A memory from babyhood comes back to haunt a sixteen year old.
A woman hears an alien voice in her head calling her.
An old lady is terrified by the dark figure that waits at the bottom of the stairs.
A crippled locksmith only goes out at night.
A young woman stays overnight with her boyfriend and his eccentric family but nobody warns her about Uncle Vernon.
An aging spinster goes to watch the Easter Parade but this year there is an unexpected participant.
A mother gets the telegram informing her that her beloved son has been killed in action and she makes a fateful wish . . .
Plus Thirteen Words – three short – very short – horror stories.
Genre: FICTION / Horror
In top 5000 horror book on Amazon.UK
I read somewhere that most people have no memory before the age of five and that very few indeed can remember anything before the age of two. It’s not that babies can’t think. It’s that they haven’t learnt how to save their thoughts as memories.
But I have a memory much earlier than that.
I am sitting in my pram. I know I am in a pram because the hood is up and the view in front of me is framed by the edge of the hood. I can see this very clearly. It has a trim of elasticated material, black with a white pattern. The pattern may be writing. I can’t tell because I am too young to read. Through the hood, in front of me, is a garden, bounded by a high brick wall. The wall is covered in a riot of red flowers. I know now the plant is Japonica, but in the memory I have no words for anything. In the middle of the garden there are two people locked in a clumsy embrace. Either they are standing very still or the memory is a still picture—a snapshot in time.
I can see the woman very clearly. She is wearing a white cotton frock with a pattern of tiny blue flowers. Her face is turned towards me, and it bears an expression of anguish. I think she is my mother.
But I can’t see the man clearly at all. I’m not even sure it is a man. But I think it is. He is a shadowy figure, one hand gripping my mother, if she is my mother, the other held over his head. He is holding something aloft, something long and thin—a stick perhaps. I can’t see it clearly at all. Everything about the man is out of focus.
I have always believed that if I could just see his face, if I could identify him, I would understand everything.
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French
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Already translated.
Translated by Mathilde Stouvenel
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Author review: Another perfect translation! |
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Italian
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Already translated.
Translated by Elisabetta Colona
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Author review: Elisabetta has translated several of my books and I hope she will translate many more. She is a joy to work with. An excellent tranlator and communicator who always finishes on time. Highly recommended. |
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Portuguese
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Already translated.
Translated by Jaime de Andruart
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Author review: Great translation, produced on time. Jaime is really easy to work with. Highly recommended. |
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Spanish
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Already translated.
Translated by Elizabeth Garay
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Author review: Elizabeth comes in on time with a quality translation and is very easy to work with. I have learnt so much from her. |
