Chilling and uncanny folk suspense in a novel of twisted sisterhood and dark secrets.

Some places are cursed.

An isolated village

A twisted sisterhood

A dark secret that festers in silence

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1978. When teenager Rina Pine is abandoned by her hippy mother in the isolated village of Sorrow Spring and forced to live with her elderly aunt, she quickly realises no one is coming to rescue her.

Rina finds herself trapped amidst a community of women beholden to the past, who believe in the protective powers of the local spring. When a child goes missing and a young mother is killed, she is drawn into the dark and sinister truth flowing through the sacred waters that give the village its name.

Rina is about to learn what it truly means to be a daughter of Sorrow Spring…

Sorrow Spring is due for release 12th September. You can pre-order your copy on Bookshop.org

Prologue

A full moon provides you with just the right amount of light for both surveillance and concealment. Good things of day begin to droop and drowse. Your pulse quickens at the thought of re-enacting the assassination from Macbeth. And it will be an assassination, not murder. Apart from a mild distaste, you hold no personal dislike for Fletcher Sun. His death is necessary. A mercy killing almost. At nearly eighty, he hasn’t long left, and what quality of life does he have anyway? With filthy clothes and matted hair, he resembles a vagrant more than the wealthy landowner he’s become. Formerly abstemious, Sun has recently acquired the stagger of a drunk. From the trees, through binoculars, you follow his stumbling zigzag from the edge of the woods towards the barn.

He used to live in the farmhouse. During his many absences you were free to wander about the place. It was clean and in good order. But last week, for reasons unknown, he decamped to one of the outhouses – a converted barn with living accommodation over two storeys. A happy, homely place once, going by the floral sofas and watercolours, it’s now in a foul state. The beams are rotten, the walls mildewed and the floor encrusted with rodent droppings. If time wasn’t of the essence, you could safely leave Sun to die of Weil’s disease or a collapsing roof. The sight of a supposedly intelligent man, allowing himself to fall so low and live in such abject squalor, turns your stomach.

When Sun’s meandering finally brings him to the barn door, he fumbles with the latch and topples inside. His alcoholic haze means he misses the jerry can of petrol you stashed behind the rusted farm equipment propped against the outside wall. After an hour you leave your hiding place amongst the trees and lope across to the barn, pausing outside to listen. Nothing stirs within. For the last two nights, he has somehow managed to drag himself upstairs before passing out on the bed, meaning it’s safe to slip the latch and step inside. You pick your way through the old newspapers and empty cans of Special Brew. The fetid stench Sun’s left in his wake forces you to cover your nose with your sleeve.

You mount the stairs. Creaking floorboards aren’t a problem. A brass band could play every verse of ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’ without disturbing Sun. He’s curled up in a nestlike bundle of sheets, dead to the world.

The room has no curtains and moonlight streams in. You take slow deliberate steps across the floor. When you drop your hand from your face, the smell brings you near to retching; still you keep to your purpose and draw a fifteen-inch hunting blade from your belt. The original plan was just for a fire, but you worry the smoke could rouse him. No, you need to dispense with him first, then set the blaze.

You lean over him. Traces of vomit streak the grizzled beard that covers much of his face. Death will be a kindness to this man. You’re doing him a favour. So much so, you’re surprised to see the knife shaking in your hand.

… screw your courage to the sticking place, And we’ll not fail.

You use your left hand to steady your right. The strike has to be accurate and precise. The blade can’t mark the bone. There must be no telltale signs that anything other than fire and smoke inhalation killed Sun. Lifting the thick layers of clothing, you prod his loose skin with a gloved finger before driving the knife deep into his guts.

He cries out. Just once. A low, anguished moan. Warm, viscous liquid seeps into your sleeve.

… who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?

A new sensation surges within you. It flushes out the fear and disgust. What is it? Power? Elation?

No, acceptance. Acceptance of your destiny. For to take a life, is to be a god.

This is fate. It was no coincidence that letter fell into your hands. All your life has been leading up to this moment, this act.

And the ones soon to follow…

Downstairs, you fetch the jerry can, pile the old newspapers into the centre of the room and douse them with petrol.

You step outside and strike a single match. That’s all it takes for the room to explode into flame. Then you sprint to the farmhouse, which you’ve already drenched in accelerant.

Another match.

Whoosh.

Both buildings stand as beacons of light in this dark, damp, godforsaken valley.

Back amongst the trees, you let the intoxicating scent of petrol and wood smoke fill your nostrils, stand in wonder at the fierce orange light and you watch the fire climb to the barn’s first storey.

Then above the hiss and crackle of splintering wood, a terrible cry erupts. A thousand voices screaming, as a dark column rises above the smoke.

Rooks.

No birds were roosting in that barn when you scouted it – no nests, no feathers. Yet now, hundreds of them take to the night sky. A great flock, black against the moon. They swirl, twisting and turning, until the column forms the shape of a man.

Below, in the furthest window of the barn, you catch sight of their mirror image. Fletcher Sun silhouetted against the flames, his arms outstretched, spinning and whirling in a maniacal dance of death.

You blink. You’re seeing things. He could not have survived both the blade and the smoke.

You look again.

He’s gone.

The column of rooks collapses.

Then, in a rush of air and feathers, they streak towards you. You throw yourself to the ground.

The birds dive into the trees, cutting through the branches, screeching above your head before disappearing, leaving the night silent, but for the groans of barn timbers splintering in the flames.

What have you done?

You no longer feel like a god.

You’re lightheaded and too weak to move. Damp seeps into your clothes. A badger rustles amongst the withered bracken. Constellations glide across the sky.

How long have you lain there when, in a distant valley, a siren starts to wail?

You grab a branch and pull yourself to your feet. You have to go. You mustn’t be missed.

You need to be back in Sorrow Spring by dawn.

Sorrow Spring is due for release 12th September. You can pre-order your copy on Bookshop.org