Cain was born in Sunderland, UK, but raised in a sparkly mist his mother affectionately called The Spirit World.

     Half a decade later that included a long stint with an unwanted scythe-wielding phobia, which was eventually professionally shelved in the darkest part of his brain, he decided to start writing about it.

     These days he spends most of his evenings in a shed (yes — a shed with The Crimp Cave scribbled in black biro on the back of the door), surrounded by cheap gadgets that caw caw every time he moves.

     When he’s allowed out, the bendy-tailed terror aptly named Ninja (he is black — not with a curved sword or num-chuks for that matter) and his brother Bop, who lollops around the house impersonating a confused panda, keep him company.

     His daughter helps him choose important things like the confirmation message for newsletter subscriptions. She also asks for far too many massages.

     Cain writes marginally better than he speaks and has more tattoos than common sense.

     Because you've been patient: if you like psychological thrillers that tap you on the shoulder and quietly wait for you to run, his stories may end up rooting deeper than his mother’s wishes for him to finally become a success in life.

     He is also the creator of The Gallows Man mythos — which, unfortunately, is only purchasable via the afterlife.