Paranormal activity: Slow horses

It was an odd house, though that was none of his doing: it had been odd when he'd bought it. Its oddness lay in its upstairs conservatory; a glass-roofed, tile-floor mezzanine. The estate agent had made much of this feature, pointing out the array of plants that created a microclimate there; natural and green and eco-whatever peppering her spiel.

Ho had nodded like he cared, calculating how many electronics he could fit into here once this eco-shit was off the premises. Quite a lot had been his estimate. This turned out to be the precise exact amount.

So, now he sat surrounded by quite a lot of electronics, some quietly awaiting his touch; others humming pleasantly in response to preset commands; and one blasting out death metal at a volume that threatened to make the genre literal.


He was too old for this music, and he knew it. He was too old for this volume, and he knew that too. But it was his music, his house, and the neighbours were students. If he didn't make his own noise, he'd have to listen to theirs.