Long time no see - or read - or whatever we call this interaction. It has been a busy couple of weeks around here, so much so that a few things have been abandoned, albeit temporarily. Mostly this newsletter.
I was on a roll for a while there with the Sunday shorts, and fear not, you get an extra-long one today!!!
But first, some novel writing things!
There has been a lot of progress on the novel writing front of late. As mentioned on the last newsletter I had recently completed the first draft of a horror novel, “The Bones Beneath the Skin” which I am really proud of. A synopsis here as a reminder:
Crippled by the past, Pat Abbott sought solace in the charismatic embrace of Isaac's flock, a community promising light and belonging. He found more than he bargained for. A miraculous return to mobility is shadowed by terrifying visions, hinting at a dark power festering beneath their pious facade. As Pat rises within the inner circle, the lines between salvation and damnation blur, and his desperate need for connection pulls him deeper into a horrifying reality where faith demands a terrifying price.
It gets weird!
Alongside that I recently finished the 3rd draft of a crime thriller novel I started last year called “Where Light Fades” a short synopsis here:
In the shadows of the city, Detective Wilhemina Frank is drawn into a macabre dance of death, where ritualistic murders become a haunting mirror reflecting her own profound loss. As she confronts a killer whose grotesque artistry masks a deeper corruption, hinting at the city's involvement in a sinister trade of human lives, Det Frank's journey becomes a descent into the city's heart of darkness, forcing her to navigate a landscape of grief, violence, and the unsettling echoes of her past, where the line between hunter and hunted blurs, and she must reckon with the very nature of evil…
I must say coming back to this story after around six months really gave it a new focus, the last 3rd changed dramatically (for the better) and I could really home in on what I wanted the focus of the story to be.
I have sent review copies out to a few people for feedback and if there is anyone reading this that would also like to offer feedback on a 287 page mostly finished novel then I’m happy to send it on through.
The other thing I learned in the redrafting is that I really enjoy writing the main character, Detective Wilhelmina Frank, so much so that I have already started with a few ideas for another story - tentatively titled “Something in the Blood” based around the idea of an isolated cult.
But first I need to get back to “Bones” and give that another draft based on the feedback I have received so far.
After all that though comes the hard part; slinging it out there for submission or trying to get an agent as excited about it as I am, also parallel to that, planning for the option of self-publication - you know, the hard work!
Hence the title of this newsletter, “The Inbetween” which is kind of where my brain feels right now. It’s excited to do something new but also, I need to focus on reworking things and if I know my brain, it finds that stuff hard. But we shall prevail.
Short Fiction Updates
Aside from novel writing, I have written and submitted a few shorts for various anthology prompts over the last few months and hope to hear soon on if any of those have been successful, one particularly fun submission was about Cryptids, I put something together about the Desert Road Goat Man that I think is pretty cool, so fingers crossed for that!!
In the meantime, I owe you a short story, this is a slightly longer and far more sedate that my usual fare, but I am proud of it. I tried to get it placed in a few different places but that didn’t work out, so I thought “Why not just pop it up here for free!”
So, I present you “Pieces of our Hearts” which I consider both a love story and a ghost story.
Pieces of Our Hearts WE HAD PURCHASED the house sight unseen; we were that desperate to find something. We had seen it advertised online, looked at some pictures and videos and just leapt in feet first. The real estate agent was amazing, did all the negotiation with the trust estate of the previous owners, we hardly had to do anything, just move in once settlement was done. ‘It's perfect!’ Thom had said to me, his smile lit up my world as he kissed my stubbled cheek. He talked all night about how we were going to use the different rooms and how we couldn’t wait to have friends over for dinner parties. In my mind the house would be a haven, a place where we could hopefully just be alone. Alone together. This was always my favourite way to be with my husband. Settlement day was a bright, yet crisp, winter’s day. They say not to move into a new house in winter, particularly one that had been empty for over a year; it was over a hundred years old and had no real insulation. The heat would have long escaped the walls and without the warmth of inhabitants, it had sat cold and empty, husk-like. Its two symmetrical windows on the upper floor facing out like unblinking eyes towards the curve of the river that ran opposite the road. I was on the downhill slope to fifty, I could feel it in my knees and back most days, some days even my soul felt empty, a longing that needed fulfilling - which was often considered typical for a man my age - apparently. My husband, who was three years younger than me, seemed to be the picture of health. He ran or cycled most days, went to the gym on his break at work whereas I tended to slob around the house in my pyjamas most days, the joys of being a writer - I guess; no set hours, just when inspiration struck - which it had not much lately. We got by though, largely thanks to one of my other books being turned into a TV series, (which I hated by the way, but neither I nor Thom hated the pay cheque that came along with that!) I had claimed the corner bedroom, upstairs at the back of the house for my new office. I had a view of the garden and could watch the birds dance around the back yard. To the east directly in front of my view sat low hills that reflected the morning sun into my office. There was even a fishpond, but neither Thom nor I had seen a single fish in yet, it just sat, the reeds looking dead, and the water appeared to be turning brackish. ‘We may have to get it filtered or something?’ he said, as if he knew what he was talking about. I knew it would be on me to sort that particular thing out. Such was the way of our marriage - he went to work, and I rattled around our big empty house. There were days however, when it felt like I was not alone in the house. Noises and flashes of things in my periphery always caught me. Some days it just felt like an oppressive weight would sit on my shoulders. Thom attributed that to both my writer's block and paradoxically, my overactive imagination. He then suggested that overactive imagination should get to work on another book. I would often mention these perceived encounters and how they had become more frequent in this house, Thom, in his usual way, would dismiss them, but I could see in his eyes at times that the fact that they had increased in frequency since we moved in suggested there might be some merit to his crazy husband’s worries. Winter had set in, the fireplace downstairs chugged away and slowly the warmth crept back into the bones of the house. Dinner would always be at 7pm (my single point of consistency in a generally inconsistent daily schedule.) I enjoyed cooking, and Thom loved coming home to a cooked meal after a busy day being a “legal eagle” as I called him, much to his disdain. It was at dinner, since we moved into this big house, that we would often talk about adopting a child. I was at a point in my life that I felt I had the time and the will, to raise a child, Thom could still work, I could write throughout the day. I had it all laid out, grand plans to do some child-proof renovations as well. It existed perfectly in my head (unlike my latest book, which was a mess of ideas); I just needed Thom to get on board. Thom would sit down at the candlelit table and down the first glass of red wine as fast as he could, as if bracing himself for the inevitable conversation over the dinner table. ‘I know what you’re going to say Andrew, and yes, I have been thinking..’ I put down my drink and aimlessly stirred my pasta, unsure of what to expect next. Although I could feel warmth brewing in my chest, was it the wine, or was something about to change Thom’s heart? Thom reached across the table and took my hands in his, the way he looked at me was the same way he had looked at me when we had met on Westminster Bridge all those years ago. ‘I have had my assistant start getting the adoption paperwork together.’ I don't know whether it was the candlelight, but I was sure I could see a glint of tears in Thom’s eyes as he spoke. Tears of happiness. Tears of joy. That night we slept with our hands clasped tightly together, fingers entwined. The sense of two spirits working together. I woke up that next morning feeling energised and refreshed. Hope rekindled in my heart. Thom had left for work and as I watched the trail of dust that his car kicked up from the gravel road, a sense of calm I had not felt in years came over me. I sat down at my desk, and I wrote, I wrote more than I had in months, I started a fresh document, not working on a work in progress. This was a brand-new start. A new story, a new chapter. After what felt like mere minutes but was hours, I leaned back in my chair, my hands clasped across my now more prodigious-that-it-should-be belly. A sense of satisfaction, calming and pure washed over me. I closed my eyes and dreamed of him; a child, no older than seven, unknown to me at first but also instantly recognisable that it was my child. We are throwing a ball. He catches it and giggles, proud of himself. I am proud of him too. My heart is full. And I sweep him up in my arms and spin him, dizzying spins that make him laugh harder. I am drunk on his laughter. The sound of his laughter fills my ears and heart. Then I open my eyes, and I am alone in my office, and the dream peels away like wax melting from a candle, and my reality sets in. But that glimmer of hope still swam in my heart - soon that dream would become a reality. For now, I am alone. Or I thought I was. To my left, my office door is open and that doorway that leads to the top of the stairway. It was from there that I heard the laughter; the laughter of a child, no older than seven. He laughs with a hiccupping giggle, the type of laughter that is uncontrollable when someone is chasing you. It was like the dream still had its fingers in my mind, just a glancing touch that split the seams of what was real and what was not. But this felt infinitely real. Tangible and beautiful. I stood up, initially my feet did not want to move but my heart’s desire took control. I followed the sound of laughter as it led me down the stairs. I was now in the living room and afternoon sunlight was casting shadows across the room. Still the hiccupping laughter continued, as if beckoning me ever forward. I pulled my cardigan tighter across my chest as the cold down here was a lot more noticeable than it had been upstairs. Again, the bubbling laughter filled my ears, this time from the kitchen which was through a door next to the couch. Our dog Len lay fast asleep on his back on the couch. Surely if there was someone in the house, he would have noticed it? I thought to myself but still I pursued the sound of a child's laughter through my house. That sound was a sound I had long desired in my life and hearing it filling my house filled my heart with warmth, but the warmth was quickly extinguished. In the kitchen now and the cold was abject. Angular and harsh. I stopped to see the kitchen windows iced up and my breath misted before my face. The sound of laughter had changed; it now sounded nervous as if unsure of itself. I too was unsure; unsure of what I was experiencing before my very eyes was real and not some subject of my now rekindled imagination. The child’s laughter changed again, still beckoning, but urgent and almost pleading. The cold in the kitchen gripped at me, its icy touch spiking my blood against my flesh. The lights in the kitchen were pulsing as I walked past the China cabinet to my left, which rattled in synchronicity with the lights above. Directly to my right was the dining table; the same dining table where last night Thom had agreed that we should adopt and now here I stood in that same kitchen, paralysed by fear and that fear was caused by a small child. That mix of fear and idealism is what drove me on through the kitchen, through that dark terrible place, where the fireplace at the end of the dining table flickered with green flame. Things were not as they seemed; my mind could tell that at least. Directly in front of me the back door hung wide open like the maw of a beast. The sun had gone down behind the hills and the light outside was the colour of bruised fruit. My field of view was now of the fishpond I could see from upstairs in my office. It was then that I saw the boy. I rubbed at my eyes, knowing what was in front of me hopefully was not real and maybe, just maybe I didn't want it to be. The figure of the boy sat on the opposite side of the dark, reedy fishpond in a wooden high-backed chair. He was dressed in a pristine white shirt. I still felt like my eyes and mind were deceiving me, but I was compelled to look on in both wonder and fear. Black braces sat over the boy’s shoulders. I could see his freckled face looked frightened and got a glimpse of a flash of his red hair before the woman that stood behind him covered him a white sheet. The woman looked rail thin, her face sunken and gaunt. Her eyes were like blackened coal, with just a flicker of hateful ember in them. She looked at me with a mirth and hatred that sent ice crystals to shatter my spine. "Leave this place - there is nothing more for you here…!’ Her voice was craven and icy and as she spoke, she raised a gnarled, bony finger to me, "Only I know what's best for my son…’ With that, she grabbed him both hands at the shoulders and pushed him headfirst into the dark water of the fishpond. He struggled under her grip as I struggled with my own movements to get to him; to save him, I was instinctively trying to save my son. The woman looked up at me as she continued to hold the boy, struggling and flailing, under the water, her hair grey and matted hung limply like a shroud around her face. Her teeth were like burned kernels, rattling around in a hanging mouth. As I found myself lying, hand clutched at my chest in a mixture of both confusion and fear, I saw Thom’s car appear in the drive. As if he knew something wasn't right. He ran to me, scooped my head up in hands. He looked frantically around as if trying to see what had assailed me, what had led to me lying on a gravel drive, one hand to my chest, the other outstretched in agony, as if trying to reach through a void, into the ether. I still could see the boy, struggling under the water, his mother’s hand pressed firmly against the back of his struggling head. His muffled cries echoed from under the water. She looked up at me, her cold black stare gripped my heart, and she smiled, a dark eerie smile. Then, it was as if Thom had parted a wall of smoke as he ran to me, they spiralled away; gone. *** In the long days after that event, I felt tired and drawn, and often uninspired. Thom took a few days off from work, but I could tell in his eyes that he was beginning to tire of me: tired of my constant need for attention. I was a grown man, after all. He returned to work, and I returned to sitting in my office. Those days alone in the house became long, wayward and purposeless. In some ways I longed for the energy of that child again in the house; the laughter and the joy but I was also profoundly scared that I would suffer a similar encounter. That afternoon I poured myself three fingers of bourbon. I swallowed the first mouthful, and it burned my throat. I headed back up to my office, hopeful that some form of writing inspiration would strike. The bourbon was warming both my body and mind now. I began to swim away with it, drawn on a tide, a ceaseless tide that drew me from my desk. I did not want this but also did not have the strength to fight it anymore. My footsteps creaked on the drop-down ladder that led into the attic. I placed my now empty bourbon glass on the side table in the hallway. No doubt later Thom would find it, sniff it, and give me an admonishing look. I climbed the ladder, step by step. Drawn on by some intangible force. I was then in the attic, sure I could hear the whispered voices of unseen spiders: “He’s here, let’s go!” before they scuttled away, the sound of their eight legs clattering like ice in glass inside my head. At the other end of the attic was a small window, its frame mould covered, and a hairline crack ran up the side of the glass pane. The only light that came through the window was soft, as if partially obscured by something outside. Directly under the window was a wooden chest. It was beckoning me, beckoning me with fingers in my brain. I opened the heavy brass clasps that adorned the front of the chest, and pushed it open with a grunt. Before me sat what looked like a pile of letters, haphazardly folded and scattered but with what looks like the same pristine handwriting - elegant, spidery handwriting. A name leapt out at me from the top page: Anna Moore. Amongst the letters was a faded photograph; a piece of wet plate photography, showing the woman I had seen, drowning the boy. My breath caught in my throat, the burn of the bourbon ran back up my throat. My hands shook as I began to sift through the letters, each one a fragment of a shattered life. They were dated from the early 1900s, addressed to a woman named Clara. The letters spoke of a love that defied societal norms: a love between Anna, a woman of refined background who had newly arrived in the town and yearned for independence, and a groundskeeper named William. Their forbidden love, which was considered uncouth for the rich and the poor to marry in those days, had blossomed quickly, culminating in the birth of a son, a boy with fiery red hair, just like the child in my vision. As I delved deeper, the letters turned frantic. Anna wrote of whispered accusations, of threats of social ruin. She spoke of a fire, a terrible accident that claimed her husband. A fire, which she knew in her heart was not an accident but a warning, had claimed her husband. At that moment all I could think of was Thom and what he would think of all of this; despair and ruin had happened in this house, the house we sought as our haven. Thom and I had also experienced what it had felt like to be on the receiving end at times of societal scorn. The last letter, penned in a more shaky, spidery version of the handwriting, spoke of a desperate plan. Anna planned to flee the town with her son, but something – or more likely, someone – had stopped her. The warmth in my body escaped, and a cold dread came over me. The truth, like a half-remembered dream, began to take shape. Anna, frantic and at the mercy of some kind of mob, had drowned her son in a fit of despair. The image of the boy, his frightened face contorted under the water, flashed in my mind. Suddenly, a floorboard creaked behind me. My head swirling with chaos, I spun around, my heart hammering against my ribs. There was nothing. Just the dust motes dancing in the fading light, and the oppressive silence and cloying warmth of the attic. Then it happened - a faint scratching sound, like fingernails scraping wood, which came from behind the boarded-up section at the far end of the attic. With a newfound determination, I grabbed a rusty crowbar from the dusty toolbox leaning against the wall. Each blow of the crowbar against the rotting wood echoed through the stillness, a counterpoint to the frantic beating of my heart. Finally, with a heavy crash, the boards gave way. What lay before me, amongst the swirls of dust, was a hidden room. Boarded up and closed off to the world. So as not to be a reminder. A shaft of afternoon sunlight streamed through a dusty window, illuminating the room's contents. A rocking chair sat empty in the corner; a child's wooden blocks lay scattered on the floor. But it was the small, ornately carved crib in the centre of the room that stole my breath. Inside, nestled amongst the moth-eaten blankets, lay a single, faded red block. Tears welled up in my eyes, blurring my vision. Grief mixed and swirled, and a strange sense of paternal connection washed over me. This tiny red token, a symbol of a life cut short, was all that remained of the boy in my vision. I knelt beside the crib, the wooden floorboards groaning under my weight. A cold gust of wind swept through the newly opened space, extinguishing the dust motes that had been dancing in the sunlight. A faint whimper echoed in the room, sending shivers down my spine. I looked around frantically, but the room remained empty. The sound came again, closer this time, accompanied by a feeling of sorrow that pressed down on me like a physical weight. The whimper sound softened into a mournful sigh. I reached out a hand, hesitantly at first, then with growing resolve. The air shimmered in front of me, and for a fleeting moment, I saw the translucent figure of a young boy with fiery red hair. His eyes, filled with a lifetime of sadness, met mine. The boy's form wavered with a breeze, shimmering like oil on water, the sorrow replaced by a flicker of hope. He reached out a hand, his touch in my hand was cool and insubstantial. ‘I'm Andrew,’ I whispered, taking his hand in mine. A warmth spread through me, forming a connection between us. The boy smiled, a faint, ethereal glow emanating from his form. ‘I'm Richard,’ he replied. Tears streamed down my face as I realised what I had to do. I could not bring Richard back to life, but I could help him find peace. With newfound purpose, I descended from the attic, the red block clutched tightly in my hand. Thom was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, his face etched with worry. ‘Andrew!!,’ he said, relief flooding his features. ‘Where have you been? I was getting worried sick.’ I sat down heavily on the hallway floor and explained everything to him, the letters, and my discovery in the attic. As I spoke, a strange calm settled over me. Thom listened intently, his expression a mixture of disbelief and dawning understanding. When I finished, he placed a hand on either side of my face, leaned in and kissed me softly. ‘I love you.’ He said, his voice firm. As we walked back down the stairs to the living room, a soft light filled the room, and a faint giggle—the same one I had heard—echoed in the air. I looked at Thom, and he smiled. ‘I heard it too,’ he said. Then, with a final sigh, the light vanished, and the oppressive feeling that had hung over the house lifted. The following week, we held a small ceremony by the fishpond. I placed the red block on the surface of the water, watching as it drifted away, carrying a piece of Richard with it. A sense of peace settled over me. The house no longer felt haunted but imbued with a melancholic beauty. We never forgot Richard, but his spirit was finally at rest. And while the dream of adopting a child of our own remained, the experience had changed us. We had faced the darkness together, and emerged stronger, our bond deepened by shared sorrow and a newfound understanding of the enduring power of love and loss.
If you got here, thanks for reading this far!!! I wanted to ask if you prefer short or longer stories, let me know your thoughts.
Until next time,
Dan