Tag Archives: Novels

Uncle Flynn 10th Anniversary

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Cover design: Charles Bown

This year marks the 10th anniversary of my debut novel Uncle Flynn. Well, sort of. Technically the first version appeared on 30th December 2010, but paperbacks followed in 2011, so it’s sort-of the 10th anniversary. Either way, this treasure hunt adventure for the young and young at heart still holds an important place in my heart.

Uncle Flynn was in fact the eighth novel I wrote, but the first I decided to self-publish. Having been turned down by agents and publishers, my brother-in-law suggested this thing called Kindle on Amazon, and I decided to give it a go. The book was a modest success, and received some very good reviews – although I’m sure the fact that it was free at that time helped.

Plot

The story concerns eleven-year-old Max, a boy who suffers from crippling phobias and anxiety. Estranged from his workaholic father, Max’s life gets interesting one day when his mysterious uncle Flynn – an archaeologist normally working in South America – comes to visit.

During his stay, Max and Flynn discover clues pertaining to a local legend – a treasure buried on Dartmoor by monks, during the sacking of Buckfast Abbey at the time of Henry VIII. Following these clues lead to the discovery of a map. Max begins to put aside his many fears and hang-ups due to his obsession with finding the treasure. Flynn is equally obsessed, despite the dangerous presence of rival treasure hunters.

Complicating matters even further, once they set off across Dartmoor, Max discovers the police are on their trail. What has his uncle done to put himself at odds with the law? Flynn urges Max to help him evade his pursuers. Because he is so desperate to beat their rivals to the treasure, Max agrees, despite his uncle’s refusal to tell him why he is on the run.

Photo by Elliot Martin on Unsplash

Background

As well as following in the tradition of well-known titles like Swallows and Amazons, Treasure Island, and adventure films like The Goonies, the novel was initially inspired by the many walks I had taken with my eldest son on Dartmoor (to whom the novel is dedicated). We had visited several memorable locations, including Cater’s Beam, Sherberton Stone Circle, the “Crock of Gold” Bronze Age tomb, and Wistman’s Wood. These all turn up in the novel, even if I am somewhat liberal with the geography.

Some of the dangers faced on Dartmoor by the characters are not entirely fictional. There are deadly mires, especially the notorious Fox Tor mire and Raybarrow Pool. In addition, there are wild boar in the west (now documented fact). There have also been several panther sightings, though most of these were on Exmoor rather than Dartmoor. The sheer number of these (and a few dubious photographs) raise eyebrows on a regular basis, although how they got there is a mystery. Some suggest that the UK Dangerous Pets Act in the 1970s caused eccentrics who owned big cats to turn them loose, and that they somehow bred in the wild. And yes – you can see adders on the moors at warmer times of year, though they typically slither away if you get anywhere near them.

Buckfast Abbey was another key location used in the book. Much of the history of the abbey works its way into the novel, especially regarding how Henry VIII burned priceless Catholic books, closed the abbey, and had its gold and other treasures transferred to London. William Petre, who is mentioned in the novel, oversaw this process. He later retired in the south-west, purchasing a couple of manors. Uncle Flynn moves beyond these facts to suggest William Petre had other motives for returning, namely that he had become obsessed with tracking down the treasure hidden by a few clever monks that had slipped through his fingers.

Photo by Louis Tripp on Unsplash

Themes

I suppose the novel is mainly about overcoming fear and the dangers of mollycoddling. My protagonist Max suffers severe anxiety and panic attacks. He has many phobias, and there are satirical suggestions that an increasingly risk-averse society is at least partly to blame. For instance, one sequence early in the novel has Max being initiated into a secret club in school – a club that dares to play conkers without “protective head gear”. Max and the other children are caught and punished for their dangerous behaviour. This may sound absurd, but my late father (who was a teacher) informed me this kind of nonsense has been introduced in some UK schools.

Such satire is largely peripheral, and the novel implies throughout that Max’s difficult, estranged relationship with his father is what really lies at the heart of his problems. In attempting to impress his father, Max – along with his mysterious, genuinely dangerous uncle – takes increasingly reckless action in his quest to find the treasure. The irony is mollycoddling actually leads Max to take greater and greater risks.

Of course, this makes the novel sound terribly heavy and worthy, and I can assure you it isn’t. It is, first and foremost, a children’s adventure story. I didn’t write it to deliver any kind of “message”. However, I noticed these themes and ironies after the fact. What is important to any author will always be inherent in the text of their work, and in this case, I can see these themes in retrospect.

Uncle Flynn is available on Kindle and in paperback here (in the UK) and here (in the US).

Borrowing History in My Novels

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Many of my novels draw on history for their narratives, particularly the local history of where I live, in southwest England. Here are three examples of more fascinating historic footnotes that I appropriated, and massaged a little, for inclusion in my stories. The first two are from novels presently available, and the last one is from a manuscript I am holding on to for the time being.

The Dissolving of Buckfast Abbey (referenced in Uncle Flynn)

The facts: Henry VIII went about dissolving many Catholic monasteries during his reign. One of these was Buckfast Abbey, in the village of Buckfastleigh, on the southern borders of Dartmoor, which is a short distance east of where I live. The Abbey was dissolved by Sir William Petre, who in 1539, under instructions from the King, seized considerable amounts of gold which were subsequently taken to the Tower of London. William Petre later retired to the south-west. The Abbey was restored in the 1800s.

My fiction: In Uncle Flynn, the protagonist, eleven-year-old Max, and his mysterious adventurer uncle (who apparently has the police on his tail), uncover clues to hidden treasure written by a monk at the time of the dissolution. He supposedly took a vast amount of the Abbey’s gold, along with priceless Catholic library manuscripts, and buried them in a secret location on Dartmoor. This local legend is supported by William Petre’s supposed obsession with trying to locate this treasure that slipped through his fingers during the dissolution. It also explains why he chose to retire in the southwest.

Slaves of Lundy Island (referenced in The Thistlewood Curse)

The facts: Lundy Island is a tiny island on the Bristol coast, about three miles long and half a mile wide. It is sparsely populated, with limited local amenities, including a church, the Marisco Tavern, and a small airstrip where helicopters can land. Lundy Castle has since been divided into holiday homes. Electricity is only available at certain times of day, and there is no mobile phone signal (though there is a radio in the tavern).

Lundy has a rich and fascinating history, but one episode informed The Thistlewood Curse more than any other. Thomas Benson was an MP for Barnstaple when he owned Lundy in the 18th century. He also traded from the North Devon port of Bideford after inheriting a family fortune. His vessels transported tobacco, but he also kept a slave workforce on Lundy procured from convicts he was supposed to transport to America. After getting involved in smuggling, Benson’s misdeeds were discovered but managed to escape justice by fleeing abroad.

My fiction: Thomas Benson becomes Henry Thistlewood in my novel. As per real life, he secretly holds convicts intended for transportation to Virginia and uses them as slaves on the island. However, I devised the background for a ghost story: One slave, Jeremiah Adams, is executed with medieval barbarity after allegedly raping Thistlewood’s wife Cora. Whilst enduring death agonies, Adams curses the Thistlewood family line, swearing he will return to wipe them out.

In the present day, Henry Thistlewood’s descendant, Charles Thistlewood, son of Lord Alfred Thistlewood, mysteriously drops dead, having suffered an inexplicable heart attack. His wife Sally is an old friend of protagonist Detective Laura Buchan. Despite the doctor claiming Charles’s death is an open and shut case of tragic heart attack, Sally suspects foul play and asks Laura to come and secretly investigate, during Charles’s funeral. Laura brings along another childhood friend of theirs, paranormal investigator Lawrence Crane, who uses astral projection to try and discover the truth.

I won’t say anything more about the plot as I wouldn’t want to spoil it, but I will add that in my novel Lundy Castle is still occupied by the Thistlewoods, not divided into holiday homes.

Oliver Cromwell’s Head (referenced in The Balliol Conspiracy)

The facts: During the English Civil War, Balliol College in Oxford had its silver taken by the Roundheads and melted down for Oliver Cromwell’s New Model Army. After Cromwell’s death, when the monarchy returned, Charles II had Cromwell’s body dug up, put on trial, hanged, drawn, and quartered. His head was placed on a spike in London as a warning against anyone who’d seek to overthrow the monarchy again. Here’s where the facts get bizarre: Oliver Cromwell’s head was stolen, preserved, and changed hands multiple times (at one point it was hidden stuffed up a chimney), before supposedly being buried in Sidney Sussex College, Cambridge. Exactly where is unknown.

My fiction: My as-yet-unpublished novel The Balliol Conspiracy involves the above facts, though I tweak them by pretending Cromwell’s head was buried in Oxford. I won’t say any more about the plot, as the novel is strictly under wraps, suffice to say it’s a treasure hunt adventure for grown-ups, with a spy thriller element and a romantic element. I’ve not penned anything else quite like this, and it took quite some effort to rein in my gothic horror sensibilities whilst writing, to keep the narrative to PG levels. But I was determined that, for once, I’d write a novel that my mother could enjoy.

Uncle Flynn is available from Amazon here (in the UK) and here (in the US).

The Thistlewood Curse is available from Amazon here (in the UK), here (in the US), and here (from Smashwords).

The Balliol Conspiracy will be released at some point in the future. Watch this space.

Do I Get Scared Writing Horror?

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Photo by Donovan Reeves on Unsplash

My youngest child asked me an interesting question today: Do I get scared writing my horror novels? I feel like the answer ought to be no, since I’ve already plotted out the narrative and know exactly what’s going to happen. I’m aware of all character arcs and know where everyone ends up, alive, dead, or worse. Yet despite this, in all honestly, the answer is yes.

It is often assumed that horror fans (and writers) are hardened, desensitised individuals, but this silly stereotype simply isn’t true. Stephen King apparently has to sleep with the light on. I have much sympathy and have previously expounded on this subject at greater length. Writing horror – which in my case subgenre-wise is a blend of gothic mystery, supernatural thriller, and ghost story – definitely makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention at times.

My point is that visceral emotional response ought to be the result of any fiction writing. A novel should be immersive in that way, generating an appropriate reaction in the reader. In the case of horror, I want them to feel suspense, thrills, fear; a burning desire to get to the bottom of the supernatural mystery, underscored by an awareness that once they learn the truth, they might wish they hadn’t. Horror fiction should be bracing and invigorating, rewarding the nerve of the reader with the masochistic catharsis inherent in the greats of the genre.

If I didn’t experience at least a bit of that, when writing The Irresistible Summons, Spectre of Springwell Forest, The Thistlewood Curse, and so forth, I wouldn’t be a very good writer. I believe an author should be thrilled by the telling of their story as they write it down. Every word should remind them that this is their kind of tale; the kind they love to read, share, and about which they love to enthuse. So yes, those novels did generate a little creeping dread as I penned them – especially when doing so late at night, when everyone else in the house was asleep and the shadows decided I need a bit of company.

If you’re curious (and brave enough) you can check out my scarier novels on Amazon here (in the UK) and here (in the US). They are also available on Smashwords here.

Summer Holiday Special: Download The Irresistible Summons FREE

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For the next six weeks, I’m making my gothic mystery novel The Irresistible Summons FREE to download at Smashwords, to promote my novels in outlets other than Amazon.


Here’s an introduction to whet your appetite.

In a brief prologue, teenager Naomi Levinson laments the death of her boyfriend, Toby Lane. Toby and his entire family perished in a mysterious house fire, which Naomi comes to believe may have been started deliberately.

Several years later, Naomi is now an accomplished television producer making documentaries debunking the supernatural. When a shoot interviewing a possibly possessed killer in prison goes terribly wrong, the production company Naomi works for faces a lawsuit and possible closure.

Offered what could be her last job, Naomi is initially reluctant to take on filming a promotional video for computer game company Persephone. She considers the task beneath her talents. However, after production gets underway at the Persephone office block on London’s Canary Wharf, strange things begin to happen.

One member of staff inexplicably disappears. Ghosts are sighted, one of whom appears to be Toby. This re-opens old emotional wounds for Naomi, bringing back bittersweet memories of her strictly religious messianic Jewish parents, who disapproved of her secret teenage romance.

As Naomi continues to investigate, she begins to believe she might have stumbled onto a genuine haunting, one with disturbing links to her past, and possibly her future.

A horrifying conspiracy is gradually revealed. Cutting edge technology and ancient evil meet, leading to the discovery of a shocking and terrifying secret – one that could change the nature of life and death as we know it.

The Irresistible Summons can be downloaded FREE from Smashwords here. It also continues to be available for purchase at Amazon. Enjoy!

Recent Reviews

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Here are four new (or newly discovered by yours truly) five-star rave reviews for my novels.

For my most recent novel Peaceful Quiet Lives, this from A Critical Reader on Amazon:

“What an appropriate book for the here and now! While it may be a fictional account of a future America’s “Second Civil War” which breaks it into two separate countries, one far left and one far right, it is written as political satire of our current state of affairs.

Aside from the politics, readers will be swept up in the love story between Sam and Eve and the struggles they go through.

A must-read!”

For dystopian sci-fi memoir Children of the Folded Valley, an enthusiastic endorsement from Mathew Graves, on Amazon:

“Well-written and deeply personal, this book weaves together religious fanaticism and science fiction wonderfully and had me on the edge of my seat throughout. I would love to see this story adapted to the screen one day but in the meantime I highly recommend reading the book.”

Next, I rather like this amusing assessment of my gothic horror mystery Spectre of Springwell Forest:

“This book was immediately gripping. It has a lot going on, but it all works so well together that it doesn’t feel over the top. I mean, there are ghosts, witches, government coverups, possession. It sounds bonkers, and I guess it is, but it never gets ridiculous.”

Finally, here’s an unnamed Amazon customer on my sinister psychological thriller The Birds Began to Sing:

“Amazing thriller with a brilliant twist at the end which even the most hardcore of murder mystery readers wouldn’t see coming. A must read.”

In closing, a plea: Reviews are vitally important to indie authors such as yours truly, so if you do read one of my novels and enjoy it, please do leave a review, on Amazon, Goodreads, or ideally both (using the same review for both is fine).

I don’t need these reviews because I’m in need of constant affirmation (although affirmation is always nice). These reviews are vital because they act as sacrificial offerings to the Algorithmic Overlords, who in their beneficence, then point other readers in the direction of my work. They don’t need to be long or eloquent. “I enjoyed it” is fine. But if you like my work, or even if you hate it for all the right reasons – “Too scary”, “Too disturbing”, “Too offensive”, “Too unbearably sad”, etc – the best possible way to support me, other than buying my novels, is to please, please, please leave reviews. Thank you very much to those who already do. It is hugely appreciated, as this literally helps me to earn a living.

Check out my novels from Amazon here (in the UK), here (in the US), or alternatively on Smashworlds here.



Echo and the White Howl Revisited

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In late 2017, I self-published my one and only animal fiction adventure novel, Echo and the White Howl. Set in the Alaskan wilderness, it’s a gripping revenge story packed with hunts, blizzards, and dangerous journeys, with a mysterious, supernatural edge. It also proved one of the most challenging projects of my writing career.

I decided to pen this novel after my youngest son begged me to write him a story about wolves. Although I initially resisted the notion, rather irritatingly, an excellent narrative occurred to me, and the voices in my head wouldn’t shut up about it. In the end, much to my son’s delight, I had no choice but to write the damn thing. In the process, I learned three important lessons:

Writing animal fiction is bloody difficult

Animal fiction is a fiend because it is tricky to tread the line between assigning relatable human attributes to animal characters whilst making sure their knowledge doesn’t go beyond what they would naturally know. A myriad of choices complicates this, from turns of phrase to the wolves’ knowledge of the world around them. For example, I had to weed out a lot of human expressions from the dialogue or create wolf equivalents. A wolf wouldn’t be unable to put its finger on the problem, for instance, as they have paws. It also gets awkward when describing human devices of which they have no knowledge (for example guns). In addition, when hearing about places beyond their natural habitat (eg cities, or the sea), again, they have to be seen to not fully comprehend such concepts.

Animal fiction is a technique, not a genre

Animal fiction can incorporate everything from comedy to satire, allegory, adventure, fantasy, romance, and more. In my case, Echo and the White Howl is a coming-of-age adventure tale aimed at anyone capable of reading it and up. The book combines atmospheric, dirt-and-snow-under-the-paws Alaskan wilderness realism with a few mystical elements. In keeping with the traditions of much animal fiction, humans lurk on the narrative periphery as an ever-present menace. Key inspirations include Watership Down, Bambi, and bizarrely, Twin Peaks.

Suspension of disbelief: Where to incorporate research, and where to ignore it

Again, this was a fiend. I undertook the usual deluge of research for writing this novel, but how much of it I should incorporate became a constant question. I have included elements of how cubs are raised, how a pack hunts, the challenges to become Alpha, and so on. However, science tells me wolves see in black and white. Needless to say, I ignored the latter point and opted for poetic licence, for much the same reason George Lucas opted for poetic licence when deciding we should hear those cool laser sounds and explosions in the Star Wars space battles, despite the fact that space is a vacuum, and we’d hear nothing were such battles to take place in reality.

Beyond all of this, I had a particularly difficult time coming up with a good title. The first draft was penned under the unimaginative moniker Wolf Story, but try as I might, I could not settle on a proper name. My excellent friend Yasmine Nuoraho, who designed the wonderful cover for the novel, trolled me with many unhelpful suggestions, including A Tale of Tails and Lupine Larks. Yet in the end, it was she who came up with Echo and the White Howl, which is nicely enigmatic.

All things considered, I don’t think I will ever attempt animal fiction again (although never say never), but I am immensely proud of Echo and the White Howl, and dare I say, I think it deserves a much bigger readership. A number of people have read some odd things into it (one person insisted it was a Brexit allegory) but whilst some of my familiar themes are present – megalomaniacal abuse of power for instance – I certainly didn’t write the novel with any clear message in mind. I just wanted it to be a first-rate adventure story.

Echo and the White Howl can be purchased from Amazon here (in the UK), and here (in the US).

Writing Update: The White Nest

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With the exception of a couple of short stories, last year I took an extended break from fiction writing after finishing the first draft of a novel tentatively titled The White Nest. This story proved every bit as “personal” as Children of the Folded Valley. In fact, given the level of raw nerve jabbing involved, it’s safe to say I did something of a “Truman Capote”. What I mean by that is Capote was scarred to such a degree after writing his masterpiece In Cold Blood that he never finished another novel.

I am not comparing myself to such a literary giant, nor did I do anything as drastic as attend executions for my art, as he did, but the painful truth is that writing The White Nest affected me in ways I’m still coming to terms with. For some time, I wondered if my “voices” would ever return. I wrote a bit about that experience in this article on Medium. Thankfully I can report that the voices are back.

This year so far, I have written the first novel in a planned trilogy of fantasy stories that exist in the same Universe as my as-yet unpublished dark fairy tale novel The Faerie Gate. However, despite being pleased that I’ve managed to write another novel, I’m not yet convinced the quality is high enough to warrant being shared with the world. I feared the same for The White Nest, but having finally braved another look at the manuscript, I am pleased to report that is not the case.

The White Nest (I’m keeping the real title secret for now) is another gothic mystery, at least in part. It is also a coming-of-age story, a romance, a conspiracy thriller, and obviously it contains some strong horror elements. It deals in themes of complicated sibling relationships, parental fears, and false guilt. Reading it back, I can see why the process of writing it had such an effect on me, due to some of the painful personal experiences on which I am drawing. That said, I think readers will simply enjoy it as a vivid, gripping, page-turning mystery, which was always my primary intention. I think it might contain the best first act I’ve ever written. I can’t say if the ending is up to the same standard, as I’ve yet to reread it, but so far the signs are promising.

In terms of plot, The White Nest represents something of a departure from my previous gothic mysteries, in that the protagonist is male. I’m keeping the specifics under wraps for now, but I can tell you the story contains a full checklist of my favourite gothic tropes, including a sleepy south-west England village, haunted forest, eerie mansion, secret tunnels, dubious secret experimental facilities, occult secret societies, ghosts, demons, curses, mysterious disappearances, childhood memories buried by trauma, rug-pulling twist ending… you name it. You could even call this novel Now That’s What I Call A Simon Dillon Gothic Mystery if you really wanted to, as it is something of a compilation of my preoccupations, genre wise.

Here are some photographs of locations that inspired settings for certain sequences in The White Nest. The novel is predominantly set in Cornwall, but much of the landscape is based on the rugged North Devon coast. However, the first part of the novel is set in Oxford. One key scene takes place in Port Meadow.

Once I finish a second draft of The White Nest, I am moving on to a new gothic mystery, one that’s been gestating in my mind for some time. It is getting to the point where it is an itch I have to scratch, and I’m looking forward to developing it. In the meantime, I may well release a volume of short stories in the future, as I’ve now got quite a nice pile of these, and it would be nice to have them all together in one place. As ever, watch this space.

Phantom Audition: The Opening

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Here’s the first part of the first chapter of my recently re-released gothic mystery novel Phantom Audition:

What Mia noticed most was the silence.

She kept expecting to hear Steven’s voice, or the insistent thud of his feet, as he rehearsed his lines, pacing up and down. She expected to hear him on the phone to his agent, publicist, or to a director.

In the mornings, she no longer heard his absurd singing in the shower. His seat at the breakfast table stood empty. Mia would avert her eyes, unable to bear staring at the space he should occupy. He should be sipping his tea, scrolling through his phone, crunching his cereal… Silence chewed the room instead, like wind and rain gnawing an eroding landscape.

At nights, Mia would awaken and roll over, hoping to warm herself on his body. But Steven wasn’t there, and he wasn’t coming back. He had been replaced with the same terrible silence that screamed, clawed, and tore at her mind whenever she entered the rooms that still had his smell. The memory of her husband had stained the entire house.

Mia had always thought the mansion ludicrously big for the pair of them, but now more than ever she felt the size of the place. A curious unease lingered, as though the carpets, furniture, paintings, and ornaments had turned against her. She felt like a stranger in her own home, imagining everything around her glared in frowning disapproval. Perhaps her presence was a desecration.

One Monday morning a month after the funeral, the unpleasant sensation of feeling watched by the house became too much, and Mia yelled out into the silence.

‘It’s my bloody home too!’

The house responded without mercy, making every tiny tick of the clock an intolerable cacophony. Mia put her hands over her ears. She knew her behaviour was absurd, but the curious mixture of anger and fear that stirred within her had taken her by surprise. Sadness at Steven’s passing was to be expected, but she had not expected to feel so defensive or fearful. Perhaps bewilderment at the events leading up to his suicide by drug overdose still had her on edge.

Even though she still wore her dressing gown, Mia continued to sit in the morning room, on an ornate Elizabethan chair that matched other antique furniture in the room from the same period. Occupying this chair felt like a strangely defiant act, as though she were challenging the house itself. Steven’s ancestors glared down at her from portraits on the wall. His home was now hers, and sooner or later, the ancestors would just have to accept it.

‘It’s my bloody home,’ Mia muttered. ‘Deal with it.’

‘A-hem!’

Mia leapt out of the chair and spun towards the doorway. A middle-aged woman in a maid’s uniform stood there, her face unsmiling and severe.

‘Liza… Good God, you made me jump!’

‘Ma’am,’ said Liza. ‘I apologise for startling you. I know I’m a little early.’

‘Yes, yes, of course… Is it Monday already?’

Liza didn’t reply. Her eyes bored into Mia.

‘Of course it’s Monday.’

Mia looked down, avoiding Liza’s glare. Eventually the maid spoke again.

‘I can come back to this room later if you like, ma’am.’

‘No, no, that’s fine. I’ll get out of your way. I need to have a shower really.’

Mia scurried out of the morning room and headed back up the main staircase to the west wing. She locked herself in her bathroom, feeling very foolish. Her heart beat a little faster as she tried to get a grip on herself, staring into the mirror.

‘It’s my bloody home. Mine.’

But it didn’t feel like her home. Liza Richards, a hired cleaner who came in on most days, had been employed by the Yardley family for years, and her demeanour was more like that of a proud, old-school housekeeper. That Mia had leapt out of the Elizabethan chair when challenged by Liza, as though she were some disobedient child, underscored to Mia yet again that she felt threatened by Elm House, the ancestral home of her late husband, the renowned actor Steven Yardley.

Renowned actor.

Renowned.

Perhaps that was the problem. Steven had been renowned in many ways. Rich family. Successful acting career. What was she in comparison? Mia recalled the whispers when they had married three years previously, that she was little more than a gold-digging, hack bit-part actress. Such rumours never bothered her whilst Steven had been alive, for they were utterly false. She and Steven had loved one another with an enviable passion. Their marriage had been one made for the right reasons. What did it matter what anyone else thought?

However, since Steven’s death, after inheriting everything, it had been impossible not to feel this resentment amid icy stares at the funeral, and at the reading of the will.

‘My bloody home…’

Tears streamed down Mia’s face as she stared into the mirror. She felt utterly pathetic. A part of her wanted to return downstairs to the morning room. She wanted to place herself in that Elizabethan chair with her arms folded, reading the paper, and glaring at Liza as she went about her cleaning duties. But she felt so utterly defeated. Her stomach twisted, and she felt sick. She slumped to the floor, bent double, sobbing.

‘Steven… Steven…’

She allowed herself a moment to cry. But after a couple of minutes of anguish, Mia took a deep breath, wiped her face, and stood up again. She couldn’t allow Liza to see her like this. She had to be strong.

Mia took a shower then headed to her bedroom to get dressed. For a moment, she toyed with the idea of lurking upstairs until Liza had finished, but part of her despised such a cowardly notion. Why should she want to avoid Liza? She was an employee. Besides, the gardener was due to arrive soon, and she had to give him instructions.

Mia returned downstairs to the kitchen. She made herself a cup of tea and sat at the kitchen table for a few minutes. Still the silence taunted, but Mia ignored it.

Outside, the mid-February drizzle threatened to become a downpour. Staring out of the window towards the driveway, her eyes came to rest on a large horse chestnut tree amid the extensive gardens. The branches were stark and bare right now, but Mia recalled Steven’s fondness for that particular tree, and the significance it had held for him throughout his entire life. Mia briefly closed her eyes, remembering a summer’s day when they had sat beneath the horse chestnut tree in the warm afternoon sun, with the lingering scent of freshly cut grass and white roses. She could still taste the honey on her lips and his. She recalled the wasp sting that had rudely interrupted their passionate kiss. Placing her hand to her arm, she rubbed the place where the wasp had struck. Was it her imagination or was there still a scar?

For more, pick up your copy of Phantom Audition in paperback or ebook here (in the UK), and here (in the US). Or you can click here, to download the book from Smashwords.

The Irresistible Summons: Prologue

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My horror/supernatural thriller novel The Irresistible Summons has recently been re-released with a new cover. It’s probably the scariest of my ghostly gothic mysteries, particularly in the final section of the book. However, here’s the prologue, which I promise it’s safe to read even if your nerves aren’t up to reading the rest of the novel.

FIRE INVESTIGATION CONCLUDES: TRAGIC ACCIDENT

A tragic electrical accident started the fire that consumed 22 Bainbridge Close, fire brigade investigators have ruled. The inferno, which killed all members of the Lane family, shocked the local community to its core, on the 17th September 2001. In their concluding remarks, investigators once again reiterated the importance of fitting smoke alarms and urged for campaigns to raise awareness.

Naomi stood at Toby Lane’s grave, clutching the same tattered local newspaper article she had read again and again over the past year. Murky skies blocked out the sun and a chill wind blew in from the east. St Mary’s church – a medieval granite building with a pointed bell tower – loomed behind her. Tree branches creaked and blew in the wind, amid a light drizzle. Naomi’s eyes fell on the article again.

‘I know there were smoke alarms. I remember seeing them just before we…’

Her voice faltered. The memories were overpowering. She had been sixteen, Toby seventeen. Out of the corner of her eye, she had glimpsed said smoke alarms during a moment when she had been greatly distracted by other matters. But the alarms had been there, even if she had only seen them for a second before her eyes closed.

Naomi had been too overwhelmed with shock and grief to tell anyone about the smoke alarms. Nor did she have reason to think there was anything suspicious about the way the fire brigade had arrived at an incorrect conclusion.

For many months, Toby’s memory tormented the utterly broken-hearted Naomi. She half-expected to see him in the streets, on the beach, in the woods, or the other secret places they had visited together. When she was alone, Naomi imagined Toby’s spirit in the room with her. She would hold imaginary conversations with him, anticipating responses and acting as though he were really present.

Often these conversations were later followed by dreams. In these dreams, Naomi conversed with Toby, clinging to every moment they had together, willing herself not to wake up.

During one such dream, Toby spoke a single sentence that haunted her throughout the years that followed.

We can be together again.

For a long time Naomi wondered if this was a subconscious, suicidal urge to join Toby in death. But as months went by, she became less convinced, and eventually dismissed the dream as little more than a small, desperate part of her burning love that refused to be entirely snuffed out by the passage of time.

‘I miss you,’ she whispered.

Naomi welled up as she placed a handful of crocuses next to the gravestone, knowing Toby would have understood the significance.

A tall figure in dark robes ambled along the nearby path. Reverend Patrick Mortimer had presided over the Lane family funeral. His bony, severe cheekbones had frightened her as a child, but now she observed a comforting warmth in his hazel eyes.

‘A year to the day,’ said Reverend Mortimer. ‘Still hard to take in, isn’t it? Thousands of people die in New York. Then six days later, our community experiences a tragedy just as devastating, in its own way.’

Naomi nodded. ‘I feel like part of me is still missing.’

‘Part of you always will be. People talk about getting over the loss of a loved one, but that isn’t how it works.’

‘So what can I do?’ Fresh tears filled Naomi’s eyes. She didn’t know the vicar well, and she knew her parents would much prefer she had a conversation such as this with one of their own congregation rabbis. Yet she felt drawn to the Reverend, perhaps on account of his refreshing bluntness.

‘The distance of time will enable you to come to terms with it,’ said Reverend Mortimer. ‘Then you will see the life of the person as someone who entered your life for a season, and was important. But they will always be missing, so a part of you will be too.’

‘It hurts so much,’ said Naomi.

‘Of course it hurts. If I cut off your finger, that would hurt too. In time the skin and flesh would heal, and you would no longer feel pain. But you would still be missing a finger.’

The words Toby had spoken in the dream returned to her mind.

We can be together again.

‘Do you believe in life after death?’

The Reverend smiled. ‘I’d be pretty bad at my job if I said no.’

‘What about ghosts?’

‘I don’t believe the dead return to watch over the living. Yet there are spirits in this world of an altogether different origin.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean be careful what you wish for, Naomi Levinson.’

With those words, the Reverend turned and walked away. Naomi stared after him for a second and then returned her gaze to Toby’s headstone. 1984 – 2001. A short life for someone with such promise. What had God been thinking, allowing him to die in a house fire? Naomi’s parents had brought her up to believe in God, but right now she found it difficult to believe he cared about humans, especially someone as lonely as her. Toby Lane had understood her, and she had trusted him completely. Now that he was gone, the isolation felt all but unbearable.

Yet over time, Reverend Mortimer was proven correct. Although Naomi felt as though she had a spiritual missing limb, the pain eased. When she eventually came to terms with the loss of Toby, she no longer gave the Lane family smoke alarms a second thought. Only years later did the tragic events of the 17th of September 2001 cast their sinister shadow over the present.

Intrigued? Here’s the blurb from the back of the novel:

How far would you go to bring the one you love back from the dead?

Television producer Naomi Levinson makes documentaries debunking the supernatural. When asked to film a promotional video for computer game company Persephone, she considers the task beneath her talents. But as production gets underway at the Persephone office block on London’s Canary Wharf, a mysterious disappearance, ghostly sightings, and lingering tragedy from Naomi’s past lead her to believe she might have stumbled into a genuine haunting.

As Naomi continues to investigate, past and present collide in a horrifying conspiracy. Cutting edge technology and ancient evil meet, leading to the discovery of a shocking and terrifying secret that could change the nature of life and death as we know it.

To pick up your copy of The Irresistible Summons in paperback or ebook click here (in the UK), and here (in the US). Or you can click here, to download the book from Smashwords.

Spectre of Springwell Forest: First Six Chapters

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Here are the first few paragraphs of my recently re-released ghostly gothic mystery horror novel Spectre of Springwell Forest.

“These days, the run-up to Christmas feels bittersweet. As a young girl, I looked forward to the season with unclouded excitement. Upon reaching adulthood, I adopted a more cynical view. This ancient pagan festival that had once been appropriated by the Church now seemed dominated by capitalist interests. Yet, there came an all too brief time, during the early part of my first marriage, when these misgivings all but vanished, due to becoming a mother. Seeing festive celebrations through the eyes of a child triggered a temporary truce with the more commercial aspects of the season. Cynicism, in those years, took a back seat.

That was before the events of Springwell Forest.

I have long since come to terms with the past, but the way Christmas is here today and gone tomorrow has a melancholy bordering on cruelty, reflecting the cruelty of what took place all those decades ago.

Such thoughts lurked in my mind like background noise, amid the bustle of crowds in the busy pedestrianised streets at the centre of Exeter. A bitter frost clung to the pavements and windows, and I found myself shivering beneath the baubles, wreaths, and coloured lights decorating the streets. My husband, Andy, sped up a little as we walked; his gloved hand in mine, keen to get out of the cold.

Usually when driving to the centre of town, we park in one of the side streets, but on this occasion, the sheer busyness of the place rendered the usual benefits of local knowledge useless. We were forced to park in the multi-storey car park, which meant a brisk ten-minute walk to the cinema. Andy kept glancing at his watch, concerned we might miss the start of the film.

I didn’t particularly care if we did. It was only a silly Hollywood horror film, one of those daft supernatural possession stories with loads of jumpy moments. I find them funny rather than frightening, perhaps because they are so far removed from the horrible reality I once experienced…”

You can read the rest of Chapter 1, and indeed Chapters 2 to 6, in Illumination Book Chapters, a new Medium publication. Here are the links.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

I hope you enjoy these chapters. The full novel is available in paperback or ebook here (in the UK), and here (in the US). Or you can click here, to download the book from Smashwords.