Wow, three in one day! Arrrg, brain ache. Anyway, I still don't own Mort Rainey, despite my best efforts. Or much else.

Enjoy!

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Down in the cellar, beyond the old furniture and piles of books, was a small room. Built as a waterproof shelter for important objects, it was well secluded. And in here, was the creature's nest.

The cushions padded the floor; bottles of every type of liquor adorned the shelves. The laptop snuggled in at an angle between a pile of clothes and another cushion. Food was heaped in one corner, and precisely stacked in another. And in the middle of it all, curled like a sleeping baby, was the creature itself. It's hair was down to it's jaw-bone, and lank. The beginnings of a beard were on its chin. Its eyes were closed in fitful sleep.

No one came down here. Strange things happened to people who went down into lakeside cottages' cellars.

John woke up. Mess, everywhere, mess! He stacked the cushions and regimented the food supplies. He placed the computer reverently on the shelf. Then, straightening his well-worn dressing gown, he left the room, strode through the cellar, and up into the house.

The place was in disarray. Cursing quietly under his breath, he straightened chairs, shut doors and tidied up his written work from the floor. Some of the pages were ripped and creased badly.

"Well, Mr Rainey, I didn't think you'd go that far."

Sifting through his work, John looked out the broken window.

"Quite a fit you had, Mr Rainey."

John Shooter straightened the pile, and returned to the basement room.

Two hours later, Mort Rainey staggered out into the daylight of his garden. His head hurt, and his vision was blurry. Two piles of earth, each about six-foot long stood out from normal ground level. A few plants had seeded here and there. Mort stared at the smaller one. She was looking back at him.

"I didn't want to, Amy."

It was meant as a firm, assuring statement. It came out as a hoarse, barely audible admission of guilt. His eye caught sight of the other grave. Anger flooded him. It churned through his blood making him feel weak, and that only made him angrier. He didn't so much kick Ted's grave as launch his entire leg at it. Clods of earth spun through the air. It was the work of a moment to heave out the entire contents of a nearby water bucket. Mud, water and a million other life forms spewed over the soil, turning it to mulch. As a final act of defiance, Mort rammed his spade hard into the heap at the head end. He dropped the bucket, and with a self-satisfied glare over his shoulder, he went inside.

The piles of paper were back again.

How dare he! It's my house! My things!

They're his too.

"No, they aren't. Why won't he leave my stuff alone?"

With a stubbornness that defied all belief, he grabbed the wads of paper, and pulled, ripped, tore, shredded and otherwise decimated the paper. Exhausted, he watched the tiny fragments as they settled on the floor. A patch of text caught his eye. Bending to lift it up, he read something he recognised.

"I wrote this! You stole my story this time Mr Shooter!"

Mort rifled through the other, larger chunks. It was all his.

No it isn't. Shooter wrote it first.

No he didn't! It's mine!

When did you write it?

Yesterday!

So did I!

No you didn't, I did! It's mine, Shooter!

It's mine, Mr Rainey.

It's ours.

Mort lifted his hands. He was once more curled in the foetal position on the stairs. He looked around. It was dark outside. It was dark inside too but that was only as the power had been cut. The empty house threatened to swallow him whole.

"Leave me alone." He whispered.