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This first collection of tales by Rosalie Parker contains eight stories that explore the uncanny in the modern world. As Glen Cavaliero observes in his introduction, "like all good stories of the preternatural, these in The Old Knowledge have a subversive effect." In them, "the world of logical, predictable reality is seen to be at risk from rejected modes of knowledge which can thwart the materialist and victimise those innocents who stumble into another order of reality."

"There are many ways to tell a story... It is a question of choosing the right one." - "Sparks from the Fire" The stories in Sparks from the Fire explore a wide variety of familiar characters and settings, yet there is always something else a shadow world that haunts, disturbs, and threatens. Sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, recluses and lovers all find themselves shifting between realities: the prosaic and the mystical, even between life and death. The horrors and wonders of these parallel existences are often glimpsed, sometimes revealed, and occasionally overwhelm.

On a fine day, the dale could hold its own. White clouds scudded across a pale blue sky, casting shape-shifting shadows over the land, and just before dusk a translucent light bathed the fells in a fairy glow.

Clarinda stared open mouthed at the squat little creature, its amber eyes gleaming in the afternoon sun, its moist, warty skin taut over the rubbery flesh beneath.

We had no intention of going away that summer. Carrie had come to stay with me for a couple of weeks before we started at separate universities in the autumn.

All through August Abigail looked out for the ship, counting the masts on each vessel and reading their names before they reached the harbour.

The Robinsons arrived late in the evening; he in black tie and she in a long cocktail dress of sheer red silk. Neither Rachel nor Clive could remember inviting them, but they hoped the couple might enliven what was threatening to become a rather dull event.

The pub is empty except for a couple - man and wife, judging by her wedding ring - sitting in silence by the fire. Her back is to me; the corners of his mouth turn down. I'm pretty sure they're the ones I'm looking for.

The drop-in group met every Wednesday morning at the St Francis Centre. Sometimes there were activities painting a picture or learning something new on the computer but mostly it was a social event.

Old Father Thames so the song has it but she's more of a mother, that's what I've come to think. She started off young and beautiful, useful, the life-blood of the city.

Joel had applied for the Rawthorpe Award with very low expectations and so he was extremely surprised to receive a letter from the Foundation telling him that he was the recipient of one of the ten writers' bursaries on offer that year.

It was nearly midday when, bleary-eyed, Paula struggled up the last few metres of the slope. Lawrence's leaving party had drifted into the early hours, even though it was the middle of the working week, and in the morning, when he kissed her goodbye and got into the taxi, she had felt the first surge of panic.

All through August Abigail looked out for the ship, counting the masts on each vessel and reading their names before they reached the harbour.

Lucy was an awkward child, unlike Oliver and Sam who, when it was dry, played outside most of the time. She spent a great deal of the summer holiday visiting the library, reading in her room and researching online.

Like most children I dreamed that I could fly and that I could take giant bounding leaps across the landscape. On summer mornings I would try this out on my way to school, hoping to find myself far above the tarmacked lane, looking down on the fields and my friends below.

It's unlikely you'll read this as it's hidden on my computer, saved under 'lists'. If it comes to light it will hurt you, Lars, and I'm sorry for that.

My friends raved about the view from my study. Tristram said, 'How lucky you are! I could look at it forever.' He often returned to the window to watch the changes that mark the progress of each day: the gradual greening of the grass, light moving over the fields, a larger flock of crows.

The Robinsons arrived late in the evening; he in black tie and she in a long cocktail dress of sheer red silk.

Penny's survey of Luscombe Manor, a honey-toned, seventeenth-century house with Victorian additions, was taking much longer than she'd anticipated. The owner, Percy Davington, didn't seem to mind, however, and, going into the warm kitchen to eat her packed lunches, she often found him waiting for her with a glass of good dry sherry.

Around three and a half thousand years ago, members of a small community of Bronze Age people spent several days away from their usual activities of farming, hunting, weaving and food processing in order to construct a burial mound.