Vision of a Red Cheomsang.

I’m sitting here at my computer in the early hours of the morning. The world outside is dark, still and quiet, save for the occasional call of the Tawny Owl as it beats its buoyant flight across what’s left of the moon. This is rural England, so that’s to be expected.

What isn’t to be expected is what I see when I turn and look at the curtained window. My Chinese ghost is standing there, sleek and seductive in red cheomsang, and smiling a benevolent but mischievous smile.

What does she want?

This isn’t easy, you know. And it isn’t quite the fiction you might think it is.