For no reason other than being able to look like a pretentious twat, I wish that I had continued my education in French from the age of sixteen. I was actually quite good at it, but never got to speak it. Instead, I became seduced by the sciences and thus my path was set at a tender age.

I never had the opportunity to learn Danish, but it never impeded my enjoyment of murderous Scandinavian dramas such as The Killing, Those Who Kill and The Bridge. Yet my heart was filled with some sense of remorse as I had to read subtitles to watch The Returned. It distracted from the cinematography somewhat; something that should have been enjoyed in its own right. The characters were beguiling, the actors who played them were stunningly beautiful. The whole thing left me so confused, but in the most wonderful way imaginable.

Here in the sleepy village of Stoneclough, I fear we may be heading towards our own supernatural disaster come Christmas. The bridge that links us to Ringley and beyond is closed and will remain so for six months. I have no idea what is going on the other side of the river; the residents are cut off from the rest of us for the duration of the road repairs.

They might all be dead: Sainsbury’s can’t deliver there and their only source of food is Asda in Radcliffe, or Morrisons in Whitefield or Tesco in Prestwich. I have no idea if those poor souls have the wherewithall to make it that far.

The next six months might see a period of dangerous in-breeding, I’m sure the authorities are aware of this and will be checking out all pregnancies over the coming months. I doubt ultrasounds are sensitive enough to show if a developing fetus has more than its fair share of digits, let alone more important factors such as a murderous nature and immortality.

They shall return and they will be amongst us once again. Appearing as old friends and neighbours, yet vengeful against those of us who weren’t cut off from the 21st century advantages that Bolton Council affords us.

Most worrying of all is that they will join forces with the special breed of people from Prestolee. They spent centuries evolving in their own microcosm until the bridge over the Irwell allowed them to enter the modern era. During that time though, a special subset of humanity was created. It has a genetic material that, while on the face of it is “human”, the mitochondrial DNA has become mutated to the extent that those afflicted think it’s Christmas all year long. Those poor souls. Like the accursed from The Fog, they roam amongst us with their simple smiles and an overwillingness to high-six us.

The people of Stoneclough are doomed. The only way for us to survive is to start thinking ahead now. I am willing to sacrifice all to become a post-apocalyptic cult leader, to guide us against the oncoming onslaught from the genetically disadvantaged. Of course, this role demands that I have cattleprods, guns, a burrito chef and a harem of women who worship me.

This will be one of the toughest tasks I’ve ever undertaken, but I am ready. I am more than happy to comfort any woman in this darkest hour (so long as they’re fit).