Who answers their phone these days? Too many spam calls or charity muggers. But that day when my phone, on silent as normal, jittered across the glass coffee table, the caller ID made me frown.
It was my own number.
Before I knew what I was doing, I swiped and pressed the handset to my ear.
‘Who…’ said a robotic voice, with long pauses between each word.
‘Do
You
Want
Dead?’
I gasped and threw down the phone on the couch. My heart clattered as it bounced on the faux suede.
‘Who was that?’ he said, without looking up from his own phone.
‘No one,’ I said, attempting to sound casual. ‘Scam call.’
‘Bastards,’ he mumbled but I was barely listening.
I stared down at the black mirror on the couch. My reflection distorting back at me.
I picked up the handset with one hand. Squeeze my bottom lip with the other. Thumb through to recent calls. Hover over the last number. My number.
Faces strobe through my mind. Him. Her. Them. Past and present. Family. Friend. Foe.
Jan liked Christmas the way other people liked porn. Or Collingwood Football Club. By December 1st her house was wallpapered with tinsel and baubles, her windows frosted with fake snow – despite the baking sun – and Buble was on high rotation. Candy canes dangled from her ears and reindeers danced across her chest. And every year she wished for proper snow, or at least a cool southerly, so she could wear a festive jumper without spontaneously combusting.
But there was one Christmas thing she hated. One particular song. Inside her own Santa’s grotto, she was safe, but whenever she left the house, she was skating on thin ice.
The discount variety shop in Westmarket Plaza was Jan’s usual go-to for decorations. The owner, Tuan knew what Jan liked and she knew never to play that song. This Christmas, though, Jan felt the itch to get crafty. But with all the local craft shops long gone, this meant a trip to the city.
Inside the stuffy carriage, people shoved Jan about like a dodgem car, and the air reeked of cheap perfume, whiffy armpits and rancid breath. When she finally tumbled out of the doors at Central Station, she was panting and damp, her face as red as her Christmas t-shirt.
Out into the streets, she dodged dog turds, phone zombies and spit puddles, and scurried towards the craft shop. She slumped in relief when she reached it and headed underground to the soothing land of fabric and scrap-booking.
But halfway down the escalator, she recognised the first notes.
She yelped and grabbed for the railing. But there was no way she could turn back. She held her breath and prayed it was nearly over.
‘You can do it, Jan,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Big girl pants on.’
She hummed Jingle Bells to drown out the god-awful wailing of that American woman and made a beeline for the sequins. But when she reached the spot where the sequins should be, there was only hot pink on the shelf.
‘Hot pink is not for Christmas.’ She huffed, then turned for the fabric section. This time, singing Silent Night through gritted teeth.
Again, empty shelves.
And that song was still blaring in the background, bashing her nerves like a pile driver.
‘Excuse me.’ Jan flagged down a middle-aged woman in an apron, Santa hat and name tag. ‘Tina, is it? I’m looking for felt.’
She shrugged. ‘Supply chain issues.’
‘But I need to…’
Tina had already slipped away down the ribbon aisle. Jan grumbled, then noticed that the song had started all over again. From the beginning.
‘No!’ Jan clamped her hands over her ears and lumbered for the wool aisle. Wool wouldn’t let her down.
But there wasn’t a single skein of red wool either.
‘All I want,’ she mumbled, then screeched. The song was like a parasitic worm. ‘All I want. No!’
Her brain sizzled in her head and the surrounding shelves shimmered. Tina reappeared, prodding at an iPad.
‘All I want…’ Jan spluttered, but Tina ignored her.
Jan swirled around and grabbed a pair of knitting needles. She lunged like a ninja across the aisle and plunged the size 8 steel needles into Tina’s meaty thigh. The woman yowled. Blood spurted from the wound and splattered across the perfect smiling faces on the pattern books.
‘You bitch.’ Tina spat as Jan yanked the needles out again, sending another spray of bright red blood across the linoleum.
‘Someone call the police!’ Tina sobbed. She limped away for the safety of the checkout.
‘All I want…Argh!’
With a howl, Jan followed her and snatched up a pair of scissors. She tore off the plastic and stabbed a six-foot blow-up Santa, who deflated with a long whining fart.
‘All I want…’ Jan panted, rushing towards the checkout, the surgically sharp blades in her hand. ‘Is for you to turn off that fucking song!’
The Suspense is Killing Me podcast talking about Radcliffe and my writing life with Lucas Marino. There’s even a video version if you’d like to see me too.
My new gothic novella is out from Deadset Press on 26 August 2023.
A three-storey ramshackle house in North Melbourne is full of secrets. Tamsin is lead to the building by a voice inside her head – a voice that tells her ‘Death is Coming’. With no respite from the eternal summer heat, can Tamsin find out who death is coming for and solve the riddle of Radcliffe?
Pre-order the ebook version here. Paperback version coming soon.
I’m super stoked to share the cover for my new novella Radcliffe coming out from Deadset Press later this year.
Gothic fiction can happen anywhere, even in Melbourne during a fierce February heatwave.
Tamsin is led by a voice through sweltering streets to a shabby apartment building with a ‘For Rent’ sign in the window. She finds herself knocking on the door and taking the lease on the dismal little ground-floor flat. She moves in and begins her search for the person who death is coming for, the person she’s been sent to save.
But which of the tenants is in danger? Is it Bunty, the octogenarian ex-ballerina or her grand-daughter student Cecily? Or is Defne, the erratic photographer or Riko, the spooky musician? Or Gail, the reclusive writer?
Who is death coming for?
And can Tamsin stop it?
For more details about Radcliffe, go to Deadset Press.
Blackened tree stumps lined the country road like charred sentries.
‘Hardys Gap – the rural phoenix from the ashes.’ Gemma crafted the headline aloud and tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Ten years later – how a small town revived from tragedy. How hope healed scars left by the Gap Fires. Blurgh. Too cheesy.’
New growth sprouted around the charcoaled trunks and fresh grass, and shrubs and teenaged trees carpeted the surrounding hills. Slim grey-green eucalypts slow-danced in the breeze and a magpie landed on a sign with a caw – ‘Welcome to Hardys Gap. Never Forget the 103.’
Then the statues began.
People, young and old, fat and thin, cast in bronze. Equidistant apart, they stood and stared, trance-like at the side of the road. Each face was intricately crafted, death masks cast in metal, and the silent crowd of bronzed zombies watched Gemma drive into town. She shuddered and put her foot down, holding her breath until the parade of dead was over.
The monuments and broken cremated trees faded away, replaced by leafy bushland. Then a service station, a church, a park, a small supermarket and fish ’n’ chip shop all clad with the same pale grey corrugated iron. A model Lego town all built from the same bricks.
On the road since dawn to beat the traffic, Gemma’s caffeine tank was running low. Five hours later, and only getting directed down random dirt roads twice by the GPS, she’d arrived at her destination.
Up ahead a red roadside ‘coffee’ flag fluttered in the wind. Her inner city snob cringed but her craving won out and she pulled up outside the grey building. She checked her phone with its cracked screen. One bar. Surely after the Gap Fires, the government or Telstra would have fixed the reception. Didn’t they use satellites these days anyway?
Not that it mattered, only scammers called her these days. Friends came and went, most people didn’t understand ambition, but when was the last time she’d heard from Mum? Was it the Mothers Day lunch when her Mum stormed out?
The bell tinkled as she pushed open the coffee shop door. Aside from a grey-haired couple sipping coffee in sullen silence, the place was empty. Behind a glass cabinet lined with sticky pastries and pre-made salad rolls, she spied a chrome coffee machine. Bingo. And over on the wall, a notice board. Always a good starting point to get the low-down on any community.
‘A large latte,’ Gemma said to the woman with sunken suspicious eyes behind the counter. Macchiato was her preferred poison but she didn’t want to out herself as a hipster wanker. She added a broad smile. ‘Please.’
‘Any sugars?’ the woman grunted and Gemma shook her head. ‘You from Melbourne?’
‘Just drove in,’ Gemma said as brightly as someone who got up at 5 am could. ‘Actually I’m here from The Argus.’
The woman’s lip curled. ‘Journalist?’
Gemma ploughed on. They were always dubious at first. ‘That’s right. Doing a story on the regeneration of the town.’
‘But the anniversary was last year.’ The woman snorted.
‘You know. Lockdowns.’
‘We don’t need your pity. We’re doing alright on our own.’
‘So it seems. The town looks great…’
‘Then maybe you should stick your nose…’
‘Diane!’ A plump woman in late middle age interrupted. She smiled generously at Gemma with burgundy-lined lips.
With a grunt, Diane turned away and started making coffee violently.
‘Sorry about her,’ the woman whispered over the bangs and crashes. She had a bright scarf patterned with indigenous dot paintings draped across her shoulders. ‘Diane’s very protective of the town.’
‘No harm done.’ Gemma shrugged. ‘I’m Gemma Giovanni from The Argus by the way.’
This wasn’t strictly true, Gemma hoped to sell her Hardys Gap story to the paper. Rohan from Features seemed interested when she pitched it to him at a book launch last week, but he had been hoeing into the free Shiraz at the time. Who wouldn’t love this story? A community burned to the ground in 2011, now flourishing. All the soft-hearts would weep over their morning toast and repost on Instagram. Motivational porn, it couldn’t lose.
‘Welcome to Hardys Gap, Gemma. I’m Leigh. I run the Artists Collective over the road.’
‘You’re responsible for the statues? Amazing.’
‘Not me personally but I had a hand —’
‘That’ll be six dollars.’ Diane plonked a tall takeaway coffee cup down with a complimentary scowl.
Gemma paid, then switched back to Leigh. ‘Can I buy you a coffee? I’d love to hear all about the statues.’
‘Sorry. I have to run.’ Her eyes were as warm as the coffee in Gemma’s hand. ‘I’m teaching watercolours to a group of pensioners in a few minutes. But I’ll be free by three?’
‘Perfect.’
Leigh collected her own coffee from the sour-faced Diane and swanned out the door with a wave.
With a cocky grin at Diane, Gemma turned for the community notice board. She took her first sip of her latte on the way, and stopped short, blinking. For a grumpy bitch, Diane made a damn fine coffee.
The board was thick with flyers, piled up like a collage. The usual culprits – second hand cars, goat yoga classes, ways to make phenomenal money from home, trauma counselling, gardening services, baby sitters, blah blah blah. Despite its tragic past, Hardys Gap seemed just like any other Australian town. One flyer in particular caught her eye. Hardys Gap Protection Society Gala Dinner – a meeting of the ways, old and new, to protect our town from repeating the past. The date for the Dinner was last week but the flyer was decorated with the same pattern as on Leigh’s scarf. Indigenous dot paintings of a cone-shaped native flower, the banksia. If Gemma’s life had been a Loony Tunes cartoon, dollar signs would have sprung into her eyes. She smirked and took another sip. Inner-city green leftie Argus readers loved an indigenous angle on anything.
The dour couple were gone, and now Gemma was the only customer. After wiping down their table, Diane bustled towards her, dirty cups and saucers rattling in her hand. ‘If I were you, journo,’ she sneered. ‘I’d get back in my car and drive home to Melbourne.’
Gemma blinked. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Just giving you a little friendly advice,’ Diane said over her shoulder as she trudged away.
‘Wait.’
She disappeared through the swinging ‘Staff Only’ door without a word.
‘Weirdo,’ Gemma mumbled and returned to the notice board. This time she delved deeper, flicking through the under-layers of yellowed paper. It was more of the same small town classifieds until she stopped at a blurry photograph of a man’s face. Have you seen Greg Tremble? Last seen on 14 May 2020.
The name was familiar, but where from? Gemma quickly checked for Diane but the coffee shop was empty. She ripped the flyer off the wall and shoved it in her bag.
Outside, Gemma strolled back to her hatchback. Weak rays of sunlight trickled over the hill and the air was as pure as neat vodka. Hardys Gap, true to its name, sat in a valley. One road in, one road out. A death trap in hindsight. The images from ten years ago, the same hills bald and blackened, swept over her. The footage of the koala with singed fur and scalded feet hobbling over the ashes, which went viral. What ever happened to that koala? Could it be still alive? Finding that very same koala, happy and healthy, would be the icing on the cake for her article. She lurched for her phone, then sighed. Damn this town and its crappy internet.
She needed someone official to interview, and on the short drive over to the council chambers, of course built with the same grey iron cladding, she noticed banksia bumper stickers on three cars.
Inside the bland council chamber foyer, a sign on the unattended reception desk stated office hours were 2pm – 5pm. Gemma strode right past the sign and the desk, deeper inside the building.
She could have done her research and set up appointments before she left Melbourne, but Gemma preferred spontaneity. It wasn’t that she was disorganised, taking people unawares always got better results.
Following the beige hallway, the first room was an open plan office space. A South Asian woman with a headset sat closest to the door in front of a monitor. ‘Yes Mr Langhari, I’ll pass your feedback on to Rubbish Collection,’ she said patiently.
Gemma ducked away, and further down the carpeted corridor, she spotted a meeting room with frosted glass walls. Blurry silhouettes and murmurs wafted out through the glass. She knocked and marched in.
‘Morning,’ she said breezily at the table full of people in suits. ‘I’m looking for …’
‘Excuse me,’ a white bearded man at the head of the table snapped. ‘We’re in the middle of a meeting here.’
The room went awkwardly quiet. All the others blinked or sneered at her. Except for one young guy in a grey suit who looked her up and down with curiosity. Gemma was dark-haired and pretty, in a ‘girl-next-door’ way which women didn’t find threatening but men seem to like. She was well aware of its benefits.
‘I’ll only be a second.’ Gemma waved dismissively at the man. ‘Who’s in charge of fire services?’
‘Young lady. You can’t just barge in here,’ White-beard said, his face flushed. ‘You can call our call centre…’
‘I’ve only got one question, and I’m here now. Who’s in charge of fire?’
‘That’d be me,’ a gruff voice said. ‘Trevor Howie.’
In a brown Council uniform, Trevor had a thick head of hair and meaty freckled forearms, and the skin on his left arm was rippled with scaly red scar tissue. Burns.
‘Great. Good to meet you, Trev. Got a minute? I’ve got a few questions?’
‘Who are you?’ White-beard spat.
Gemma ignored the old bloke and focused on Trevor, who was as dazed as a kangaroo in a spotlight.
‘We should be done in fifteen,’ Trevor said hesitantly.
‘Nice. Meet you in Reception.’
‘If you’re quite done!’ White-beard said.
‘Yep. All good.’ Gemma turned to leave. ‘Oh, wait. One last thing. Does anyone know anything about Greg Tremble?’
‘Enough, young lady. Do I have to call the police?’
She shrugged. ‘See you out the front, Trev.’
He gave her a reluctant nod and she closed the door behind her, then walked back down the hall with a chuckle.
Twenty minutes later, the same gruff voice interrupted Gemma reading the local newspaper. She’d been engrossed in the Letters to the Editors complaining about the town’s internet problems.
‘What do you want?’ he said.
‘Ah, Trev. What’s this banksia symbol supposed to mean?’ Gemma pointed to a page. ‘I keep seeing it everywhere.’
‘Rebirth or something. You know. Resilient to fire and all that.’
‘Makes sense. You hungry? Can I buy you lunch, Trev?’
‘You some kind of reporter?’
‘I knew you were an intelligent man. I could tell straight away.’
‘You can buy me a sandwich but I’ve got nothing for you.’
‘Leigh sent me,’ Gemma said.
He lifted his chin. ‘And why would she do that?’
‘I’m working with her on a story. She told me you’re the guy in charge of fire management. You’re crucial to the safety of the town.’
In Gemma’s experience, men usually came in two types. Those who liked their egos flattered and those who liked their egos flattered.
Trevor grumbled under his breath but he didn’t leave.
‘The Waratah does an alright steak sandwich,’ he said.
‘I’m starving. Lead the way.’
He opened the door for her and then turned right.
‘How long have you been in Hardys Gap?’ she said as they set off on foot past more grey buildings. A hundred metres away, a revolving beer sign beckoned to them.
‘Third generation.’
‘Were you part of fire management back…then?’
He nodded and looked down at his work boots, and Gemma felt a door slam. Too soon. She should have waited until he’d had a few sips of beer before asking about the Fires.
Luckily, beer was close by and as they neared the doors of the Waratah Hotel, a dark haired man passed them. Handsome with insightful dark eyes, he wore a parakeet-green polo shirt.
‘Hey Trevor,’ the man said without breaking stride.
As he walked past, Gemma noticed the banksia logo again, this time on the breast of his shirt. ‘Who’s that guy?’
‘He’s one of the indigenous consultants,’ Trevor said. ‘Name’s Craig.’
Gemma whizzed around. ‘Craig. Stop!’
He turned with an arched eyebrow and Gemma gestured to the Waratah. ‘Can I buy you lunch?’
‘She’s a journalist,’ Trevor warned.
Craig glanced her up and down. She held his gaze and jutted out a hip with a frozen smile. She hoped no one was going to order eye fillet.
‘Just a few questions.’ She placed her hand over her heart.
He chewed his lip. ‘Sounds better than a cheese roll from Diane.’
Inside the pub, they took a high table near the bar and ordered three steak sandwiches and three beers. As Gemma tapped her card to pay, she reassured herself that the cost was worth it, and she’d have ramen for dinner. A group of retiree motorcyclists occupied a long table at the back, all dressed in leathers like accountants in Mad Max cosplay.
‘Before I start, I just want to let you know I’m not going to ask about the Fires,’ Gemma lied, deliberately keeping her eyes away from Trevor’s scarred arm. ‘I’m here to write a nice puff piece about the rosy future of the town. Warm the hearts and fill the tills with day-trippers up from Melbourne.’
Trevor’s jaw tightened. ‘Why do you want to talk to me then?’
‘I heard you’re all working together. This time round, you’re learning land management from the traditional owners,’ Gemma said with a nod towards Craig. ‘New beginnings with old ways and all that.’
‘They’re finally listening,’ Craig said. Meanwhile Trevor discreetly rolled his eyes. Craig explained about his PhD in environmental management, and the system he designed which combined the best of both approaches. ‘One way that actually works together with one that ticks all the bureaucratic boxes.’
Despite her ingrown cynicism, Gemma found herself nodding. ‘Like back-burning?’
The coal-eyed Craig shook his head. ‘Cool burning. We light smaller fires in the cooler weather and at night. But first, we walk country and read the landscape. Using the knowledge we’ve built over tens of thousands of years, we assess whether the time is right.’
Trevor frowned and fidgeted with his cutlery. ‘We’ll see,’ he eventually said.
In a well-worn trick, Gemma pulled out her phone and jumped up. ‘Sorry, guys. I have to take this.’ She mumbled into the handset and stepped a few metres away, keeping one ear on Craig and Trevor.
Just as she’d hoped, Trevor started on Craig. ‘Why did you have to tell her?’
As a kid, eavesdropping got Gemma into big trouble both at home and at school, but as a journalist, it was a super skill.
‘I thought you’d …’
Trevor shook his head and tutted.
‘Whatever, mate,’ Craig said. ‘Anyway, I’ve told you a million times I want nothing to do with this.’
‘You want it on your conscience?’ Trevor grumbled.
The two went quiet, Trevor stared at the tabletop and Craig took a long sip of his beer.
Gemma pretended to end her call. ‘Sorry,’ she said and innocently slipped back onto her stool. ‘Weird how you can get reception in here? That was my office on the phone, they’ve been trying to get me all day. Did I miss anything?’
‘Just footy talk,’ Trevor said flatly.
Before she could ask more, their lunch arrived, a Turkish roll with a thin cut of steak, lettuce, tomato and mayonnaise, and golden chips on the side. They tucked in right away.
‘You were right about the food,’ Gemma said, wiping the juices from her mouth. ’My office actually called to ask about Greg Tremble. Do you know if there’s been any developments?’
While waiting in Reception for Trevor, Gemma had managed to download one news story. Turned out Tremble was a journalist from The Argus too. Although unlike her, he was actually employed by the paper.
‘That missing guy? I’ve seen the posters,’ Craig offered.
‘We get stickybeaks up here all the time,’ Trevor said, then, with his plate clean and glass empty, he stood up. ‘Thanks for the feed. I’ll be off.’
‘Already?’ Gemma said. ‘Come on. Another beer?’
‘I shouldn’t have even had one,’ he said.
‘Better get back myself,’ Craig said.
‘Oh no, I wanted to ask you about the banksia symbol? Like on your shirt? I keep seeing it everywhere.’
Craig shrugged. ‘Just the uniform. Not really my expertise. I’m Arrernte.’
Gemma gave a pained smile and Craig sighed. ‘From Alice Springs. I’m a blow-in. Just like you.’
She felt her cheeks burn and cleared her throat. ’I’ll pop by your office tomorrow, Craig, and get the details for the cool burning.’
‘Nothing to do with me. I’m just the adviser,’ Craig said. ‘Trevor’s your man.’
‘Tomorrow then Trev?’ she said, holding out her hand. He shook her hand sharply, almost taking off her arm, and he didn’t answer her question. The men left the pub, a terse silence hanging over them. What was Trevor’s problem? Jealousy? Or good old-fashioned racism?
Gemma pulled out her phone. Unlike her pretend call, her comment about better reception in the pub was actually true.
‘Rohan. How are you? Gemma Giovanni.’
‘Oh, hi Gemma,’ he said curtly.
‘I’m in Hardys Gap doing the story like we discussed.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Remember we talked about it? At Richo’s book launch?’
‘Um…sure.’
‘Anyway I’ll file soon. A quick question for you – what do you know about Greg Tremble?’
‘Have they found his body?’
‘No.’
‘Good old Greg. Fuckwit.’
‘You know him?’
‘Went to uni together. He was always an arrogant dick. Probably went off hiking alone and had a heart attack.’
Gemma squeezed her lips together. A heart attack was far too boring. Surely there was more to his disappearance. Someone must know something.
The friendly woman at the Visitor’s Centre gave Gemma directions to the caravan park, the only accommodation in town within Gemma’s price range. With the town map in her hand, she headed back to her car and found a flyer lodged under her windscreen wiper. It wasn’t an ad, it was a plain sheet of paper with GET OUT NOW! written on it.
She glanced up and down the main street. A young woman hurried past with a pug dog in a pushchair, a couple of elderly ladies were playing poker on a bench and a skinny teen on a BMX leaned against a streetlight, a bunch of carnations under his arm. There was no sign of the grumpy Diane.
Throwing the note in the bin, she licked her lips and jumped back into her hatchback. She must be onto something.
The route to the caravan park went past the Dead 103. This time Gemma steeled herself and stopped for a closer look.
When she stepped out of the car, the birds screeched and the wind hissed through the trees like angry whispers. She pulled up her collar with a shudder. The nearest sculpture was a woman, a similar height to Gemma but more full figured. Her face was perfect, a Mona Lisa smile on her lips, and at her feet, a plaque and a bouquet of dried native flowers. Ingrid Fairmont aged 46, mother of two, her car trapped by fire on McPhersons Road. Gemma grimaced, reminded of the preserved bodies of Pompeii. If ghosts lived anywhere, this would be the place.
A voice murmured behind her and she flinched. Further down the road, a man in a grey suit was setting a can of beer under a statue. He was chattering away to the bronzed figure, a fleshy man in late middle-age.
He looked up from his one-sided conversation as she crunched over the gravel towards him.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ she said.
‘Just having a chinwag with my Dad.’ It was the man with the bemused smile from the council meeting.
Along the avenue, bottles of whisky and wine, tins of biscuits, cigarettes and, of course, flowers, were scattered under the feet of the effigies.
‘You were the one who crashed the Management meeting today,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘Gordon was ropable. I’m Zev.’
‘Gemma. My condolences. Do you visit him often?’
‘Every few days. Keep him up on all the news.’
‘Must be a comfort.’ Gemma squinted, reading the plaque at his feet. Matthias Kocinski, 58, died defending his home. ‘Oh god, how awful.’
He smiled sadly, his eyes were a cool grey. ‘You’re here writing a story about us, I guess?’
‘Trying to. Some people aren’t as friendly as you.’
‘The media were everywhere back then. In our faces 24/7. Everyone wants to be left alone now.’
She nodded. ‘You’ve all pulled together.’
‘We’re a good group…on the whole.’
‘Trev invited me to the cool burn tomorrow,’ she said. ‘That should be really interesting.’
‘Didn’t they tell you?’ Zev frowned. ‘There’s been a change of plan.’
’Damnit.’ Gemma’s shoulders dropped. ‘I was looking forward to it.’
‘Nah, don’t worry. They moved it to tonight.’
‘Perfect.’ She brightened. She could be out of this town tomorrow. ‘Up on the hill right?’
‘Shaffer Road, yeah.’
Gemma smoothed back her hair. ‘Are you going to be there?’
‘Course,’ he said.
‘Great, I’ll look for you,’ she said, gently laying her hand on his forearm. ‘You can fill me in on everyone.’
He grinned. ‘Or we can meet before? Go together?’
Gemma licked her lips. Another fish on the hook. And if she ignored his cheap suit, Zev wasn’t bad looking at all.
‘Even better,’ she said. ‘If your Dad doesn’t mind?’
‘He’ll be alright.’
‘Maybe tomorrow, you could show me where your family home was.’
The Hardys Gap Holiday Park was nothing special but her trailer was cheap and surgically clean. With an hour to waste until her appointment with Leigh, Gemma slipped off her worn sneakers and lay down on the brocade bedspread.
Suddenly she was running, a tsunami of flames fifty feet high surged behind her, ashes like black snow fluttered from skies as dark as night. The wind, a wall of deafening power, swallowed her screams as all around trees exploded like bombs. Orange sparks rained down, pin-pricks of hot coals sizzled on her skin, her hair a halo of flame. She sprinted through smoke thick as cement, choking on tears and snot, while behind her, the inferno grinned. The face of fire cackled, the hungry maw open, the eyes of red glee, closer, closer, closer.
Gemma jolted awake in the unfamiliar bed. Disoriented and out of breath, she shook off her nightmare and got up for a glass of water. She paused in the doorway and sniffed the air. Bile rushed up the back of her throat. She swore she could smell smoke.
‘The statues are amazing. So life-like,’ Gemma said as Leigh handed her a mug of pungent herbal tea. After a tour of the studios and the birthplace of the statues, they sat down at a dented table covered with globs of dried paint. Gemma set her phone to record.
‘The artists were incredible,’ Leigh said. ‘Mercy changed death into sleep.’
‘William Blake?’ Gemma smirked.
Leigh blinked. ’Well done. The pieces turned out exactly as we’d hoped. Renewal through fire like the Dreaming story.’
Gemma gestured to Leigh’s scarf. ‘The banksia symbol?’
Leigh nodded. ‘Seeds and new life bursting free after fire. We white folk have had to overcome our prejudices and acknowledge where we went wrong. We have to listen to the people who know this land best.’
‘I met Craig. Interesting guy.’
‘Such a clever man.’
‘The town is so resilient. I can’t imagine the grief after losing so many people. It must have been overwhelming.’
‘Believe me, it was hard. At one stage, we had one counsellor for every three townspeople. But doing something…acting…looking to the future is the true path to healing.’
Gemma’s pulse quickened. She leaned forward and poured sympathy into her voice. ‘Did you lose someone?’
‘My daughter,’ Leigh said and pursed her lips. ‘Silly girl. Always the first to volunteer. She was right there at the frontline. One of the first to die.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘She went down fighting.’ Leigh smiled through glistening eyes. ‘She’s my inspiration. And so for her, and all the others, we must go on.’
Gemma gave an understanding nod. ‘Do you have a photo?’
It was already twilight when Gemma left the caravan park to meet Zev, and once again she headed past the avenue of statues. Under her headlights, the shadowy faces leered and glowered at her as she passed. She cringed and put her foot down.
Following Zev’s directions, Gemma turned and crawled up a narrow road into the hills. Thick bush loomed on both sides of the unsealed road as her hatchback jolted over rocks and potholes, tossing her in her seat. She gritted her teeth, branches scratching and squealing against the paintwork, reminding herself that the story would be worth the damage. And just when she wondered whether she’d taken the wrong turn, she stumbled on the deserted car park. Zev was already there, tall and rangy, leaning against a white car. His suit swapped for jeans and a black hoodie.
‘You get lost?’ His grey eyes sparkled as she sauntered over to him.
’No,’ she snapped. ‘Your directions were crap.’
‘Sure, city girl,’ he said.
‘Are we early? Where’s everyone else?’
‘Nah, this is the back way. Better parking.’
‘OK,’ she said with a hint of cynicism and her breath was white. She rubbed her upper arms. ‘I didn’t think it would be this cold.’
‘Once the sun goes down, it gets pretty chilly up here. But I’ve got something to warm us up.’ He pulled a silver hip flask from his pocket and handed it over.
The brandy trickled a warm path down her throat. She licked the sticky sweetness from her lips. ‘Alright, then. Where’s this fire?’ she said.
‘Come on.’
The carpark stood at the entry to a walking track, Zev led them over a stile and along a dirt path into the dark forest.
‘Don’t we need a torch?’ she said, holding up her phone.
He scoffed over his shoulder and didn’t break his stride. She shrugged and slid her phone back into her pocket.
He surged ahead on long legs. What was his hurry? Was he hoping for a quick romp in the bushes before the ceremony? A smirk broke out on her lips. Who would have thought? Not only would this little town give her a great story to sell, it might break her six month drought as well. Talk about win-win.
As Zev charged on through the dark, all around her, the bush pulsed with life. She flinched as shrubs rustled and creatures grunted in the undergrowth. A bush rat scuttled in front of her toes and she yelped, but quickly clammed a hand over her mouth. There wasn’t much chance of Zev hearing her squeal, he was power-walking ahead, up a vertical track. Gemma broke into a trot to catch up.
‘I thought there’d be smoke? I can’t smell anything.’ She panted behind him.
‘It’s further along here,’ Zev called without slowing his pace. ‘Then down in the next valley.’
Her forehead was moist and her shoes felt heavier with every step. As Gemma stopped to wipe the sweat from her face, he disappeared over the crest of the hill.
‘Hey!’ she yelled.
But he didn’t reply.
‘Cheeky bastard,’ she muttered and when she finally reached the top and gazed down the other side, he was nowhere to be seen.
‘Zev?’
Light-headed, she squinted into the darkness. The rising moon was a silver dinner plate, glowing over the hills.
‘Real funny, mate. Where are you?’ she called.
Only the animals of the night replied.
She folded her arms. ‘You’ve blown your chance now, dickhead.’
Further down the hill, through the trees and bushes, lights flickered. The lights swayed and shimmied before her eyes, triplicating and then scattering. She blinked the blur away and shook her head like a wet dog.
‘Have they started the party without me?’ She grumbled and set off towards the only signs of human life.
The grip on her worn-out sneakers gave way, sending her sliding down the hill, tumbling and landing on her bum.
‘Bastard!’ She scrambled back up to her feet and dusted herself off. Then with a clenched jaw, she trudged on towards the light.
Halfway down the hill, three flaming torches sat in a clearing. Through a grove of slim eucalypts, she spied a group of people. Familiar faces stood waiting; Trevor. Leigh. White-beard. The friendly woman from the Visitor’s Centre. The grumpy couple from the cafe. And a few unfamiliar others.
Her stomach churning, Gemma reached for her phone. Her back pocket was empty. She squeezed her eyes shut and then glanced back at the hill, the ground two inches deep with leaves.
She rolled back her shoulders, smoothed her hair and strode into the circle of light.
‘Hello Gemma,’ Leigh said with a serpentine smile.
‘Evening,’ she said. Her tongue was thick in her mouth. She sounded drunk. ‘Where’s Zev?’
‘His part is done,’ Leigh said.
‘What do you …hey.’
Trevor and a man with a shaggy brown mullet lunged forward and grabbed her wrists. She wriggle out of their grip but her arms were as useless as pillows.
‘I’m so glad you didn’t listen to Diane,’ Leigh said, looming over her as the men pinned back her arms.
Gemma narrowed her eyes to slits. ‘Get this fuckwit off me!’
‘Unfortunately no. You’re a crucial part of the evening and we can’t have you backing out.’
‘Me?’ she slurred. Her pulse hammered in her ears. She needed to think but her brain was as mushy as mud.
She searched the crowd, looking for anyone friendly. But they all glowered back at her, just like the statues. Again, she tugged her arm but the mullet man’s grip was like a mantrap.
‘It’s time,’ Leigh said. ‘Bring her, Darren.’
‘No,’ Gemma whined. ‘Let me go.’
Darren dragged her down into a gully, her heels sliding through the dirt and fallen leaves. The others trailed closely behind, their soft footsteps crunching over the bush floor, without saying a word.
Darren yanked her towards a small fire, a thirty-foot strip of flame, barely an inch high. Unlike the inferno in her dream, this fire ambled through the undergrowth, nibbling delicately as it moved.
She frowned and squinted, distrusting her eyes. ‘Is that it?’
‘The fire gods need more than our cool burns,’ Leigh said, reappearing by her side.
Gemma gulped. The face in the flames. The greedy fiery maw.
The rest of the group encircled her. She glanced at their sombre faces. They were all white. Not a single indigenous person among them.
‘You’re all mental,’ Gemma drooled.
‘We need to feed it,’ Trevor said.
‘We have to protect ourselves,’ Leigh said.
‘Never again,’ the others replied in unison. ‘Never again.’ They repeated the phrase, over and over, until their singsong chant contorted into a blur of sound.
‘But the burn…’ Gemma’s mouth was numb.
‘It’s not enough.’ Leigh’s eyes shone.
‘The land has a taste for blood now,’ Trevor said stonily, his scarred forearm glistening in the fire light.
‘We have to keep it fed,’ Leigh added. ‘This is why we were saved. We’ve learned from our mistakes and created something new. And no one’ll miss another nosy journalist. Darren?’
Darren thrust her into the path of the slow creeping fire. He wrapped one arm round her waist, then grabbed her by the hair and tore back her head, exposing her throat. Trevor swept a foot-long hunting knife through the plume of smoke and turned to her. Gemma groaned, her tongue now a lump of useless flesh, her eyes wide and pleading.
‘No one will notice another statue.’ Leigh smirked. ‘They haven’t so far.’
The cold blade slashed across Gemma’s throat. The sharp steel tearing through tissue, cord and cartilage. Her blood hit the fire with a sputter. The others all roared with delight.
Leigh threw her arms into the air. ‘And I will show wonders in the heaven and in the earth, blood and fire, and pillars of smoke.’
As Gemma gurgled and the blood poured from her neck, she wondered, would anyone leave flowers for her?
Here’s an extract from my new Australian vampire novella, Bloodwood. If you like what you read – Bloodwood is out on 5 October and available for pre-order now.
The
First Funeral
Friday
Standing at the mouth of the shallow grave, Shelley
pulled herself up to her full five foot two. She cleared the cobwebs from her
throat, tucked a strand of her prematurely grey hair behind her ear and raised
her arms in the air.
‘Friends and family of Jude, please gather round.’
The throng of people shuffled closer in the crisp
morning air. A few latecomers trudged over the ridge past the nearby young
eucalyptus and through the long grass. Jude Hillyer certainly knew how to
attract a crowd, in life and in death. Ordinarily, there were more trees than
mourners at one of Shelley’s funerals. That was, until today.
Shelley pressed her eyes shut, breathing in the scent of
the damp gumleaves and freshly churned dirt. Today had to be perfect. This
funeral could change everything for her.
The brightly coloured mourners – dressed in polar
fleeces and knitted beanies – gathered closer to the grave and a few faces
grimaced in horror when they caught a glimpse of Jude.
These days, death was tidily tucked away, inside a box
or covered over with chemicals and thick make-up. But not at one of Shelley’s
Green Farewells services. The dearly departed Jude lay beside the grave on a
woven wicker tray, her body wrapped cocoon-like in a natural linen cotton
shroud.
‘Thank you, everyone,’ Shelley said. ‘And welcome to
the celebration of the wonderful and eventful life of our friend, sister and
aunt, Jude Hillyer.’ Shelley was trying to strike the perfect balance of
authority and compassion in her voice. According to Shelley’s mother, the role
of a funeral director was all about respect and tradition. Although her
mother’s idea of respect ignored the needs of the planet.
‘Jude was a woman who lived life without fear,’
Shelley said, ‘who fought for her beliefs and devoted her every waking moment
to the land on which we stand, and to the air, the water, the sky. As a leader,
she fought for us, our children and our children’s children.’
Shelley glanced around to gauge the crowd. The
mourners, mostly on the other side of sixty, stood with their hands clasped,
heads bowed and brows knitted. So far so good. But no matter how she felt,
Shelley could never allow a real smile to cross her face. No-one wanted a
smiling undertaker. She’d learned this on her very first day helping out in the
family funeral parlour, reinforced by a sharp clip around the ear from her
mother.
With an appropriately solemn nod, Shelley continued.
‘We are here to honour Jude’s life and her achievements. We have her to thank
for saving the Barabung River against the government and big business, and her
tireless anti-nuclear weapons campaigning. Single-handedly, she preserved the
wilderness for generations to enjoy. She then found a new career later in life
producing wonderfully scented candles. Despite her bravery and strength, our
friend finally lost her battle with cancer, and today we are here to celebrate
her return to the land. We lay her to rest in this beautiful setting, so her
body may feed the trees, the soil, the grasses of the land she loved and
respected so much.’
Many of the onlookers bobbed their heads and sniffled
into clutched hankies. An older lady, in a red woollen coat and pearls, folded
her arms tightly and glowered at Shelley. Suspicious looks were nothing new for
her. People were always wary of those who chose to work with the dead.
‘Now I welcome Virginia, Jude’s niece, to read a poem
she’s written especially for today.’
Despite the wintry morning, Virginia was barelegged,
and Shelley noted, as waxed and tanned as a mahogany table.
‘A life filled with action and sacrifice,
Straight talking without artifice,
Our beloved aunt stood up for all,
Saving the planet was her call.’
Somehow, Shelley managed to keep a straight face and
ignore the terrible poem, and she took a moment to savour the sight of a
well-attended funeral on her property. It was bad form but Shelley had to admit
she’d danced a little jig when Virginia called last week to inform her of
Jude’s passing. Three months earlier, Jude – the Jude Hillyer – had called
Shelley personally, expressing interest in her services and, after a brief
stroll through the natural cemetery on Shelley’s property, Jude purchased a
prepaid funeral plan with Green Farewells. Shelley would never wish someone an
early death, but as soon as she heard Jude’s familiar voice on the phone, she
knew this could be the funeral to
kickstart her business. Finally.
Shelley patted her pocket, double-checking the wad of
business cards, ready for the wake.
‘Let us remember her life and her smile,
Her defiance and strength at her Supreme Court trial.’
With a side-step, Shelley positioned herself by the
safety ropes that went underneath the body. At the other end of the grave,
Gareth, the burly seventeen-year-old from the farm next door, was already
clutching his ropes.
A sunbeam peeked through the grey sky, piercing the
gently waving gumleaves and, for a moment, Shelley’s shadow fell across the
shroud.
‘Her candle now out, her tongue now still,
We say goodbye on this grassy hill.’
Strong wings flapped overhead and a glossy black crow
swooped low over the crowd. The bird perched right on the edge of the wicker
tray, claws clutching at the woven edges. Shelley choked on her breath as the
bird cocked its head and eyed the ceremony curiously.
As discreetly as she could, Shelley lunged forwards,
waving her arms and shooing the black bird away. Heads turned her way with
frowns or bemused smiles, but everyone’s attention soon returned to Virginia
and her poem.
Everyone, that was, except Liz Forrester – Gareth’s
mother – clamped a chubby hand over her mouth. Liz’s eyes met Shelley’s and she
pursed her lips tightly and made the sign of the cross as the crow flapped away
into the bush.
Heart thumping, Shelley leaned over and checked that
the bird hadn’t left a sloppy deposit behind, but the wicker body carrier was
clean. Shelley straightened her posture and pretended nothing had happened.
As Virginia finished the last lines of her poem, a tear
dripped from her nose and splashed onto the shroud. Shelley took up her
position at the ropes and nodded at Gareth. Gareth would never win a Nobel
prize but he was strong, cheap and available. This wasn’t Vieri Family
Funerals, where her mother led a team of thirty. Green Farewells had a staff of
one. Shelley. And some weeks, she seriously considered driving an Uber to help
pay her mortgage and buy the odd loaf of bread. But she imagined she wouldn’t
get many five-star ratings when she pulled up to pick up passengers in her
hearse van.
‘Thank you, Virginia,’ Shelley said. ‘What a beautiful
and insightful poem. And now we will return Jude’s body to the ground. To the
place where we all began, and where we will all return. As one with nature, the
Earth and the power of life and death.’
Shelley gave the safety straps a little slap, the
signal to begin lowering the coffin, and Gareth gave a curt nod in reply. She
held her breath and her knees wavered as she scrutinised the shroud closely,
checking again for any possible sign of life. Death didn’t scare Shelley, but
waking up to see the satin-lined interior of a coffin was a regular feature in
her nightmares.
‘Let me through!’ someone shouted from the back of the
crowd. People murmured and parted as a man in his twenties with thinning brown
hair and an ankle-length black cassock pushed through.
Shelley blinked calmly though, inside, her chest
tightened.
‘Whoa there, Mickey,’ said Ross Forrester as he
stepped in to block the priest’s path.
‘Almighty God!’ Father Michael Bekker yelled.
Mickey dodged Ross and pushed his way to the
graveside. Shelley couldn’t help but notice a leaf sticking out of Mickey’s
wild tufty hair. ‘You created the Earth and shaped the vault of Heaven. You
fixed the stars in their places.’
‘Piss off, priest,’ said a younger man with swinging
dreadlocks. ‘Jude wouldn’t want you here.’
‘You should all be ashamed of yourselves.’ Mickey
scoured the crowd with fire in his eyes. ‘All of you.’
Shelley rushed around the grave and grabbed Mickey’s
arm. ‘Father Mickey. Please, you’re disturbing the service. If you can’t be
respectful, you’re not welcome here. Please go.’
‘Service?’ Mickey scoffed. ‘Do you realise what you’re
doing? The danger you’re putting us all in?’
Shelley stretched up tall. ‘I have all the necessary
credentials and permits.’
‘And it is my Christian duty to stop you and your
heathen practices.’
Shelley jammed her hands on her hips. ‘You’re
interfering with a sacred moment. Upsetting the deceased’s family and friends.
I’m giving you one last chance or I’m calling the police.’
‘Our Lord Jesus Christ broke the fetters of Hell and
rose to life, bringing deliverance and resurrection…’
The dreadlocked man and Ross both grabbed Mickey by
the shoulders.
‘When you conjure up the Devil himself,’ Mickey
bellowed as they led him away from the grave. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
‘I’m sorry, everyone,’ Shelley said, her cheeks
blazing red. The niece and the rest of the Hillyer family, the only attendees
in all funereal black, glowered at her and Shelley wrung her hands.
‘Jude always liked a bit of a ruckus,’ the dreadlocked
man said with a chuckle as he returned to the graveside. ‘She probably arranged
this herself.’
A few others laughed along with him and Shelley
breathed easy. She tucked her grey hair behind her ear and nodded to Gareth.
Together they shifted the body over the hole and lowered the ropes, laying Jude
Hillyer to rest at the bottom of the grave.
As the dirt hit the shroud, Shelley took a final look
over the body.
Satisfied the body was still lifeless, Shelley lifted
her chin and tried to forget Father Mickey’s words.
Bloodwood, my new Australian-set vampire novella, is coming out in October 2020.
How do you fight a vampire… in Australia?
Nothing
interesting ever happens in sleepy, rural Ludwood. Not until undertaker Shelley
sets up shop with her eco-friendly burials.
Her
latest funeral, farewelling an environmental legend, was meant to help her
struggling business – even the gatecrashing priest condemning her heathen
ways didn’t damper her spirits. Much.
But
when frightening screeches wake Shelley in the middle of the night days later,
she finds an empty grave and things start to go wrong. Horribly wrong. Like
vicious attacks in Ludwood wrong.
Were the priest’s protests of blasphemy right? Has Shelley unwittingly unleashed the undead and reduced the headcount in Ludwood instead of reducing their carbon footprint?
And where does Shelley even start? There’s no manual for hunting vampires in the bush.
Plot beginnings and endings and pants it all the rest of the way
Word count spreadsheet – 1000 words per day
Obsessive about edits
Satisfies the canine overlords before she begins a writing session
Dark and weird genre – on the edges of horror
Themes – loss and death and love – various aspects of being human- twisted fairytales and folklore
Perceptions of horror writers
‘Reading a lot. Writing a lot.’
The benefits of working with a good editor
Writing in the middle of the night – inspired by HP Lovecraft
Michelle Paver, Jason Arnop, Paul Tremblay, Joe Hill, Katrina Ward, Andrew Michael Hurley, Nathan Ballingrud, Priya Sharma, Angela Slatter, Graham Joyce
Mistletoe – ghost stories at Christmas – MR James, Victorian times – folklore and history of the plant and the season
Historical research
Cottingley faeries and changelings
‘Plot beginnings and endings and pants it all the rest of the way.’
‘People back away when I say I’m a horror writer.’
The book has elements of Stranger Things with fine character development and kids that feel like real kids.
reviewer
the novel is genuinely frightening at times, but the characters are never overshadowed by the horror.
reviewer
Mysterious disappearances, a battle for the spotlight and terrifying nightmares. It’s just another day at Beacon Hill High School.
Auditions for Macbeth are over, and on the bus ride home, a mysterious driver gives sixteen-year-old Violet and her friends’ three strange predictions:
One of the girls will shine like a star. One will invite darkness into her breast. One will depart forever.
Please, how cliché. Besides, Violet clearly knows that she’s the star. But when she isn’t cast as Lady Macbeth and strange things begin to unfold, and the eerie predictions begin to come true, Violet can’t help to wonder which one will apply to her. Determined to be the one that will shine like a star, Violet will do whatever it takes to get the leading role – no matter the horrifying consequence.
Modern-day Shakespeare meets supernatural mystery with this nail-biting young adult horror by Madeleine D’Este.
“Darkly seductive tale of revenge, regret & ultimately redemption”
Jon black
To whet your appetite, here is an extract of Chapter 1 of The Flower and The Serpent.
I hope you enjoy.
————————–
Chapter 1
Monday 18th June 1992
VIOLET
Violet’s
whole body hummed with leftover audition nerves.
‘I’m
a dead cert,’ she said.
She
was the first to climb aboard the empty number 458 bus but Holly and Lila were
close behind. They followed the muddy footprints past the chubby lady bus
driver as the wipers shrieked across the windshield and the rain slapped the
windows. Violet wrinkled her nose. The bus reeked of soggy wool.
‘I
can’t wait until tomorrow,’ Violet said as she slid into her regular seat
halfway up the aisle. ‘When my name is on top of the list.’
‘You’re
a shoo-in.’ Lila flopped into the seat in front of her. She turned and draped
her skinny arm over the metal bar. ‘He’d be stupid not to cast you.’
The
doors wheezed shut and the bus pulled out of the school and onto Beacon Hill
Road. The midwinter sun had already disappeared behind Mount Wellington.
‘Angelika
was alright, too.’ Holly squashed in next to Lila and sat backwards. ‘And the
one with the curls. Rowan?’
Violet
snorted and tossed her mousy hair. ‘Out. Out. Damned spot,’ she groaned in a
monotone and snatched the last chip from the packet in Holly’s hand.
Holly
pressed her lips together.
Lila
giggled. ‘Maybe we’ll be cast as the witches. There’s three of them and three
of us.’ She bounced in her seat. ‘We could get some props from your aunty, hey,
Holly? Real witch supplies?’
Holly
crushed the empty chip packet in her fist and turned away. But the late Hobart
afternoon was as black as night and Violet could see Holly’s square-jawed scowl
reflected in the window. Holly seemed to sulk a lot these days.
‘Witches?
No way,’ Violet scoffed. ‘It’s Lady Macbeth or nothing.’
‘Of
course, I’m an idiot. You’ll get the part for sure.’ Lila chewed her cuticles
and shrugged. ‘I just thought it’d be fun. Us three. Together.’
Violet
said nothing and neither did Holly.
‘Sorry.’
Lila playfully nudged Holly’s arm. ‘I didn’t mean it. The witch thing.’
Holly
turned back to them with a sigh. ‘It’s not you.’ She squeezed the bridge of her
nose. ‘This headache—’
‘What
were you girls doing at the school?’ the curly-headed bus driver hollered.
Violet
and her friends flinched. A pair of murky green eyes looked back at them
through the rear vision mirror.
‘Holiday
program,’ Lila called back.
‘All
alone in that place during holidays?’ The bus driver raised an eyebrow. ‘They
should never have built a school on that land. Or anything for that matter.
Should have left it be.’
Violet
rolled her eyes. ‘Everyone knows they purified it first, lady.’
‘The
surety of youth,’ the bus driver chuckled. ‘I was once like you.’ Her voice was
strange and lilting, she spoke with a musical accent Violet couldn’t place.
‘Life is not as it seems.’
Violet
rotated a finger next to her temple and Lila stifled a giggle. Holly dipped her
head to hide her eyes under her fringe.
‘You
three are best friends?’
‘Totally.’
Lila grinned. ‘Ever since Grade Seven.’
Violet
stared at her black eight-hole Doc Martens and chewed her lip. She noticed
Holly didn’t say anything, either.
‘Women
need to band together. Especially you three. You must look out for each other.’
‘What
do you mean?’ Lila said. ‘Especially us?’
‘You
three have challenges up ahead,’ the driver said.
Lila
glanced at Holly and then Violet. ‘What does she mean?’
‘She
probably means life stuff.’ Holly twirled a strand of dark brown hair around
her finger. ‘Exams. Finishing school. Getting off this stupid island. I can’t
wait.’
The
bus driver went quiet. The tyres squelched on the wet road as the bus veered
around the infamous hairpin bend and damp grey-green eucalyptus slapped on
either side.
The
three girls slid across the seats around the bend.
A
few years ago in the late 1980s, a bus exactly like this one misjudged the turn
and six lives were wiped out in a single mistake. Violet’s stomach clenched
twice a day, five times a week, every time she passed the stone memorial on the
way to school. The black and white photo of the bent wreckage was still vivid
in her mind.
‘What
challenges?’ asked Lila. She clutched at the metal bar until her knuckles were
white.
The
bus driver said nothing.
Violet
rubbed her duffle coat sleeve against the fogged-up window and peered outside
as the bus passed the small strip of local shops. First was The Three Torches,
a cafe-bookshop run by Holly’s aunt. Then Terri’s Bakehouse where Violet worked
Saturdays selling congealed yellow vanilla slices and the whitest of white
bread. Then the dry cleaners and the shaman hairdressers with his
multi-coloured Tibetan prayer flags and incense fluttering in the breeze, and
finally the milk bar takeaway. Even through the glass, Violet could smell the
old chip oil, the spicy Nag Champa and the astringent dry-cleaning fumes.
A
figure in a raincoat with the hood pulled up stood at the kerb in the rain.
Beside them, a muscular pointy-eared black dog strained at his leash. The
person lifted a finger and pointed directly at the bus, directly through the
window, directly at Violet. The face was a black shadow, no real face at all
but somehow the hidden eyes bored straight into her, the gaze like an
apple-corer.
With
a gasp, she tore her gaze away from the window, her heart thumping.
‘What?’
said Lila.
‘Nothing,’
Violet muttered but when she turned back, the person was still there on the
kerb, and still pointing. She shuddered. ‘Another loony.’
They
travelled a few more blocks in silence, then the Beacon Hill Road straightened
out after the weatherboard Scout Hall, the place for senior aerobics and Morris
dancing. Her heartbeat settled as the man in the raincoat disappeared from
view.
‘Three
challenges for three friends,’ the bus driver continued. ‘I can see it
clearly.’
The
girls leaned forward in their seats.
‘What
are you? Some kind of fortune teller?’ Lila said. ‘A psychic?’
Violet
shoved Holly. ‘You know about all that stuff. Witchy poo.’
Holly
poked out her tongue.
‘One
of you will shine like a star,’ the bus driver proclaimed.
Violet
shimmied in her seat. It was obviously her.
The
driver went on. ‘One of you will invite darkness into her breast.’
‘Breast?
That’d be you.’ Holly raised a dark eyebrow and prodded Violet in the boob.
Violet swiped away her finger with a glare.
‘Darkness?’
Lila grimaced. ‘What do you mean? What does she mean?’
‘One
of you will depart forever,’ the driver concluded.
‘Depart
forever?’ Lila clawed at the metal bar between the seats. ‘That’s not good.
That can’t be good.’
‘Excuse
me, Miss.’ Holly raised her hand. ‘I don’t think this is appropriate—’
‘Death?
Is she saying one of us is going to die?’ Lila wheezed.
‘What
are you saying, lady?’ Violet squinted, projecting her voice up the empty bus.
She loved how the power rippled up from her diaphragm when she used her breath
in the right way. ‘Are you trying to scare us? Cos it’s not working.’
‘Ignore
me if you like, girls,’ the bus driver said. ’It is your choice to listen. But
you have been warned.’
‘One
of us is going to die?’ Lila said with a crack in her voice. ‘How? When?’
‘There
are powers in this world we cannot comprehend. You must beware.’
‘Today?
Do we need to be careful today?’
The
bus driver shifted her focus back to the road. Her face closed like a shutter.
‘You
have to give us more information than that. You can’t just —’
But
the woman behind the wheel didn’t respond. She didn’t even look their way. It
was as though she’d never said a word.
‘Excuse
me,’ Lila said and waved her arm. ‘Tell us more. Please.’
The
bus driver kept her eyes on the road.
‘Why
won’t she tell us?’ Lila chewed her finger, her eyes glazed.
‘Forget
it,’ Violet snorted. ‘She’s just another nutbag.’
Violet
wondered why Lila was so fazed, she’d lived around Beacon Hill her whole life
and knew all the weird stories off by heart. She should be used to strange
people by now.
The
bus moaned to a stop. The back doors hissed open and a sharp slap of cold wind
blew inside.
‘You
have to tell us more.’ Lila scrambled up the aisle towards the driver’s seat,
her canvas school bag clutched to her chest. ‘Who? Which one of us?’
‘Last
stop.’
‘Please,’
Lila whined.
Holly
grabbed her by the elbow. ‘Leave it.’
‘She
can’t just tell us someone is going to die and then say nothing else. She said
beware. But what of?’ Lila raked her fingers through her home-dyed burgundy
hair. ‘Do you think she cursed us?’
‘Come
on. Let’s go.’ Violet headed towards the door.
Holly
tugged at Lila’s sleeve. ‘Don’t get worked up about it. You know what you’re
like. We’ll call the bus company tomorrow. Make a complaint.’
Lila
sighed and followed Holly out into the wet air. Misty droplets dribbled down
the graffiti-etched bus shelter.
‘Weirdo!’
Violet yelled out as the bus driver closed the concertina doors and the bus
rumbled away. Violet pulled up her duffle coat hood as the red tail lights bled
onto the wet road.
‘What
if she’s right? One of us could die,’ Lila said. Raindrops brimmed on her
eyelashes and she didn’t wipe them away.
‘Forget
about it,’ Violet said. ‘Right, Holly?’
‘Well,
I think we should tell someone,’ Holly said. ‘But maybe you’re right. Don’t
think about it, Lila. It’s just some stupid joke. Nothing’s going to happen.’
‘It’s
not very funny,’ Lila huffed. ‘And I have this strange —’
‘Well,
I’m off. Lines to learn,’ Violet said with a smirk. ‘Lady Macbeth lines. See
you tomorrow.’
‘With
bells on,’ Lila said but her smile didn’t reach her eyes.
‘To
witness the grand unveiling of my name up on the board tomorrow,’ Violet said.
‘Violet Black as Lady Macbeth.’
With
a wave, the three friends went their separate ways into the gloom. Violet
wrapped her arms around herself as she trudged down Melaleuca Avenue, through
the shadows and puddles, past the rows of empty brown brick-and-tile houses
with double garages. There wasn’t another soul around.
Violet
couldn’t wait until Friday night when she stepped out onto her stage and shone
like a star.
Maybe
there was some truth to the crazy bus driver’s words.
A supernatural young adult novel set during a school production of Macbeth, The Flower and The Serpent is my most autobiographical book yet.
The Flower and The Serpent is available now for pre-order.
—————-
Mysterious disappearances, a battle for the spotlight and nightmares. It’s just another day at Beacon Hill High School.
Auditions for Macbeth are over, and on the bus ride home, a mysterious driver gives sixteen-year-old Violet and her friends’ three strange predictions:
One of the girls will shine like a star.
One will invite darkness into her breast.
One will depart forever.
Please, how cliché. Besides, Violet clearly knows that she’s the star. But when she isn’t cast as Lady Macbeth and strange things begin to unfold, and the predictions begin to come true, Violet can’t help to wonder which one will apply to her.
Determined to be the one that will shine like a star, Violet will do whatever it takes to get the leading role – no matter the consequence.
Modern-day Shakespeare meets supernatural mystery with this nail-biting young adult horror by Madeleine D’Este.
Most of the time I need music for writing. And the right kind of music. Like books and stories, I’ve always had a passion for music.
This is a new series where I’ll be sharing what I’m listening to.
Today is dark and spooky music for dark and spooky moods.
Here are three artists to inspire your dark and spooky writing.
Lebanon Hanover
Lebanon Hanover is a German-British goth electric duo. Think New Order with Nico. Great music for taphophiles and recovering goths.
Bohren and der Club of Gore
Bohren and der Club of Gore are slow, languid, dark and jazzy. Known as ‘doom jazz’, this is reminiscent of smoky clubs, noir with a touch of Twin Peaks.
John Carpenter
‘Horror-synth’ is another musical genre I gravitate towards when writing horror or general dark stuff. And John Carpenter is the grand-daddy of them all. His synth soundtracks create the perfect sense of dread.
I hope you enjoy these atmosphere-creating tunes.
If you’re writing something dark and spooky, what music do you listen to?
Edit: I’ve created a Spotify playlist featuring the artists above.
Welcome to Write Through The Roof, the podcast for writers who want to improve their craft.
Episode 54 – Sandra Ireland – writer of tartan gothic
“I like to be scared when I’m writing.”
Episode 54 – Sandra Ireland – Show Notes
Morning writing – not as creative in the afternoon
Goal of 500 words per day
Ritual of two cups of tea and one cup of coffee in favourite mug
Dark, creepy with a heavy dose of menace, toxic relationships
Landscape as a starting point for writing – sense of place to inform writing
Manipulating people’s fears and shadow sides.
Not just scaring the reader, not just horror but writing about what personally scares you. Vulnerability and readers not knowing what is imagination and what is true.
Currently writing non-fiction about the folklore surrounding the Mill (setting of Bone Deep). The words coming out faster with non-fiction.
Fiction as a therapy – creative release.
Giving herself the permission to be creative.
The tribe with the right vibe – people who understand to bounce ideas off.
Be careful who you share your writing with.
Brontes, Benjamin Myers – The Gallows Pole, Julie Myerson – The Stopped Heart
A resurgence of gothic writing – perhaps as a reaction to current events
Bone Deep – inspired by work as a tour guide in a water mill. At times the mill felt unwelcoming. Modern story with a strand of an old folktale (Border Ballad).
The key struggle for writing students is a lack of confidence. One technique is forcing students to share their work.
I’m a massive podcast fan – I’ve been listening since the iPod era – but I tend to stick to the interview style of podcasts (except for Strange Tales and the BBC Play of the Week audio drama). And despite all the acclaim and popularity, I haven’t ventured into the serialised investigative podcast genre.
Challenges with current work ‘Girlstown’ mixing visual elements, fiction and non-fiction
Cindy Crabb ‘Things That Help’ 90s zines, Angela Carter, Octavia Butler, Helen Zahavi – Dark Weekend
House of Erzulie inspired by recurring dreams of a gothic house. Researching gothic literary elements. Triptych – three narrators across time. Epistolary structure and mirroring different POVs
“Too much structure hinders the creative process.”
Welcome to Write Through The Roof, the podcast for writers who want to improve their craft.
Episode 39 with Alexandra Sokoloff – thriller author & screenwriter
“You are directing a movie onto the page.”
Episode 39 – Alexandra Sokoloff – Show Notes
Good and evil and what good people can do
Screenwriters have to be plotters. Journey from impro to screenwriting
Milk
Exploration of violence against women using a female serial killer
Using screenwriting techniques to become better authors
Multi-task while appearing to have a social life
Taking your favourite movies and working out what the classic movies are doing: Silence of the Lambs, Jaws, Raiders of the Lost Ark, Casablanca, When Harry Met Sally, The Hunger Games, The Wizard of Oz
Editors want a movie in their head
Shirley Jackson, Daphne du Maurier, Denise Mina, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, Mo Hayder, Tana French, Val McDermid
Huntress/FBI series – to be read in order – like a binge watch TV experience
Hunger Moon is an unhappy read for Trump supporters
“If you’re going to talk about good and evil, you need to talk about people and what people do.”
“I do this with a total agenda of changing rape culture.”
Welcome to Write Through The Roof, the podcast for writers who want to improve their craft.
Episode 33 with Kim Newman – novelist & film critic
“My novels are my purest me.”
Episode 33 – Kim Newman – Show Notes
Novels as favourite medium, loose outlines and historical research
Takeout coffee and working in the dressing gown
As a critic putting people into boxes but as a writer refusing to be put in a box
Reading, time and never having had a real job
The way writing as a career has changed since 1980s
Buying first computer with money from writing for porn magazines with Neil Gaiman
Editors used to have more time to deal with and develop new writers
Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett, Patrick Hamilton, Arthur Conan Doyle, Bram Stoker, Robert Louis Stevenson, Edgar Allen Poe, Ramsay Campbell, Peter Straub, David Thomson, Greil Marcus
Criticism and deadlines
The need for a continuity person during novel writing
Big file full of random film quotes
“Some people don’t realise I’m the same person.”
“My critical range is not good or bad but interesting or dull.”
Welcome to Write Through The Roof, the podcast for writers who want to improve their craft.
Episode 22 with Kaaron Warren – acclaimed horror, sci-fi & dark fantasy writer
“Trusting yourself. You don’t have to write like other people.”
Episode 22 – Kaaron Warren – Show Notes
The power of novellas
Snatching the moments to write: making the most of time and place
Fuelled by chai: cardamon is good for concentration
Inspired by darker elements of humanity, inspired by darker fairytales like Bluebeard as a child
Exploring the afterlife, fear of death and ghost photographs
Practice, reading others, believe in yourself
Experimenting with a diary form; each character with a distinctive voice and their public/private face. Part of a new ‘unnamed’ novel about prisoners in a time-ball tower
Important to have non-writers as beta readers
Inspired by Lisa Tuttle, Steve Rasnic Tem, William Golding, Alasdair Grey
Impact of Transcendental Meditation
Madeleine’s Tip: How To Publish Your Book by Jane Friedman
“I don’t think there are any definitive rules in writing.”
Welcome to Write Through The Roof, the podcast for writers who want to improve their craft.
Episode 18 with David Moody – Horror writer & indie-publishing pioneer
“I’m a torturer at heart.”
Episode 18 – David Moody – Show Notes
An extreme plotter
Best time for plot development is during running
Procrastinating as a full-time writer
Hybrid publishing and the dark ages of indie publishing
Writing in 45 minute chunks
Ordinary people in extreme apocalyptic situations
Setting rules and having discipline
The cloud – accessible from everywhere for when inspiration strikes
Richard Matheson, John Wyndham, and learning from James Herbert; the writing and the man
The ‘sidequel’: creating two trilogies to create one big story
Madeleine’s tip – the Four Tendencies
“Definitely, irritatingly, a plotter” “The less time I’ve got, the better my writing is.” “I always feel dirty when I say this but I’m just a people watcher.”
Today, an anthology of short stories inspired by HP Lovecraft all written by women. The collection is called She walks in Shadowsedited by Silvia Moreno-Garcia and Paula R Stiles, published by Innsmouth Free Press in 2015.
HP Lovecraft is a founding father of the horror genre but he’s well known for his lack of female characters and his dubious perception of anyone who wasn’t of English descent.
For those unfamiliar with HP Lovecraft, his work is filled with dark, gory, lush imageryand his stories often focus on scientists uncovering the paranormal in the course of their experiments and the revelations drive them mad. Or family legends of inherited guilt. In his writings, he built a rich pantheon of mythology including the all powerful cosmic entity Cthulu. Lovecraft never experienced fame during his lifetime but has inspired many writers since.
This collection, by all female writers, takes the Lovecraft universe and focuses on, or reimagines, the role of women in his world. The writers are from all across the world, each bringing their own unique spin on Lovecraft.
Usually I find short story anthologies are a bit hit and miss, but when I went back to write this review and looked through all the stories I liked, I was surprised how many I really enjoyed.
I’ve got horror all around me at the moment. My current work-in-progress is a gothic horror novel, I’m watching a lot of Twin Peaks, enjoying Devil’s Candy and The Stone Tape, anticipating Raw and working my way through the back catalogue of Shirley Jackson.
My question today is why do I like some dark, spooky, scary stuff but not others.
Firstly, I’m curious. Why do we like to be scared?
In the past few months, I’ve fallen in love with Shirley Jackson and her creepy weird normality. Today it’s The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson, a classic haunted house story, first published in 1959.
Stephen King described The Haunting of Hill House as one of the most important horror books of the 20th century and inspired The Shining. It has also been the basis for two films. And today, a new ‘reimagining’ via Netflix was announced.
Dr Montague, a paranormal academic researcher, rents a haunted house for a summer to undertake a research project. Hill House has a frightening reputation and history of hauntings after a series of tragic events in the house. The local townspeople won’t come anywhere near the place, and any one who rents the house barely stays a week. Determined to document the phenomenon, Dr Montague seeks out a few research assistants to join him at the house for the summer.
If you’d like to hear me talk about the books I love, check out my reviews on Art District radio. My show – Madeleine’s Speculative Fiction Review – is all about speculative fiction, where I bang on about science fiction, fantasy, steampunk, dystopia, horror, paranormal etc.
I’m thrilled to announce the launch of Evangeline and the Spiritualist – Episode 3 of The Antics of Evangeline. Available from today at Amazon.
A sarcophagus, séances and seed cake, Evangeline is back with another adventure.
Mrs Picklescott-Smythe’s mummy unwrapping soiree doesn’t quite go to plan, and for once it’s not Evangeline’s fault.
Evangeline is a seventeen-year-old ex-urchin and aspiring world-famous inventress, recently resettled in Marvellous Melbourne with her long lost father, the Professor.
It’s the infamous spiritualist, Madame Zsoldas, who interrupts the party with a sinister warning and she is not the only who feels something strange.
Today it’s one of my all time favourite books, Anno Dracula by Kim Newman, first published in 1992 by Simon and Schuster. Alternative history with vampires!
In the world of Anno Dracula, Van Helsing lost and Dracula triumphed, killing Jonathan Harker and taking Mina Harker into his harem of vampire brides.
Beth and her husband Stu have moved to a new house in the idyllic English countryside to raise their baby, Gabriel. But one night, during a snowstorm, everything goes horribly wrong for the family and in the picture perfect setting, something ancient and evil emerges and changes all their lives and not for the better.
While suffering a day of serious procrastination, I binge watched a bunch of Twin Peaks in a row and so messed up my plan for reviewing episode by episode. (Damn you Resistance! You got me that day but I’ve bounced back to get you. See here for more of my battles with Resistance.)
On that Sunday, I let Resistance get the better of me but who doesn’t love a guilty lazy afternoon on the couch? Especially watching something as clever, funny, spooky and weird as Twin Peaks Season 1.
In episodes 2 to 6, the murder investigation gets going with more suspects appearing including the One Armed Man and Jacques Renault. We start to see the real quirky side of Agent Cooper as he explains his unorthodox intuitive methods and we scratch further into the dirty and dark secrets of the small town. Plus lots of coffee and sugar-dusted doughnut porn.
Twin Peaks Season 3 is coming out in May 2017 and I’ve been meaning to look back at Twin Peaks for a long time. I was sixteen when it was first on television in Tasmania, and it was a strong influence on me. So in anticipation of the new season, I’m committed to rewatching all 30 episodes, I’m doing it and I’m going to share my thoughts here.
There will be ***SPOILERS*** but come on, it’s been over 25 years since it was shown.
Let’s start with “Pilot” or “Northwest Passage”. Today I’m focusing on my initial feelings and reactions to the whole premise, rather than delving into the plot. More analysis of the plot will probably come later. But this is the episode where it all begins, Laura Palmer is found, Agent Cooper arrives and the crime investigation is underway.
As soon as the titles came up, the sparks of the saw mill, the waterfall, the Douglas firs and the deep slow bass of the theme tune, I was thrust back into 1991. Now, the opening titles font has really dated (day-glo green) but the rest of the design, clothing and setting is timeless, aside from one or two stray mullets.
Today I’m going a little darker than usual. It’s time to talk horror with Adam Nevill’s The Ritual, published in 2011 through Pan Macmillan.
Horror is not a genre for everyone, but I like being scared. There is something about horror writing which makes my imagination go wild in a far more vibrant way than horror movies. Probably because I build my own images, creating something uniquely me from all of my fears.
Enough about me, let’s talk about The Ritual. Four middle-aged men get together for a hiking trip in Sweden. They’ve been friends since their university days as they have grown older and taken on responsibilities, their friendships have waned. Everyone has stressful jobs, kids, mortgages, marriages. All except Luke. But this camping trip is a ‘lads weekend’. A chance to renew old friendships and have a laugh. Or so they planned.
Yep, another top 2016 list. But this one is all about me.
Here’s my list of 5 star rated books from my own goodreads list (because I can’t rely on my own memory) filled with vampires, time travel, near future spy thrillers and two present day thrillers.
I still don’t have my writing process down pat. This has become bleeding obvious with my two most recent projects.
The Production – a high gothic YA novel – was a constant struggle, getting out 60k words was like passing a kidney stone. Whereas my current Nanowrimo project – The Ravens of Ambrovna: fantasy – is flowing out like maple syrup.
When I read informative information on how “optimise my author platform”, there is always a mention of a consistent blog content strategy. Mmm, well, big fail here. This blog and my blogging is awfully random. I’ve decided to go with my randomness and only blog when I feel inspired, which waxes and wanes.
Today is a little round-up (and not the noxious chemical) on what’s going on with me. Something new, something old and some classroom time.
was an overwhelming success (over 2,500 downloads). I was blown away. I hope you snaffled a copy and enjoy it.
