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Ουπς! Αυτή η εικόνα δεν ακολουθεί τους κανόνες περιεχομένου. Για να συνεχίσεις με την δημοσίευση, παρακαλώ αφαίρεσε την ή ανέβασε διαφορετική εικόνα.
Pitch:
A twenty-eight-year-old bookshop assistant must decide on the future of her heart and ultimately her life, while overcoming past grief and proving the truth behind the strange happenings in her home before madness descends.
Blurb:
Sarah Laker's memory is alive. Alive with the dead.
Experiences of strange phenomena are the norm within 28-year-old Sarah's farmhouse. Armed with borrowed equipment, she sets out to prove the place is haunted. A haunting is easier to accept than the possibility that she's losing her sanity, just like her father, but with each passing day her grip on reality as she knows it slips a little further away.
Sarah's old college friends, Duncan and Luke, provide her with support and relief from the never-ending worry. Bound together through grief at the age of eighteen, the prospect of becoming more than friends has always lingered in the background.
Will friendship and the potential for romance be enough to set Sarah's feet on solid ground, or will she slide into madness like those who've gone before her?
Set in the tranquil countryside of East Anglia during the final year of the twentieth century, some of these events are fictional and some are based in reality. The author leaves it up to you to wade into the haunting echoes of the world beyond our knowledge and decide which is which.
First chapter:
Prologue -
Long, black curtains flap and wrap themselves in a dance with the night breeze. A glimpse of moonlight peeks through the grubby windows of the old farmhouse. The light flickers in and out, between the movements of the heavy curtains. The faded velvet material brushes patterns in the dust on the hard wood floor.
The second upstairs bedroom window has been left on a latch. It's wide enough to allow the air to circulate, but too small a gap for larger wildlife to enter. Peeling white paint work on the wooden frames shows the neglect of the past few years.
This room is bare, stripped back to an empty shell. The faded rose motifs on the wallpaper slowly curl away from the four corners of the square space. A single light bulb dangles from the ceiling in the center of the room and cobwebs have claimed the shadows.
A creaky, solid door - long ago decorated a pale pink - scrapes open to reveal a narrow landing. White wooden railings guard the drop to the ground floor. A slim passage of tall, yellowing walls leads to another bedroom door to the left of the stairs.
This door is pale blue and has signs of recent use. The surface is clear of dust and reflects the soft gleam of filtered moonlight from the hall window below.
Thick, dark green carpet covers the stairs and landing. The floor feels luxurious to bare feet in winter and suffocating in the summer. Two wall lights in the shape of brass candles hang on either side of this blue bedroom door. Their glass has been rubbed clean regularly for extra brightness.
A third and final bedroom entrance is opposite the descent of the stairway. It is the same pale blue, with a matching amount of use and care as the one to its right. In the corner of the landing, to the right of the stairs, the bathroom door is open. It swings on its hinges. Moving like a giant pendulum back and forth, caressing the thick carpet. It's smoothing a flat passage in a semicircle. The faint perfume of lavender is pushed out with every to and fro. The window here is closed so there is no motive for the movement.
At the foot of the stairs, the night sky creeps in at the small oval of stained glass at the top of the door. The red coloured glass staining the moonlight a cold crimson. A phone on the wall, under a window, is a survivor of the 1980's. It's a custard shaded device with a long, curly cord.
The slow swish of the bathroom door can be heard down here. It follows through the hallway and into the kitchen and dining area. This stretches the length of the back of the house. Cool ceramic tiles on the floor are of a terracotta shade. They are bathed in the bright moonlight which gleams through the wide, spotless window above the sink. The window is opposite the hallway entrance. There is a plain white door to the right.
The scent of lavender is stronger here. A small garden of potted plants set in gravel can be seen from the window. Three reclining beach loungers surround a jagged area of chipped and cracked patio paving. Cigarette butts and ash are gathered in an old, scratched flower pot. The only sign of recent life.
Moonlight shines from the other window further to the left. Past the curve of the kitchen counters and settling on the well polished surface of an oak dining table. A set of six high backed chairs reminisce of a time when there was a family living here, so long ago. An echo of laughter and raised voices is embedded in the walls of this space.
A waft of lavender, carried on a subtle breeze passes through the dining room and whisks under the archway to arrive in the living room. It's at the front of the house and this room is broken. The ceramic tiles from the dining area stop directly beneath the red brickworked archway. A tall window is muffled behind grey silky material which has been nailed into place so as to completely cover the view outside. Shapes of furniture are hidden under dirty sheets that were once pristine and white upon the beds upstairs. The fireplace opposite the window, to the right of the archway is boarded up. On the sparse concrete floor, remnants of wood flooring spike out here and there.
The bathroom door upstairs slams shut with an almighty crash, rattling the other doors and windows in their frames. The sheets over the furniture flutter up, showing glimpses of flower patterned material and mahogany legs. Another door bursts open. The one in the kitchen.
It's slammed back against the washing machine, shaking in an exaggerated fashion, pinned open by an immense force. More lavender perfume graces into the utility room, flowing over discarded boots and shoes, umbrellas and old newspapers stacked in a corner. As the kitchen door is released with a thud, the back door onto the garden begins to rattle, the key that's still in the lock is gripped and pushed, turned by nothing. The square glass window pane on the back door is steadily steamed over with condensation as the rattling becomes frantic, until the wood is banging in its limited space.
Then. Silence.
The key gently turns and the door swings open.
Outside is calm. Clouds cover the moon for an instant, allowing the darkness to reclaim the fields of long grass and cover the gaps in the trees which encircle the property, creating one long block of black, only distinguishable at its top from the sky by the spiky branches.
Crickets chirp languidly from their hideouts. A barn owl hoots a slow, hopeful call before taking flight. It glides from the back field near the ramshackled stable building, crossing to pass over the garden to the trees on the driveway at the front of the house. The moon escapes from her prison of cloud and glistens her warmth along the silver feathers of the owl.
From the dusty bedroom at the front of the house a faint sobbing can be heard, bleeding through the small gap in the window, coaxed outside by the swaying curtains.
Headlights from an old Land Rover bounce into view down the rough dirt driveway from the main road. The growl of the engine finally catches up with the lights, as the vehicle brakes sharply underneath the front bedroom window. The vehicle door is kicked open by a pair of Doc Martins and Sarah Laker jumps out with a huff.
Slamming the Land Rover's door shut, she checks the camera hanging round her neck for the third time. Pushing back her overgrown auburn fringe, the twenty-eight year old looks up at the grubby bedroom window.
