Paul was working in the kitchen when he became aware of a presence. He turned around expecting to see Debbie, but there was no one there. Shrugging it off, he went back to chiselling tiles from the walls.

That evening he told Debbie about the presence he had felt. He jokingly recalled stories he had heard about people disturbing old spirits when they renovated old houses. She laughed affectionately, saying that she had also felt slightly uncomfortable, but was sure it was nothing to worry about.

A few days later, Paul told Debbie that he still felt that there was a presence in the house, and that they should consider doing something about it. She confessed that she had been thinking the same thing.

Debbie happened to have a colleague who was a mystic that cleansed people’s homes. She gave her a call, inviting her to come to the house and work her magic.

The next day, Debbie’s mystic colleague showed up at the house, and as she entered, confirmed that there was indeed a presence in the house. She said it was a trapped spirit that wanted to be set free. She then went about her business, filling every room with smoke from a burning bundle of sage.

After about 30 minutes the cleansing was done. The mystic friend assured them that the house was now cleansed of negative energy and that the spirit had been set free.

Debbie turned to Paul and gleefully asked if he felt better. He felt heavier than before, as if he was in shackles, but when he tried to tell her, he heard his voice say something to the contrary. He then watched as he saw himself and Debbie walk into the garden.

One day I noticed a silhouette standing in the mist. I called out to see if they were ok, but there was no response.

Something compelled me to approach them, so I kicked off my shoes, rolled up my jeans, and walked into the sea. By the time I was ankle deep the figure turned to face me, but said nothing. The closer I got, the fainter they became, until I found myself right where they were standing. They were no longer there.

I heard someone shouting so I turned around, only to see myself treading water, coming towards me.

I was ready to give up, when my wife suggested I turn it into a piece of flash fiction, so I set about stripping away as much as I could, to the point where I was left with a single paragraph. I thought I might have gone a bit too far until I recalled the famous six-word story which I was introduced to in a recent writing class:

For sale: baby shoes, never worn.

This story raises so many questions. It says so much, whilst simultaneously saying nothing. It is rife with ambiguity, which happens to be my favourite thing about short stories.

Inspired by this, I checked the word count of my single paragraph story and noticed it was just over 50 words, so I trimmed it down to exactly 50. I proceeded to try writing with this constraint using some other ideas that I was having difficulty with.

The results of this experiment were interesting, in that it forced me to be OK with leaving out lots of detail, restricting the context to the bare minimum. I love ambiguity in stories, novels and films, but I don’t like ambiguity for ambiguities sake, so that was something I wanted to be mindful of.

I may continue experimenting in this format from time to time, but my plan is to get back to writing longer stories.

I turned on the TV and caught the end of the local news. They shared a photo of the victim — the reveller.

Simon took the dice home. Several weeks later, he was found dead with the “lucky dice” by his side.

"I have come for the tapes," he said.

I hadn't seen a tape for years, and I expressed my confusion by telling him so.

"I can see them there"

I turned around and saw a box on the table. I had no idea how it got there.

"You’re welcome to it," I said.

I turned around to pass him the box and found him standing uncomfortably close to me. I dropped the box and struck him on the side of the head with the first heavy object that came to hand, a large Pyrex dish.

Seeing him on the ground, blood dripping onto my rug, I started to panic. I wasn't a violent person. Something just came over me, as I suddenly became protective of this strange box.

I rushed out of the flat immediately, running down the stairs, my footsteps echoing loudly. Before I knew it I found myself in the centre of town. I don’t know why I chose that location, other than needing to be anywhere but inside with that man ruining my rug. I didn't even like it that much, but that was all I could think about.

I never went back. I assume he survived, probably taking the box with him. I often wonder what was on those tapes.

It took me a long time to feel confident in my fiction writing. My blog posts often received positive feedback, but they were about my professional life and the technical aspects of my job. In terms of short stories I didn’t think that what I was writing had any worth.

My favourite genre is weird fiction and horror, and my preference in terms of reading and writing is short stories. There’s something about the art of building a world and developing characters in such a small space that really appeals to me.

I started writing fiction regularly a few years ago when my wife used to leave early to go to work. I’d wake up at the same time and fill the gap between then and when I started work with writing.

My early stories were largely unfinished and not very well structured. Since then I have read books on writing, listened to interviews with authors and built relationships with friends who write, and learned a lot in the process.

Over the past few weeks I have been attending a class on writing short stories. The opportunity to share work with other budding writers, giving and receiving feedback, and having the opportunity to ask a published author questions has proved invaluable. The result is a new found confidence in my writing.

I’ve also learned that the writing I’ve done up to this point still holds value. Firstly, learning how to fail is an essential component of success. Secondly, I have built a bank of ideas that I can draw on for future stories.

I don’t know where this journey will lead. I have no ambitions of writing for a living, as if that were even possible in such a niche genre, but I am not averse to having work published either.

Time will tell…