Viktor never knew love. He was used by Marianna, his mother in ways you can’t even imagine, ways I can’t bring myself to write about. She was a monster! In the late seventies, when Vlad, Viktor’s father was killed by a competing crime family, Marianna took revenge and then fled to Germany with her two sons, Viktor and Yuri. She became the Queen of a lucrative criminal world. A smart organized woman, she changed her business to suit the needs of the underworld. She traded guns, secrets and worst of all, women. No women is not the right word, she bought and sold young girls.
In her youth she was beautiful to look at, and took lovers as and when she pleased, male or female, it didn’t matter. If they pleased her she kept them for a while. If they didn’t satisfy her needs, they simply disappeared.
Marianna’s lifestyle caused her to age badly. Too much vodka, cocaine and sleepless nights turned her beautiful face into a grotesque mask. Willing lovers became few and far between, so she took her pick from the men who worked for her, and the young girls she traded. They were unwilling partners, and many were never seen again.
Yes Viktor was evil, but his mother was much worse, she was the Devil.
King William IV – Brompton-on-Swale
Every time I look at this pub it brings back warm fuzzy memories. It is the first place I legally purchased an alcoholic drink.
I remember the little group of old timers that sat in the bar every night.
I loved this place!
I remember Hen Parties (Bachelorette Parties in my current place of abode), and tinsel at Christmas.
I also remember the guy who tried to come on to me at the bar, and the landlady who let me out the back to escape him.
I embellished on this incident for my first ever short story, Guy at the Bar, and was immediately hooked on writing.
Guy at the bar can be purchased, with a collection of short stories in my eBook Ghosts on the Sand and other chilling tales. If you live in North Yorkshire and like quirky tales written by someone who spent their childhood in the beautiful village of Brompton on Swale, give it a try.
Shirley never finished her sentence.
The window just to the right of us exploded inwards. Splinters of glass flew towards us like tiny missiles. No time to move, we instinctively covered our heads with our hands and ducked. I felt tiny shards of glass hitting the back of my right hand, which was closest to the window. It only lasted a few seconds, but it seemed much longer. When I felt safe again I sat up Shirley’s head was on the table, she wasn’t moving.
The kitchen door burst open and Gay appeared. “Don’t move, I’ll call the medic’s.” Monica was right behind her, she looked at me “You okay?” she asked. “Yes, Shirley, are you alright?” Shirley lifted her head slowly, no blood on her face, her hands and hair had protected her head, but there was red mark on her forehead. She must have hit her head on the table.
She looked groggy. Her eyes wouldn’t focus!
Tucked into my bed, alone! No part of me exposed to the air, hiding, scared, no sleep for me tonight.
When will I be safe again?
The air moves, I feel it.
I’ve come for your unborn child.
I know my fears are talking to me. I’m alone with my fear, conjuring up terrors that don’t exist.
The bedcovers slowly glide down the bed and onto the floor.
Icy air touches my skin. Cold, dirty air, tainted with an evil presence.
“Won’t someone please, HELP ME!”
I shouted to an empty room. No one heard.
I clutched my stomach and prayed.
I’ve been reading Stephen King as long as I can remember. From his very first story to his very last, and enjoyed ever single one. His last book, The Outsider, may have been my favorite. I say that and then I remember the Mr. Mercedes trilogy, and Dr. Sleep. Oh and then there are his novellas. His writing changed to suit the era, but I was drawn into every single book. When I read Stephen King I don’t open a book, I reconnect with old friends.
Why am I telling you this? Because I’ve been quiet for a while! My brain has been active though, and now, its ready to go. I’m writing for 1984, the era, the style, the times. My Dead of July sequel is progressing. You can’t rush, or force a good story. It needs to flow naturally. I want my readers to put it down, take a deep breath and think about me. I’m not Stephen King, I’m Sandra Thompson, but I want folks to remember what I’ve written, from Dead of July to….wherever it ends.
Stephen King, you had me at Carrie!
Ghosts on the Sand – Free
Its Easter Monday in beautiful Abruzzo. Been a busy week with not much time to write so instead I’m giving away a copy of Ghosts on the Sand, just to let you know I’m still around. Click on the link above from April 23rd to April 27th to get a free copy (kindle/electronic only).
If you enjoy a traditional ghost story, you’ll enjoy this collection. I’d appreciate a review on Amazon if you have time.
“Who’s there?” I asked again.
Whispers in the darkness! Distorted shadows moved past the end of the bed and deepened in the corner of the room.
Les sat up sleepily. “What’s going on? Are you having one of your dreams?”
I sometimes had dreams that turned out to be premonitions, Les was used to them, but they were unpredictable.
“No, someone touched me!”
I was wide awake.
Glancing back at my car, I expected to see Viktor sitting in the passenger seat, an evil grin on his face, but there was nothing there. What I’d heard was most likely the ticking of the engine cooling down. Alfa Romeos ran hot, just like the Italians, and I drove it hard. There was nothing to see, but I felt a sudden chill, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.
“Come on, let’s get you inside, you’re shaking. You need a hot, sweet cup of tea.”
I barely heard Shirley’s words, but allowed her to lead me up the stairs to our office.
Yes, I’m writing again. This is the follow-up to Dead of July which I published back in 2013. You can only write when the time is right!!!