My horror story, “The Werechurch,” will appear in the next issue of Dagger Magazine. It tells the terrifying tale of a man who turns into a church, and then meets a gruesome end. To make it more gothic, it’s told in sonnets. Here’s the first one:

The night was dark, although the sky was starry,
As Di and Dave strolled homeward after dining.
They’d stuffed themselves on wine and calamari,
And now were looking forward to reclining.
The gibbous moon above was just a sliver,
The wind that whistled past them, keen and lashing;
The road they took led downward, by a river,
Where they were startled by the sound of splashing.
A church heaved onto shore, alive and dripping,
A church with steeple, portals, sanctuary,
And stained-glass windows caulked with weather stripping.
The building seemed so sinister, so scary,
And when it shook itself, so diabolical,
Their hair stood up on end, down to the follicle.