In the final entry of my Halloween trilogy spanning three years, the Abominable Marshman is on the brink of retirement. Terror's not what it used to be. He's thinking of opening a boutique selling cat skulls, blood-stained candelabras and limited edition hauntological records, but someone in Hackney's already beaten him to it. Perhaps he should just move to the coast and drink himself to death. But how can he do that when he's already dead?
He's distracted from his self-pity by a shape lumbering toward him from beneath a distant pylon. This creature is made from garage nuggets and analogue bolts, threaded together with guitar strings. Its folksy dress is smeared in funk stains.
Slight and imperfectly formed, it's.... The Bride of the Abominable Marshman.