Rain

Rain

Yes, a new book, the latest occult adventures of John Grey and Elizabeth McBride.  But where does the story begin? 1680, when John Wickins creates two alchemical mirrors? 

One contains a crack, a glimpse into Hell, an opening for demons.

The other allows access into another dimension, one where a nightmare awaits. 

 

In 1937 one of the mirrors comes to life.

In 2035 children disappear—and then one child returns….

For those who don’t know, most of my novels and stories centre around Newport Wales, a dark, seedy and magical city, the unimaginable just around the next corner . . . or the one after that, my own little Arkham. 

 

The cover beautifully evokes a dark and  sinister alternative Newport and one of those that haunt it.

 

And below is a short extract I hope you like.

Jane's daughter has just put on her red coat and gone out for milk. Jane is possessed by a profound sense of unease.

'Later she would call it presentiment, a sense of darkness, unseen but felt in her stomach. She found it suddenly difficult to breathe and leant into the window, focused on the street, on Janelle, a shining red star on a clear but cold winter’s night. 

All good. Normal. 

But it wasn’t all good. Something was ‘off.’ Jane shivered and closed her eyes. She would chase after Janelle now before it was too late. When she opened them again, Janelle had gone. In her place stood a man in a trenchcoat and old-fashioned hat. He carried an umbrella and was looking upwards, staring at her.

#

Dampness clung like snail juice, turning within minutes into a steady drizzle, soaking her through. Janelle spun around, the road at the edge of a darkening vision. She glimpsed houses passed every day but now fading or seeming to change shape.

 Drizzle turned into rain, and the air smelled sour, of mud and decay. This was ridiculous. Janelle tried to retreat—go home—laugh about it all with her mum over milk-less cocoa and a blazing fire. She found it impossible. Rain and a gathering wind forced her down the hill, in the distance, Newport a dingy smear of light that faded and then vanished.

The gloom around her deepened, the air somehow crooked; houses melted in shadow, blended into the rain and were lost. The road narrowed, no longer the road she had been running on. Janelle gasped, tried not to panic or scream for fear of alerting what she sensed but couldn’t yet see. She should have reached the shops by now, but she knew they weren’t there.  She ran along uncharted roads, the familiar swallowed by terror.

The rain gushed and twisted as though seeking to dissolve and consume, possessed of malevolent life. She raced through a tunnel of houses, the road now almost a river. Rain splattered her face like fat in a pan, and she ran, gasping for breath, eyes screwed against the hiss; the greyness a sheath that held her and prevented escape. She ran past trees that hadn’t been there before, leafless branches stretched in an endless, soundless scream.

The rain eased, its mysterious purpose achieved, and Janelle found herself in a world of mist and twisty streets and long ragged pools where once there had been cars.

It was a world of greyness, one that had depth and felt tangible, a cold, greasy smoke that settled and slowly embalmed her. Shapes that might have been houses closed in. The street narrowed into a lane. . . and alleyway . . . a flicker of black. 

 Janelle swivelled but there was no going back. The road had gone, replaced by an impenetrable wall of red brick. She turned to where the road wanted her to go and dug her hand into a side pocket. Her phone felt sticky and damp but mercifully worked. 

Janelle’s thumb scrolled for utilities, and she switched on the torch. A thin, hazy beam cut through the mist and picked out a man in a trenchcoat, dark felt hat and a black umbrella. He was still, appeared to be waiting, waiting for her.'