Bob-by.' I'm sure the stubble drew blood. But that wasn't the worst, it was the tactile slither of Shane's tongue along my ear lobe that sent a creeping dread down my back.

'Cheers, lover.'

Shane pulled itself from the bed and slammed the door.

The skull then seemed to filter into my mind's eye, skeletal nostril holes moving.

'Shit. Shane, wait. WAIT.'

The newfound inertia pulled me from the bed and I made my way downstairs. That wasn't what I needed. More questions on top of a massive pile of 'What the actual fuck.'

I switched the light on, but none was forthcoming. I wasn't out of credit; the meter was only topped up two days ago. Something must have tripped the switch. I pulled myself under the stairs and fumbled for the breaker. Pulling it down I felt the form of Shane standing behind me.

Bob-by

'Turn a light on old bean,' I said.

Wet hands pushed me further into the darkness and I fell, not for long, but enough to feel gravity's high five as I hit wet stone. It knocked the wind out of me. My head ringing with a broken song from my childhood.

'You're not Shane.'

No. But I can stay, yes?

'Who are you?'

It's not important.

'I think it is.'

It didn't respond. I looked up to the breaking light ahead, a window casting warm yellow upon my plight. It was so cold here, wet. The window beckoned me forward and I crawled toward it. Two people sat there, eating supper, laughing, drinking. Shane..

'Shane?'

I felt the chin lean itself in again, razorblade stubble digging into my neck.

Yes?

'You're not him.'

I'm the closest you'll get, Bob-by

'Shane.'

Wet hands pulled me back down the concrete, I kicked and struggled, turning myself over and kicking out to thin air. Black hands recoiled back into stagnant darkness, sensing my fury. I looked up into the starlit sky and noticed the canopy of night move, starlit dots met each other to form a face of malignant night, stars had become gleaming eyes, others the trail of a mouth that descended into me as a gelatinous moving mass of slime and heaving muscle.

All sense of time disappeared. I think I did for a while, spirit and resolve eaten and shat out.

Sick erupted from my mouth as time resumed, black, thick chunks of me. The light still beckoned me on. Shane and his girlfriend still laughed, talked, loved.

'Shane,' I whispered. My head fell into cushioned sick. I wanted my undecided lover to save me. Return home and tell me he was here to stay.

A song from long ago played in the stillness as the chin rose from black sick, the razorblades cut into my ear as it spoke wistfully.

Songs and memory will not help you now, Bob-by.

'What have I done?'

You opened the door to me. Too long I have slumbered in reverie. He bounded me, took salt from the deserts of Heaven and lilies from the garden of Eve. And you released me.

'We all make mistakes.'

You joke, even now, at your wits end . . . I forgot how malleable mortals are. You are broken.

'Maybe you're right. But I'm still here, aren't I? Still, hanging on.'

You are just a memory now, flotsam, a man picked apart to feed a god.'

'No, I'm still here.'

You are fodder.

The blades sliced into me further, tearing my ear away.

I could love you forever, Bob-by.

'But I already am loved.'

By who?

I smiled. 'By me. And you can have no part of that.'

Is that so? Your soul diminishes, eaten, ten-fold. There is nothing left to love. You are shit, boy.

'Maybe.'

I will break you further.

'You can try.'

I heard it echoing across the dark plains, this place where the entity wanted to consume me. A song from my childhood. It had been my anchor, as I induced torment and belittling.

I started to sing along to it. At first little dulcet hums that bubbled in my sickened throat, and then as my resolve bolstered, lyrics fell from my lips.

The chin panicked.

You think this will save you?

'Yes.'

Why?

'Because this is humanity, life lived, song, souls enriched. No darkness can snub that out. You have no place in our joy.'

Night fell into me once again, but I sung, I chocked on moving fury. Hummed and murmured and as I fought that tidal malice, so it eventually withered as I woke to swirls of red and black. Blood and sick swirled in the bath with me. My skin sore, branded by the beast within, ribs protruding from malnourished skin. Miss Johnson held her thumb against my forehead, shouting verses in Latin. Another stood in the doorway clutching an old-fashioned radio to his chest, my song, my song, blaring out from its withered speakers.

As quickly as I had dropped back into sanity I soon withdrew back into darkness as my strength gave out. I just felt arms holding me up as my frail form slid into fouled water.

'Who are you?' I asked.

'My name is Jared. Just Jared.

'You were the guy with the radio?'

The fair-haired young man just smiled admirably. 'That's right.'

'How did you know that I liked that song?'

'I didn't, the radio did.'

'What?'

'You are a very lucky man, Bobby. You have been subjected to what we call in the profession a possession. I particularly nasty bugger too, I may add.'

I couldn't be bothered to reply. I just looked at him.

'This radio tunes into the songs in the heart of everybody. Souls are flirtatious with music, they're like fish and chips, jam and sponge. Ant and Dec.

Your soul was in trouble, Bobby. The radio tuned into your soul and I kept playing it back to you on repeat. It worked, finally.'

'Finally?'

Jared nodded. 'You've been under for four months my friend.'

I sighed deeply, though it hurt to.

'How does it do that?'

Jared held it to his chest. 'This? It has the heart of a necromancer at its core. The same necromancer who tried to possess you.

'You're very lucky Whisperers, Custodians, Exorcists and Mages are close knit, Bobby. You could have been gone a very long time . . . maybe forever.'

'Hibbert?'

I noticed the sullen face on Jared. 'Yes, a custodian.'

'Am I in trouble?'

'Probably. But that's not my department. The world turns on many an axis, Bobby. Other things work beyond the realms we see. You took the parcel in a moment of weakness and you could have told Miss Johnson the night she called.'

'Why didn't I?'

'We are only human, it is in our nature to look where we shouldn't. We are governed by both darkness and light.'

'That sounds total bollocks.'

'Absolutely. Go figure it out yourself then.'

Jared pulled himself up from the chair and placed the radio in a bag. 'We always go looking for things we shouldn't. Love, fun, a night out to remember. Just be careful what you are looking for. Especially in another person's letterbox.'

'What happens now?'

'I go, you stay, enjoy Miss Johnson's delectable cooking. She has a fondness for tripe.'

I screwed up my face.

'Its better than death, trust me . . . well, maybe not.'

Jared moved out of the room and I called out. 'Where's the skull?'

He stopped and looked back. 'Out of harm's way.'

'It, the demon . . .'

'Necromancer.'

'Necromancer, it said stuff about Heaven and Eve's garden. How, how can I go back to work after something like that?'

'Hokum and bollocks, lies, pay it no mind.'

'But what if it isn't?'

'Never go looking for paths. Watch Netflix, cook Lasagne. Find a girlfriend, or boyfriend, get a cat. I don't care. Dead is dead, trust me.'

He left. I never saw him again, and after six months convalescence Miss Johnson did also. I stuck to my job. Got on with life, found a boyfriend, and a cat. Things settled down nicely, and then one day the doorbell rang, and I answered it.

'Dave, how are you,' I said, munching on an apple.

'Ah mate, terrible. That silly old cow over the road isn't in and my back is playing up. Can I leave this parcel with you?'

I smiled. Shut the door slowly and returned to the sofa with Shane.

'Not a ruddy chance, Smudge.'