Old Crotchet

| March 15, 2017

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Martin Parsons lets out a shriek as he collapses onto his haunches in Mathew Sweet’s orchard, his broad hands spread by way of protection over his forward-inclined head. It is Twelfth Night by the old reckoning, and festivities are about to commence as something sinister stirs from its protracted dormancy, awakened, it seems, by the arrival of two young guests; the old ways, they find, should not be treated lightly.

The first in a cycle of wry standalone tales, many with a supernatural or occult theme, set in the English West Country.

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