The author was seen gliding more than walking into the publisher’s office. Reports differ, but it was thought he was draped in a tatty black robe and insisted on hand delivering the manuscript. Soon afterwards, staff called in sick, others complained of bad dreams, coats on the back of chairs took on unappealing shapes … the editor who worked on the proofs was sure she was followed home, but never quite saw who was behind her. And then it spread to bookshops: in many branches of Waterstones when a member of staff went to ask the last customer to leave because they were closing, there was no customer to be found. They thought it had been a man, last seen on his hands and knees in the place where Horror bristles between the colourful wings of Fantasy and Science Fiction. Someone else said the man had been talking to himself, others claimed he made strange gestures in the air with his dirty hands … the heating was turned up in shops, but browsers in the romance sections still complained of draughts … the non-fiction aisles bloomed with the smell of sewage … in the cafes milk soured …. The legend of The Brown man lives on. He was officially resurrected today!