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!!!
I sat on the bed in our empty flat and cried. I was five months pregnant and my emotions now affected the precious bundle I carried. When I cried it moved around inside me, letting me know it didn’t like that state of affairs. I hugged my stomach.
“Sorry, I’ll be brave, I just don’t want your daddy to be away for a month. I don’t want to be alone.”
But I’m not alone am I baby Thompson? I have you!
Then I heard a voice as plain as can be, “And you have me.” The voice had a strong Russian accent, it was cold and menacing.
“Stop, you can’t hurt me, you’re dead! Go away and leave me and my baby alone.”
This is an extract from a book I’m currently working on. It’s the sequel to Dead of July, my first novel. Ghosts on the Sand is a collection of short stories. I love to write, and I’d love you to read, and enjoy my stories.
Dead of July
Ghosts on the Sand
February and March of 1984 flew by. My body began to change and swell with pregnancy. It was uncomfortable, but exciting. Morning sickness visited me in the afternoon rather than the morning, which was fortunate because the only thing that seemed to soothe it was hot fresh bread. I craved it constantly. A British bakery food truck visited our area every couple of days, and I stood by the window every afternoon after work, waiting for it to arrive. I’d smell its delicious aroma before the truck arrived, and was usually down in the car park waiting for it. The bread van was driven by an ex-squaddie who decided to stay in Germany when his time with the British Army was done. I was glad he made that decision.