The old lady, Mrs Downes, was also residing in this nightmare. She was standing over Bill who was lying on a gurney with his cranium surgically sawed open. The top section of his head with neatly brushed hair, lay on the gurney by his left ear, no different than a topped boiled egg for breakfast. The pallid, frail old woman was studying the soft pink tissue of his brain and the grey malformation peering from it. But Mrs Downes wasn’t alone; Ethan was there too, standing on his tippy-toes to get a look into Bill with morbid curiosity. They were gazing inside Bill’s head, unblinking with a sickening rictus smile. This smile of perversion gave Bill the chills and he was sure he felt his spine prickle as he slept. But there were others, just out of the nightmarish frame of vision; shapes moving in the shadows around Billy-on-a-gurney. There were five or six of them, but every time he turned to look, they would blur.
70,000 words in and still no sign of the end of ‘From the Stars’ (provisional title). But what I can confirm is that, while writing in my little underground bunker this very morning, I gave myself serious heebie-jeebie goosebumps as I crossed over that 70,000 word mark. I think this is a good sign?