They used to say dead men tell no tales. That might have been true ten years earlier, but that rainy night I stood on my own doorstep snout to snout with one who had a lot to tell me – and even without the Government warrant he carried, I was very keen to listen.

The mildewed lion gestured to the dark shapes behind him. “My associates.” First forward into the light were two brown bears, wearing the black pinstriped kevlar and “battle bowlers” of UnCivillian Servants. “Fanshaw and Psycho, my Investigation Officers. That’s Von Tappe, my Technician – he keeps me going.” He nodded to a grey-furred mole whose artificial eye twinkled in the lights of my hallway, its multi-spectral lenses focussing as its owner moved. At the back was another helmeted figure, a hefty boar who appeared to be handcuffed to a small lepine person.

“Bring him forward, Benson,” the lion gestured, and the last two of the party came into the light. “Benson, a valued member of my team. And this rabbit is Wayne the Heretic – we caught him last month.” He turned to me, one ear dipping. “I have to say this to everyone we meet – no matter what he says, please don’t kill him. Not just yet.”

It was a strange party that occupied the living room, as I offered tea and biscuits all round – as befitted members of the Ministry, they all had impeccable table manners, even Psycho (who tended to drool, but had come prepared with an official issue bib.) Of course, I had heard of the Ministry of Certain Things – who had not? For centuries our Parliament had had a Minister Without Portfolio, a “spare” high-ranking officer of the State who was available to tackle any unexpected issues that did not quite fit elsewhere. What had never been revealed was the hidden Ministry he presided over, its membership concealed in other Government departments until suitable circumstances brought them into action – after which they would fade away from sight like shadows in the sun. Harry Garsdale looked around the room, and in the clear light I could see the ravages of time and decay on him – patches of his fur were missing, and his skin had a dry, half mummified look like ancient leather. He caught my glance, and smiled through shrunken lips. “I’m not pretty these days, but I’m still here.” His gaze lingered over the window that faced in the direction of Old London. “So many aren’t.” The gaze snapped back to the room, boring into the smooth-furred lapine who sat quite unconcerned at my table, nibbling carrot cake. “And some of us here know why that is.”

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Illustration by  hbruton (Heather Bruton) for one of the chapters in the novela "The Thing in the Toyshop - an H.P. Lushcraft Tale" By Simon Barber.

It's a wonderful story written with both sly humor and compelling characters, and it's one of the tales in "Alone in the Dark," a dramatic horror anthro fiction anthology.

http://www.amazon.com/Alone-Dark-An...../dp/144043865X

The book is 408 pages, featuring stories by Simon Barber, Michael Bard, Austin Crowder, William Eakins, Kathleen Fenlon, Kevin Frane, Jason Gillespie, Chris Goodwin, Renee Carter Hall, Allen Kitchen, Watts Martin, Brian L. Miller, J. Scott Rogers, Will A. Sanborn, SeHT, Thomas Shaw, and Tim Susman.

And Illustration artwork by Anka, S. M. Bittler ("Synnabar"), Heather Bruton, W. Michael "Wolfie" Dooley, Amber "Vantid" Hill, and Sara "Caribou" Palmer.