THE LURKER OUTSIDE
Don't go down in the cellar!
Another disturbing hypernatural manifestation from the twilight streets of Olde Yeovil Town (click to enlarge: this is real...):
I've seen them: entities assembled from the contents of Charity Shop collection-boxes; soulless, floppy-limbed aggregates of musty, discarded clothes that smell of nursing-homes, pipe tobacco and urine.
Soft creased velveteen features; brown velour with buttons for eyes, faces like malignant sock-puppets. Hands made from damp, wollen mittens or stained chamois-leather driving-gloves. Wearing orthopedic boots and dead men's shoes, they emerge from the wheelie-bins behind Wilkinsons, attracted by the lights of a fruit-machine in the launderette.
Car-coats smeared with pigeon-shit, torn cardigans and thin, quilted 1960's anoraks, layered or stitched together into an obscene approximation of flesh, they assemble round the back of Safeways, their arms flapping limply, like bandages, in the bone-gnawing cold of late november.