"Alex thought of his grandfather, of the way that the river at home curved between the fields and shone secret and silver in the light of the moon, of the trains full of soldiers that rattled off up into the hills towards the mud and the fear, and of the dead that walked the city."
Although a lot of my focus these days is on crime fiction, I've written some stories in the past that are...not. I have trouble deciding what they are, because I find it hard to call them horror because they're not particularly scary and there's no gore, squamous and rugose old ones, or vampires. And I find it hard to call them dark fantasy because, well, there's no vampires. Some of them are easy to classify, because they're traditional ghost stories of a sort, and if you like James, and Blackwood, you might like them. Others, aren't.
Lilies is one of the ones that aren't. It was first published in Pete Crowther's Postscripts. It was long-listed for the British Fantasy Society's best short story, and later republished in Stephen Jones' Mammoth Book of Best New Horror. If you fancy reading it, it's on Amazon UK | US and Smashwords. If you read it, let me know what you think.