An Orchestra of Wolves by John Harrison
I have prepared carefully, secretly, waiting until they are sound asleep. I can feel the weight of silence that has been cultivating for over a decade as I move through the house with the abstracted caution of a man entering a temple: rows of porcelain angels on the vanity table; the air, heavy with the scent of old gospel texts. Every object; every smell is a physical anchor, tying me to a world of rigid, suffocating expectations. In the moonlight, I appear both skeletal and calm, like a cheap church icon, and I can feel a tapestry of scrabbling insects…
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