And that night, as Fiona slept, once again - she was back at the old house on Richmond Street. Above her, dark clouds trembled with the sound of thunder, a cold wind sweeping in from somewhere she didn't know, picking up dead leaves, an owl tooting...
I never intended to write a sequel to The Richmond Haunting. As far as I was concerned, the haunting was a closed case. The family had defeated the old man, had gotten their children back, and were now in a new home. So all — in all, the communique for the haunting was this. It was over.
So, I began work on another project; a story called Poynton's Crow.
During the writing of the story, Chris left me a message. The haunting was starting again. And would I be interested in writing a sequel?
Personally, as a writer, I'm against sequels. The author is just going over old grounds, but the day after the message from Chris, he wanted to meet up with me, which we did. For two and half hours, he told me what the family was going through — some of it — so incredible. The reader would regard the book as a fictional piece, so that's how I wrote it.
Prior to writing this book, I wanted to know how Fiona and her family would feel about me penning their story again. After all, there were a lot of deleted scenes that never made it in the first book.
I wanted to mention these missing parts in the sequel. Would that be okay?
The family was more than happy, agreeing to everything, including personal stuff.
That goes for Chris as well. The reader will see scattered throughout this book; journal extracts, not to mention snippets from a book that Chris tried writing — but gave up.
Writing is hard work. It's not a matter of putting words together. The words have to sound right. And no author is without struggle. Chris knew he wasn't a writer, but dare I say, a powerful shoulder to lean on.
He was, after all, the first person willing to help Fiona and her family when nobody else would.
'He was our miracle.' Says Fiona.
And I agree.
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The very notion of writing a book based on The Richmond Haunting has given me many sleepless nights. I'm excellent at making speeches. Quite the orator, yet putting words to paper is something else entirely.
Because to write a book — publish it on Amazon — makes me nervous. What if nobody likes what I've written? And it's always the readers who have the final say.
Or worse, nobody reads it, and without the reader, the writer gets lonely.
But damn, for the life of me, I can't find the right beginning. A hook is what I need. But with each line I write, nothing sounds right.
Everything comes out wrong. I keep slipping into a passive voice. And since the book I plan on writing is a non-fiction book, the active voice is a must.
Fiona was haunted by a ghost.
No, again, the passive voice.
Maybe a ghost haunted Fiona.
Still; not happy with that line. God, writing is difficult. And my only free time is Sunday.
But each time I go to write — something bugs me.
A bit of fluff on the carpet, a coffee stain on my desk, somebody whistling.
My mind has to be clear before I can start to write.
Delete, start from scratch; everything is sloppy — the writing is terrible, bad, awful.
But I won't erase what I've written. I carry on — with the first chapter because the old man still plagues my nightmares. I need to put that ghost to rest.
The one I feel is watching me, but it's only a wasp; I can hear flying around.
And each time I go to squat the insect, three more appear — the demonic number, the old man.
