Some say writers do not own stories; they do not create them, they are not born from the mind. Some say stories are orphan ghosts roaming the ether, whispering into the ears of sleepers.They wait for someone to listen. They wait for someone to pick up a pen and give them form. If you saw me, you would never say, ‘yes, that woman has ghosts and demons’. If you knew me, you would not say, ‘Oh Eve, yes, she’s engulfed by darkness’. Yet here are my coils of mystery and fear. I do not know from where these dark tales percolate. Sometimes I like to think that outside my narrowboat at night I have a queue of ghouls waiting for an audience, waiting to tell their tales of sorrow, or of yearning, or of blood.