It was a pathetic pond, really. Barely three houses long, and maybe two wide, it hardly seemed worth acknowledging. I couldn’t help it, though. It w...s just more proof that I had moved to a desolate, ignorant town. Don’t ask me how I considered it proof of ignorance, because it just seemed like the two went together, and I couldn’t tell you why. Every time I passed the pond, I became more and more depressed. I guess the pond was a part of my life, but it seems kind of sad that I placed so much. Now, with the detached eye of maturity, I could amuse myself with the devices young Emily Brontë had used to achieve her Gothic effects, particularly the ‘unreliable narrator’. I forced myself not to imagine that the woman who’d stood under the maple tree opposite my flat was dogging my steps. I forced myself not to remember Laura.I needed to go home, switch on my computer and reply to a magazine editor. He’d gratified me by promising to publish another of my short stories but irked me by. More

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