Welcome to Episode 12 of Salome. This is a Gothic Horror novel set in the 1880s and introduces Sister Salome, a young Italian nun who will appear in the 3rd Muldoon book. I started this serial to help you get to know her before the events of the next novel.

This is the end of part 2. Salome returns from the dream with Catherine. Mother Hildegard needs to carry out an initiation before it is too late.

Chapter 1

Book 3? I need to catch up!

Index

11

I was alone with Mother Hildegard, and the frightened faces of my cohort, standing in their nightgowns like scattered petals in the hall. Someone was sniffling quietly.

“Come,” Mother Hildegard said to them, “it is time.”

She helped me stand and we walked slowly up to the third floor of the house, Mother Hildegard holding my arm over her shoulders as she supported my waist. The journey was silent, the candles in my sisters’ hands steady, contrasting with their flickering shadows on the stairwell. Sisters from the other dormitories joined us, their heads bowed under the weight of the matter. I barely breathed as we ascended.

The cat, sitting beside a vase of flowers on a table on the second floor, watched us pass and approach the next staircase. I looked at him, and remembered his strangeness when he approached this threshold. He did not approach that night either. He remained as still as the figure of Christ above him.

Mother Hildegard led us across a landing that had only one door. She knocked gently, and to my surprise, the door of this dark place opened. It was Sister Therese standing there, bathed in the brilliant light of the room behind her. She moved aside and gestured for us all to come in.

When I had gathered my breath, I looked up at the source of the hubbub. Every sister who lived in this building was now in this room. Every sister but Catherine.

We sat down on chairs in a vast and well-furnished library, the shelves reaching to the limit of the high ceiling, a chandelier hovering in the centre of it. Sister Therese made coffee in a small kitchen behind an alcove, and two of the younger nuns helped her serve it. I could not help but frown in confusion. Coffee, at a time like this? Catherine could have died and I was about to drink coffee with others in a fire-lit library in the middle of the night? I restrained myself from an outburst. In truth, I could not afford to have one. My heart ached with every beat.

I studied the faces of the older sisters, and they told me nothing. With an ethereal calmness, they arranged the furniture and seated everyone, tugging on the sleeves of novices who were beginning to panic. “What is this?” I whispered, half to myself. Someone passed me a tiny cup of black coffee and urged me to drink it. It was Celeste, wide-eyed and more excited than frightened.

Mother Hildegard remained standing, and waited for us all to be seated again before speaking. Her face was grave as she sipped from a small cup. I looked above her head to the clock, my stomach lurching. The witching hour. I shook off the superstitious remnants and looked levelly at the room. The icons were still here: La Madonna on a small shrine beside a vase of daffodils, Christ hanging above us on his crucifix. I took a deep breath, reassurance allowing air into my lungs. The aroma of the brew comforted me with its familiarity. Although in recent dreams, home taunted me, the reminder of where I came from gave me strength.

“Sisters,” Mother Hildegard began, “It is late, but we cannot delay any longer. The Lord calls and we must answer.” The younger women glanced at one another, wondering what was going on. Some of them looked at me. “You are all here because there is something you share. I have spoken with each and every one of you individually, and I am certain now that everyone in this room is supposed to be here.”

“Sisters, Evil is upon us, and it has found its way into the heart of this order.”

Evil.

I didn’t breathe for a moment, making the gasps from the others all the more audible.

“Sister Catherine has taken ill. A demon has taken hold of her.”

I heard the words clearly. I could not believe it. I had been there, and yet I could not believe it. I thought back to her wounds, her state of mind, her wild eyes. Her fear of approaching the church.

“And now it knows,” Mother Hildegard continued over the heavy stillness of the room, “now it knows where we are, who we are, and what we’re here for.” Her eyes brushed over every face, but her countenance remained stern. “There is no time to hesitate. There is no time for fear. We must act, and we must act soon.”

“It is not a demon.” My words hung in the air, too far away for me to catch them and take them back. More gasps.

“Sister Salome?” Mother Hildegard asked, her eyebrow raised.

“It has demon blood, but it is not a demon.” I felt the heat of their eyes fixed on my face as I spoke. “I believe, Mother…”

I searched around the room for Father John, crushed when I couldn’t find him.

“Go on, Sister Salome,” Mother Hildegard said.

“I believe… that this is a vampyre.” I licked my dry lips, “And it is tormenting me also.”

More gasps. I caught hands making the sign of the cross in the corner of my eye.

“Please,” Mother Hildegard said, lowering her head slightly, “continue, Sister Salome.”

I clenched the small empty coffee cup in my hands, and I addressed my sisters. “I had a recurring dream,” I said, my throat tightening. I did not like addressing so many people at once. My cheeks burned. “Sister Catherine was there with me. And in the dream I had tonight, I realised why my friend is so sick, so tired, so pale. I realised why she cannot sleep. I saw the marks on her neck. Something is consuming her, by way of blood.”

Silence, interrupted only by the creak of someone’s chair.

“Please, tell us what else you saw,” Mother Hildegard said, sitting down. I paused for a moment, wondering how she knew there was more to tell. Then I remembered what she had said. She could not see, but she could sense. I had to tell her the truth.

“This creature tries to lure me to the church on the hill. In the dream I pass the grave of my parents. In this dream I am in my childhood village, but I am the only one alive. I go to the church… and…” I broke off. I couldn’t say it.

“Take your time,” Mother Hildegard said. Her face had softened, and she was leaning forward.

“At the church, someone had painted the doorway with the blood of a lamb. The remains of the lamb lie on the stone floor. Then… There is an altar. I cannot see it clearly, but the candles are lit so brightly, and there is a figure in the way of it.” I looked around. They hung on my every word. “The creature is dressed in robes, like a monk. I cannot see its face in its deep hood, but its eyes are bright. Unnaturally so. It knows me, and it tells me I have to stay. Then, it grabs my wrist.”

I pulled my sleeve back and revealed the marks on my arms. Their panic, though they did their best to hide it, permeated through the thickened air of the room.

“Tonight, the dream was slightly different. I went to walk to the church as I always do… for it doesn’t end without this part…” My heart beat furiously in my chest, threatening to crawl up my throat. I forced it down with deep breaths. “But Sister Catherine would not come with me. She was frightened. So frightened.” My throat caught, and I swallowed the lump that tried desperately to rise up. “And she collapsed. Her convulsions wouldn’t stop, and all I could do was pray for her recovery… while the wolves howled outside.”

“Wolves?” Mother Hildegard asked.

I nodded. “Demonic wolves. Red-eyed wolves. So close that I could feel their fetid, hot breath on my neck. In their howls I heard all of human suffering, and I was afraid.”

“And then what happened?”

“I finished my prayer—the prayer for the sick—and woke in the corridor outside your office.”

“Listen carefully, Sisters,” Mother Hildegard said. “This is our sign. Now it is time to act. Let us pray.”

We left our chairs, lowering ourselves to our knees. Mother Hildegard stood over us.

“St. Michael the Archangel,defend us in battle.

Be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the Devil.

May God rebuke him, we humbly pray, and do thou,

O Prince of the heavenly hosts,by the power of God,

thrust into hell Satan,and all the evil spirits,

who prowl about the worldseeking the ruin of souls.”

“Amen,” we said in unison.

There was a moment of silence, and with my eyes still cast downwards in prayer, I did not see where Sister Therese had gone. When I looked up, she was shuffling over to Mother Hildegard’s side with something in her hands. Something heavy. My mouth hung open.

It was a greatsword. I wondered how someone as frail as Sister Therese could hold such a thing, but she did. She carried it as though it was the Christ child himself, her chin high. She got down on one knee when she was beside Mother Hildegard.

“Sisters,” Mother Hildegard said, taking it from her. Frozen in awe and blinking several times to ensure my eyes were not deceiving me, I watched the long blade catch alight, its celestial flame brilliant and blinding as she held it up for all to see. If doubt had followed any of us into the room, its head had long been severed and reduced to dust. She brought it down with control, resting the tip of the blade on the floor. Her hands seemed so small on the long hilt as she knelt behind it, the glow of the celestial flame illuminating her face. She held on to it as though it carried no heat. “Welcome to the Order of St Michael.”

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If you’re enjoying Salome, you really would enjoy The Muldoon Mysteries series. There are currently two books (standalones) in this series. Click the image below to find out more about them, and find them on Tiny Worlds.

My books are now available at

Welcome to episode 11 of Salome. This is a Gothic Horror novel set in the 1880s and introduces Sister Salome, a young Italian nun who will appear in the 3rd Muldoon book. I started this serial to help you get to know her before the events of the next novel.

Last week, Salome, having only experienced the dream once before, experiences it every night. Then, Catherine appears in the little house in Turin.

Chapter 1

Book 3? I need to catch up!

Index

11

The dream recurred every night, and every night I beat my fists against the wall of the little house in frustration. I felt that there was a puzzle to solve, and no one could do it for me, or guide me through it. Sometimes I cried, sometimes I cursed, sometimes I circled the house repeatedly, trying to see what must have been there. No matter what I did, it ended the same way, the despair of my fruitless venture sitting heavy in my heart each time.

Every morning, the tiredness bore further into my body. I grew more exhausted as the day went on, but in my eagerness to prove that Father John’s faith in me was not wasted, I forced myself to sleep and dream again. To free myself for the following night, I made sure to confess my sins of the night before. It helped. I endured my physical training, moving on to the next task before anyone had to remind me. Mother Hildegard stepped back, watching me from a distance instead of at my shoulder. I enjoyed the newfound freedom, and I would prove to her that her trust was warranted.

I kept a little notebook at my bedside, and I memorised and noted down everything that happened in my dreams, even if they were the same as the previous time. I felt it was my mission to find the answers. I closed my eyes.

“Don’t go. You are here now. You must stay.”

The hooded man, his soft whispers somewhere just out of reach, echoed in my mind. I was at the stone cottage again. I’d once called it home, but now it was a recurring nightmare, with no clear exit available to me. Even during my waking hours, I felt him behind me, always quicker than my ability to move my head in time. His voice became the very air, the sky, the thunder in the clouds, as distant as the mountains. I looked out of the window up to the hillside. The church waited. It always did. But I would not go right now. I resolved to try something different.

“Why must I stay?” I asked. No one answered. The wind moaned softly in the cracks of the walls like it always did in this dream. I checked the rooms again, brushing my fingers across the beds and the furniture, in some obscure hope that they would tell me something. They did not.

Dejected, I sat down on the bed and fixed my eyes on the small crucifix on the wall. Perhaps God would tell me. “What is this for?” I asked. No one answered.

Something caught my eye. It was moving outside in the garden. I stayed where I was.

“Sister?”

She stood in the doorway of the cottage, her sunken eyes wild and frightened, the only animation in her thin face. Catherine. “Sister, is that you?” she asked again.

I nodded. “It’s me.”

I reached for her hands and felt them. Cold, but skin and bone. “We are dreaming,” she said, her voice monotonous. I studied her face again. What I saw filled me with mortal fear.

“When did you last sleep before now?” I asked, burying my panic.

“I do not remember.”

“Come,” I said. “We must go to the church.”

“Why?” She snatched her hands away from me, backing away.

“That is where the dream ends.”

“I cannot,” she cried, trembling. “I cannot go up there. Please, don’t take me up there.”

I held her arms as she writhed and sobbed. “What is it? What’s wrong?” She pushed me away, screaming and holding her head as she crashed backwards into the door frame.

When she looked at me, I saw only the whites of her eyes, until they closed completely. She collapsed to the floor with a thud, and I rushed to hold her.

Her head lolled as she lost consciousness, and my blood turned to ice, my heart denying what my eyes could clearly see. Marks on her neck. I shook my head. It couldn’t be. This was just a dream.

But then my own scratches were bleeding.

“Catherine,” I pleaded, “get up!”

The lightning came first, illuminating the horror in my arms, followed by thunder that felt so close, it could have been on the roof. Tiles came loose in the wind, dropping and breaking on the ground outside. I shook my friend and begged her to come back to me.

Then I heard the howls.

Wolves.

Froth poured from her mouth, her body convulsing.

“Almighty and Eternal God,” I began, gently putting her down on the floor. I clasped my shaking hands together. “The everlasting salvation of them that believe, hear us on behalf of Thy sick servant…”

The howling, louder with every passing moment, instilled such primal fear in my heart that it threatened to distract me from my prayer. I persisted.

“For whom we implore the aid of Thy pitying mercy, that, with her bodily health restored, she may render thanks to Thee…”

I could not help but look at them.

They were outside the house, red eyes glowing in the darkness. Screams of villagers that weren’t there, invisible flesh torn from their bones. The startling crack of gunshots that fired at nothing. The snarls of the predator in my very ears.

They want you to stop.

I would not abandon this prayer, even when the saliva of the fetid maw dripped down the back of my neck.

“She may render thanks to Thee!”

The winds around us rose, slamming the shutters of the house against the stone walls. I was forced to yell over the racket.

“In Thy Church! Through Christ our Lord. Amen!”

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If you’re enjoying Salome, you really would enjoy The Muldoon Mysteries series. There are currently two books (standalones) in this series. Click the image below to find out more about them, and find them on Tiny Worlds.

My books are now available at

Welcome to episode 10 of Salome. This is a Gothic Horror novel set in the 1880s and introduces Sister Salome, a young Italian nun who will appear in the 3rd Muldoon book. I started this serial to help you get to know her before the events of the next novel.

Last week, Father John and Salome read a passage from The Book Of St Scholastica. They read a passage describing the first sons of God. Salome asked what happened to them.

Chapter 1

Book 3? I need to catch up!

Index

10

He thought for a moment. “I do not know for certain. There are countless theories, and I do not doubt there will be more as time goes on and more scholars come to read between these lines…” his fingers tapped against the thick book, “but Sister Scholastica believes that their blood still runs through the veins of those who risk their lives to deliver us from evil. Those who are loyal to God, even without having been taught of his ways, or his words. Those who can resist evil better than most people, because they are born to see with preternatural eyes.”

“I thought Christ delivered us from evil?”

“He did. He died for our sins, but there is a theory that he was not the first son of God.”

I made an effort to close my mouth. My heart felt as though it was beating right at the back of my tongue. His eyes assured me that it was all right. I understood then, why I felt so close to this man, this tutor, this guide. Even without the cloth and oaths that brought us together, even without God himself and our service to him, we were kin. I felt it between us: a warmth, a bond of trust that required no proof. My eyes stung with the sudden rush of tears. He could see that I was trembling, and took my hands in his.

“Those of us who see, who feel, who do more than others can do…Look, what can you see now?”

I watched from a balcony, the hot summer sun beating down from a brilliant blue sky. The thunder of hooves so deafening they shook the foundations of the building, and I thought that I might fall. A woman, her scent—orchids—no, vanilla and cinnamon—held me. Mother. The mountains, green in the foreground and blue the further away they became. It was a special occasion. A festival, with flags and bells and ladies’ hair decorated with ribbons. I looked down at the people cheering, watching men in red sashes run. They ran, some screaming, some laughing, some stoically focusing on their breathing and romancing of the crowd. Bulls. Horned bulls stampeding through the narrow cobbled streets. Black bulls, brown bulls, glistening hides and mad eyes. Bells ringing from the towers. The breathlessness of fright in my chest, but I also felt the burst of joy, threatening to spill over. I felt an overwhelming sense of unconditional love for the woman holding my shoulders.

We moved swiftly through time to a First Holy Communion, with candles brightening an old Cathedral, the glass on the windows emitting rainbow hues of light on the pews. Then two people at the altar of a church. A priest in decorative vestments blessing a union. A woman in her best clothing, her face covered with a veil. Feelings of fear, mixed with love and devotion as he held her hand.

I heard masses, I stood in the sick room, the oppressive scent of white lilies filling my nostrils. I choked, the intensity of his broken heart sitting heavy in my chest. I stood with him at the side of her grave, watching them lower it into the cold earth, swifts shrieking above us, casting their angled shadows over the buildings.

Olella.

“You had a wife?”

“Before I became a priest, yes.” He sighed. “God was there for me, and I wanted to do something… help others. God was there for me in my darkest hour.” He swallowed. “It was a long time ago, but I wanted to share it with you.”

“Thank you.”

He nodded, as though he knew everything I was thinking. “Feeling what others feel is—it can be distressing, a heavy burden. I hope that I have not overwhelmed you. It can be too much for someone so young, so new to this, but I wanted you to feel what I feel.”

I did. A weakness in my chest still pervaded, sending its message of grief deep within my veins. A power that I couldn’t explain.

“We can do these things… They are not always as simple as sharing memories. We can see much more than this. This is how we seek out our demonic enemies. They cannot hide from our eyes, because unlike most people, we are born with the blood of angels in our veins.”

“I don’t…”

He turned the page. I followed his gaze and stared at the illustration. Men bearing celestial light, though they appeared human.

“The Nephilim,” he said.

“The Nephilim…” I repeated, bemused.

“The living blood of angels and man, yes.”

I said nothing.

He took a deep breath. “Though there are not many of us left, Sister Scholastica believes that this is where we came from.”

“But they were destroyed in the Flood, were they not?”

He raised an eyebrow and grinned. “Were they, though?”

I thought about it for a moment. Father John watched, and asked, “Do you know when they are mentioned in the Bible?”

I straightened. “Genesis… the Flood.”

“And Numbers,” he corrected. “They are mentioned twice, but you must remember Lilith is not referred to as having ever been a wife of Adam, or a specific demoness, and yet her existence we do not doubt, either.”

My stomach tightened, and I asked, even though I knew the answer. “So… the demons… they want us because we…”

“Are like them, in some way. We would be powerful if we were to fall, and there lies the temptation, as deadly as it is appealing.”

All made by God.

“And what about when they possess people?” I asked, the doubt surging. I wondered what sort of enchantment I was under, asking so many questions to a fellow servant of God who had just shown me the very power I doubted. The power I myself possessed.

“Claiming souls. It’s everyday work for them,” Father John said with a shrug. “We are more of a hunt. A chase with an irresistible prize.”

“So we can become one of them?”

He tilted his head slightly, pensive. “In a way… Think of animals in the wild for a moment, Sister. When the wolf consumes its prey, the prey dies in order to sustain the predator. The prey is gone forever once it is digested and has been used by the body of the predator. With the demon, especially if the prey is someone who has something they want—for example, our powers—it infects, and it multiplies.”

“Like a plague?”

“Yes, in a way. Everything that hungers consumes. Demons only come to this world to ensure that the legion is ever-growing. This battle has been going on since the Lord cast out the first angel.”

My head throbbed. “And if there are none of us left…”

He nodded gravely, “Yes, the battle becomes easier for them.”

“Father, why am I here?”

“What we are hoping, Sister,” he began, learning forward, “is that your cohort can rise up and do what is needed here. Demons plague this place like rot.”

“Mother Hildegard said she was looking for a natural leader.”

“And I have been trying to convince her that it is you.”

“She does not think so.”

He sat back and folded his arms. “Mother Hildegard and I share a great respect for one another, and it is quite often that we do not see eye to eye. However, I believe I am right about you.” He chuckled. “She does not like it when I am right. She doubts your suitability, and though I understand why… I am right. Salome…” He leaned forward, placing his hands on the table again. “I believe you are the one we need.”

I shook my head. “She does not believe that.”

“Your dream has started to convince her otherwise.”

“But I only had it once. It never happened again.”

“It will.”

“Father, how can you be sure?”

“I have faith in you.”

What tiny embers still sparked within my heart burned, ignited by his words. He had more faith in me than I had in myself, but I could not admit that to him. Not now.

That night, I slept. I dreamed again.

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Ways to support this fiction newsletter.

As well as the option to upgrade your subscription to paid, I do also have books that you can purchase as well as a ko-fi and paypal.

Ko Fi Tip Jar

Paypal Tip Jar

If you’re enjoying Salome, you really would enjoy The Muldoon Mysteries series. There are currently two books (standalones) in this series. Click the image below to find out more about them, and find them on Tiny Worlds.

My books are now available at

Welcome to chapter 8 of Salome. This is a Gothic Horror novel set in the 1880s and introduces Sister Salome, a young Italian nun who will appear in the 3rd Muldoon book. I started this serial to help you get to know her before the events of the next novel.

Last week, Salome told her superiors that Catherine shared her dream.

Chapter 1

Book 3? I need to catch up!

Index

9

After Easter Monday, my training began in earnest.

“The enemy never announces itself to you.” Mother Hildegard pulled the scarf tight around my head, covering my eyes. I stood in the centre of the gymnasium and heard her cross the room. “You must always be ready,” she said, her voice bouncing off the walls. It was raining outside, the hammering on the glass of the windows clearer now that I didn’t have my sight. I breathed slowly, listening. In the distance, doors opened and closed, footsteps coming to and from the corridors. The sawmill whirred in the background, but what was outside was of no use to me at that moment. There was something else in here with us.

The hairs on the back of my neck rose as I gently turned in the direction of a faint noise. The drag of coarse fabric, and the smallest creak of a leather shoe. Despite being able to hear them, I couldn’t anticipate the first attack. Two hands grabbed my shoulders. Dead in the first round.

“Again,” Mother Hildegard said.

Shaking off the defeat, I poised myself again. I’d felt his hands now, and I knew his scent.

I blocked the next swipe with my forearm, and, estimating the height of my opponent, threw myself shoulder-first into their ribcage. “Good!” Mother Hildegard said as I pushed them away and stepped back, ready for the next attack.

It didn’t come. Not for another minute. This task was tedious, and in my skirts, felt impossible; Mother Hildegard insisted on self-defence no matter how seemingly futile. He came for me again, knocking me off my feet with a tackle as I tried to step back. I crashed to the floor, saving myself as best as I could with my hands. He was still coming, the force of his body against mine pinning me to the floor. I yelped and hit his throat with the blade of my hand. My attacker rolled away, coughing slightly.

“Enough!” Mother Hildegard called. “That will do.”

I pulled the scarf from my face, still sitting on the floor. It was Mr Vickers standing next to Mother Hildegard, his hair dishevelled as he cleared his throat. “Did you know that it was Mr Vickers, Salome?”

“No.”

“But you estimated his height?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

She turned to Mr Vickers. “Next time, wear gloves,” she said, turning her attention back to me. “Tell Sister Catherine it is her turn next.” She followed me to the door. “A vampyre will not flinch when struck in the throat,” she said, handing me a vial of Holy Water. She eyed my crucifix and nodded, retreating back into the shadowed gymnasium.

The weeks that followed were as brutal as they were beneficial.

My hands bled from the cracks, the wounds forced open again after healing began. Only when Father John read to me or when I read to him did the pain subside, but it was always there. In the first few days, my hands were terribly swollen. I was grateful for my lack of hair or finery, for I would not be able to make much of my appearance. Every night, I would pray to God for the journey ahead.

Mother Hildegard said nothing more about my strange dream, but she told me to remain open-minded, and to make a note of any occurrences. I remained under her scrutinous gaze for weeks. She had softened towards me, but

Every morning, I would carry two buckets of water up to the second floor landing, and I would empty them into the pitchers in the dormitories. I went back down and filled them again until ten buckets had been emptied in total. “The Lord is my strength and my shield,” I said as I forced my jellied legs to climb the final step.

“The Lord is my strength and my shield,” I sputtered through sweating lips, stinging strikes and cramping muscles.

“The Lord is my strength and my shield,” I groaned as I rolled out of bed every morning before dawn to clean the grates.

I did not complain when the blisters on my heels burst, flooding my stockings and rubbing my raw skin against the lining of my shoes. I did not cry when I lowered my feet into warm salt water before going to bed. I did not whine when my muscles cramped and ached at night when I tried to sleep. I prayed, even when my knees hurt.

“Those who are strong of body will be strong of mind,” Mother Hildegard said, following me up to the top of the final staircase one morning. She startled me every time she appeared seemingly from nowhere. The woman was like a phantom. Perhaps it was simply a case of being unable to hear her over my own heavy breathing. I had never known such exertion. Christ met me every day at the top of the first floor staircase, his emaciated clay form looking down at me in sympathy. When my hands were free of the buckets, I made the sign of the cross to him, bending my knee, albeit slowly and not without pain. When my hands were occupied, I hoped that a nod would do.

In lessons that did not involve physical toil, my hands bled again with the impact of Mother Hildegard’s cane on my palms. A lack of focus, or an inability to recite what had just been read to me issued the discipline. She never told me, but she was always looking. Always scanning my face for some sign of… what? I could not ask. I simply endured. From the corner of my eye, I caught the shape of the only other student undertaking this exercise: Sister Catherine. I could not tell from her manner if the training was worse for her or easier having done it before. Mother Hildegard’s cane visited her hands more often than mine, so much so that I winced when I heard the slap. I felt terrible guilt of course, but it was oddly comforting to see that things could be worse.

As much as my body protested when it was time to carry the water again, I could not stop. “The Devil wants you to stop. He wants you to cry because you are weak. He wants you to beg him for comfort and reassurance.”

“The Lord is my strength and my shield.”

Satisfied, Mother Hildegard took the last two empty buckets from me, instructing me to wash and change before supper.

“It works, you know,” Father John said as I rubbed balm onto my hands. “You can’t keep a clear head if you’re physically weak.”

“I know.”

“How are your visions?”

“Nothing has changed since the one I told you of.”

“No other clues? No other signs?” He gave me a searching look, grimacing for a brief moment.

“No.” I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Sister Cecelia was long dead in my mind. The demon that lived within her body did not speak to me, or try to find me in my dreams. I amused myself with the thought that Mother Hildegard’s shadow had long occupied any space a demon could hope to hide in. She distracted me from thoughts of the hooded figure, and the figure itself did not come to me.

In truth, I was suffering too much from the training to even think about demons. I wasn’t sure if that was the correct thing to do, so I did not mention it to Father John. I collapsed on my bed in the evening, sometimes waking up at dawn still fully dressed.

The dream I appeared to share with Sister Catherine was of great interest to Mother Hildegard, but it did not happen again. I did not mean to distance myself from my dear friend, but what they told me of her past plagued my thoughts. What if the hooded figure was her? What if she scratched me? But the figure was a man, not a thin, wan-looking girl with chewed, bleeding nails. I suffocated beneath these thoughts as I ate my meals in silence, finding myself to be distrustful of every face I saw. Demons donning masks of angels and the mortal pure. My food often went cold while I was absent from my body. It happened too often. I feared I was being driven to the edge of madness.

“Your English is getting much better, but you still need to be able to read Latin,” Father John said, pleased with my progress despite my battered body. Latin, I discovered, was my least favourite language.

Unfortunately, the book of St Scholastica was written entirely in Latin. There were certain prayers and incantations that I needed to learn by myself, but I had convinced Father John to read to me still. On this night, we were talking of vampyres, because my head was filled with questions. I also knew the vampyre was a particular specialism of his.

“I am not much of a vampyre slayer these days,” Father John said as he helped me with my bandages. He said that he was a recruiter for the Vatican, finding new apprentices across the world. The furthest he had been to find a slayer was Argentina. “I find the new apprentices, and I stay with them until they are ready to continue their training without me.”

“Are all of the vampyre slayers nuns?”

“No,” he shook his head. “There are monks and priests too, but mostly monks in Eastern Europe. Many of the sisters are here or in the Vatican.”

“What about America?”

He thought for a moment. “There are members of our order in New York City, but I do not know of anyone else.” he cleared his throat, “Now Sister, if you don’t mind…”

I blushed.

“Nice try,” he said, smiling.

I laughed. “Sorry, Father.”

“Shall we begin with the book?”

“Of course, Father.”

We read some of the Latin on the pages, some of it familiar, some not. Father John would read it first, and then after discussion, I would try. “Pay close attention to this passage,” he said, his finger pointing to a paragraph of text as he read:

All evil fell from God’s kingdom. First, the most beloved of his angels fell. Then, the first children he made on earth fell. Lilith withdrew from the Garden Of Eden, taking her sin, her lust and her desire for power. In Samael, she sought a sire for her monstrous children. Adam remained, and for Adam God made Eve, but Lucifer had fallen first, and his agents were patient. The serpent, successful in its mission, had God drive his children out into the world.

I looked at him blankly, unsure of what I was supposed to learn from this. He gestured for me to keep reading.

After Eden was closed to man, the Nephilim came. Sons of God, though not cast out, made their homes on earth with daughters of man.

I looked up at Father John, unsure of what to say. He continued:

God tried to retrieve them, though he could not. God tried to drown them, though he could not. God tried to teach them, though he could not. But though all evil fell from God’s kingdom, not all who fall are damned. The children of the Nephilim, the greatest of men, drove demons away, casting them out into Hell.

“What happened to them?” I asked.

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Welcome to chapter 8 of Salome. This is a Gothic Horror novel set in the 1880s and introduces Sister Salome, a young Italian nun who will appear in the 3rd Muldoon book. I started this serial to help you get to know her before the events of the next novel.

Last week, Sister Catherine revealed to Salome that she’d been having a similar dream.

Chapter 1

Book 3? I need to catch up!

Index

I woke up on the sofa in the private dining room, Mother Hildegard’s concerned face hovering over me as someone else checked my pulse. The sulphurous scent of the salts faded as Mother Hildegard withdrew the bottle and put it away somewhere. Another face appeared before me; it was one I didn’t know.

“The doctor, Salome,” Mother Hildegard said, probably seeing that I was disorientated. “Dr Boughie.” Her face, still stern, seemed more patient than usual. Dr Boughie nodded and stood back up.

“Good morning, Sister. You happened to faint on a stone floor, so there may be some bruising, but you seem alert now. This is good. Nothing is broken.” The little white-haired man smiled and removed his spectacles to polish them.

I tried to sit up, but my arms couldn’t support me. “None of that, Sister,” said the doctor, waving a hand. “You need to rest.” He bent down and closed his bag with a click.

“How did I…?”

Mother Hildegard said nothing, and lowered her head. The doctor continued chuntering, clearing up his things and insisting on rest. Something about being no use to anyone. “What good’s a doctor?” he muttered.

Mother Hildegard squeezed my shoulder, “Excuse us, Sister,” she said, leading the doctor out of the room. They talked privately in the corridor, but I couldn’t hear any words.

My next visitor was Sister Bridget, in her hand a mug of beef tea. “Please drink this, Sister,” she said quietly. She sat down in a chair beside me as though waiting for me to finish. “Don’t rush!” she said, sensing my unease. “It was quite the fall you had.”

“Where is Sister Catherine?”

“She is cleaning the dormitories. She will be down to see you soon.”

“I must have frightened her.”

Sister Bridget nodded and crossed her legs. “Think no more of it. I am sure that Sister Catherine has seen more frightening things in her time.”

I drank some of the tea. It was yet another beverage the English had introduced to me. Mother Hildegard returned and stood over the both of us.

“When you can stand, we will escort you to your room, but for now you can stay here,” she said.

Sister Bridget looked from Mother Hildegard to me.

“Please may I speak with Father John?” I asked.

“Yes. He will be back by morning. Is there anything we can help you with in the meantime?”

I froze. They both looked at each other and then to me. “We can advise, Sister,” Sister Bridget said quietly. “Nothing is unusual here.”

“I had a strange dream.”

Their eyes met. Mother Hildegard closed the door and perched on the end of the sofa.

I hesitated. “Father John already knows.”

Mother Hildegard folded her arms. “You do not have to say what exactly… but what is this about?”

“The dream...” I lost my train of thought in the battle with the fog in my head.

“You can tell us about a dream, Sister,” Sister Bridget said kindly. “They are important.”

I hesitated. I remembered back to the muffled sound of a heated discussion, and I felt the unease squeezing my stomach. I did not trust them.

Mother Hildegard watched me, her features softening. Perhaps she knew.

“It is nothing,” I said, frowning. I did not want to talk about it. I wanted to talk to Father John, and only him, but I did not know how to tell this to them without appearing insubordinate or worse… distrustful.

But I had them both in the room with me, and judging by their manner, they were eager to apologise for my brutal treatment and exhaustion. There was no time left for subterfuge. I had to risk it. I decided that I would ask the questions. “Mother,” I began, steading the terror rising in my throat, “do you have powers like me?”

She seemed taken aback, but she did not look displeased. She tilted her head slightly in thought, “Not as strong as you, no. I can sense, but I cannot see.”

“And you, Sister Bridget?”

“Not at all,” she said, “unless sensing God’s presence counts. I am here as support, and I provide structure and moral guidance for the trainees.”

I digested the words, and wondered why none of this was explained to me at the beginning. I dared to ask.

“Why is everything so secretive, even though I have been here for weeks?”

“Sister Salome,” mother Hildegard said, folding her hands on her lap, “you must understand… What we ask of you is a great amount, and there is always a chance that you will not be suitable. The less you know, the easier it is for us to send you back to your old life. It is like this for everyone who comes here.”

“Why has Sister Catherine been here for so long?” I asked. I do not know where I found this assertiveness, but I was not disrespectful, and I felt that they were unguarded for once.

“Sister Catherine…” Mother Hildegard said, tight-lipped and looking down at her lap, “cannot ever return to normal services.” She looked at Sister Bridget, who offered me an apologetic smile. Mother Hildegard continued, looking right at me this time. “Sister Catherine… she originally came to us…” she lowered her voice, “as the victim of demonic possession.”

If I was standing, I would have collapsed with the shock. I remained still, watching her mouth move while my ears failed to process the full depth of the information.

“Sister Catherine was no ordinary child, as I’m sure you know. You are close to her. She was like you, but unlike you, she was not able to defeat the demon.” She cleared her throat, “The demon did not befriend her. The demon lived within her.”

I heard my own breathing in the silence of the room.

“But the demon was exorcised. She is cleansed, now… according to a letter from the Church,” Mother Hildegard said, looking up at the ceiling, “and I have never heard of anyone being possessed more than once in their life… but for our kind… it is a wound that doesn’t heal, so to speak. Sister Catherine… if she had been a normal child without these supernatural sensitivities, she would have returned to her family and probably been the wife of a farmer by now. But… the fact of the matter is that she was once possessed, and it would be too dangerous to release her from our care.”

“Can she fight demons?”

“That is unclear to us right now. She has undertaken your training programme seven times, and seven times she has failed.”

“Why?”

They looked at each other, and then to me. Mother Hildegard sighed. “We fear, Sister Salome… the remains of the demon still linger, and they seek to make her fail.”

“No!” I said, my animated reaction shocking them. “That can’t be true.”

“Why not, child?” Sister Bridget asked.

“She must be able to fight them.”

“Why? Why do you say this?”

“She… we had the same dream.”

Mother Hildegard learned forward, intrigued.

“I went to a strange place,” I said. “It was home, but not as I knew it. Everyone was gone.”

They encouraged me to continue. I told them of the altar, and the shadow. I told them of the hooded figure who grabbed my wrist and when I pushed up my sleeve to show them, they gasped.

“When was this?” Mother Hildegard asked, studying the scratches.

“Last night.”

“Yes, you slept and nobody could wake you,” she said, giving Sister Bridget a knowing look.

“But that was not all, Mother,” I said.

“Go on.”

“The hooded figure… it was in my room, and when I woke, Sister Catherine was there.”

Mother Hildegard hung on my every word, with a ripple of excitement running through her voice when she said, “Go on.”

“Catherine… She had the same dream. She was there, too.”

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If you’re enjoying Salome, you really would enjoy The Muldoon Mysteries series. There are currently two books (standalones) in this series. Click the image below to find out more about them, and find them on Tiny Worlds.

My books are now available at

Welcome to chapter 8 of Salome. This is a Gothic Horror novel set in the 1880s and introduces Sister Salome, a young Italian nun who will appear in the 3rd Muldoon book. I started this serial to help you get to know her before the events of the next novel.

Last week, Salome dreamed she was at her old cottage, but there was something wrong. Her meeting with a hooded figure in the church has brought her to the enemy’s attention.

Chapter 1

Book 3? I need to catch up!

Index

I met with Father John the following morning, my body exhausted from holding on to the details of the dream. He was on his way out, but seeing my face, or hearing my voice, he silently removed his hat and hung it back on the hook, ushering me into the dining room. Mother Hildegard was out with some of the sisters on community duties, and it was still early enough for me to finish my work before they returned. He removed his coat and sat down at the table, gesturing for me to do the same.

I told him of the night before, and the events leading up to it.

“Do you doubt your place here?” he asked.

“No. Mother Hildegard told me that I was not ready, and I agree with her… but I do not wish to leave.”

“Is there anything here that is troubling you?”

“No.” I was certain, but he eyed me curiously, making sure.

“When did this begin?” he asked.

“Last night. I fell asleep some time after returning from Mother Hildegard’s office.”

“Were you in distress of any sort? You did not come down for your evening meal, and Sister Bridget thought you ought not to be disturbed.”

They did check on me. “I am grateful. I needed the rest.”

He groaned, agreeing with a nod. “Mother Hildegard thought as much. So go on, tell me everything, if you please.”

He listened intently, slowly nodding but not making a sound as I spoke. I relived every moment of the dream, and every sensation.

“So,” he said, sitting back and clasping his hands together on his lap, “it was vivid? Almost as clear as this room, or you and I speaking now?” He raised his eyebrows.

“Yes. It was as real as this.”

“A dream?”

I felt my body collapsing in deflation, dragging my countenance down with it. He waved a hand, stopping me in my tracks.

“I will not suggest anything to you; it has to come from you.”

“What I saw was more vivid than a dream, Father.”

“How so?”

“Father,” I said, my throat catching. That had happened in bursts throughout the morning, my grief resurfacing each time. “Father, it was real.”

If he thought I was ridiculous, or sick, or hysterical, his face showed no sign. He took a deep breath, his brows fixed in a new pensiveness. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked away, but he did not look at it, nor did he ever reach for his pocket watch.

“Go on,” he finally said, still thinking, still listening. Waiting for new evidence to arise.

“I felt the dust. I felt the moist air on my face. I can still feel the stones underneath my thin shoes. There was a storm coming; it was evening, and the lights were on in the church.”

I told him of the blood, the lamb, the candles, the altar I could not see.

“Tell me more about the hooded man.”

“He was in my room, Father.”

He fixed his eyes on me, and pointed upstairs, “Your room here?”

“My room, here.”

“And what happened then?”

I told him of the sight behind me, and how I turned to look at him.

“Were you afraid?” he asked calmly.

“Yes.”

He sighed, and folded his arms. “How did you get rid of him?”

“I didn’t. He was gone. Gone before I could say anything or do anything.”

“Gone how? Through the door?”

“No. Just gone. Disappearing with a blink.”

“I see.”

He thought again for a moment. We were not due for a lesson until the evening, and I felt terribly guilty for pulling him out of other appointments to speak to me about some silly dream, but it bothered me.

“Could you smell him?” he asked quietly.

“Father?”

He leaned closer. “Could you smell him? Was there a scent? A familiar smell?”

There had been a smell. I passed the tallow of the candles and the perfume of flowers to retrieve it, but there was a smell, and I was no stranger to it.

Death.

While cleaning the stairs, I could hear the muffled voices of Father John and Mother Hildegard in her office. A heated discussion. I continued to work as though I couldn’t hear them, but Sister Bridget eyed me suspiciously and told me to hurry up. I wanted to know what they were talking about, but whatever it was, Mother Hildegard was not agreeing with him on several matters. She didn’t raise her voice, but like a stage performer, she could make it reach every corner of the building if she wanted to. Worried that I’d run out of a reasonable timeframe to be seen cleaning steps, I gathered my things and went to the next floor.

Upstairs, the dormitories were empty, and I worked in silence, the bristles of the brush moving back and forth my only sense of time passing. Occasionally, one of my sisters would come and go, greeting me quietly. Nothing seemed amiss, and they regarded me as they always did.

I did not see Sister Catherine until after dinner.

That night we cleared up in the kitchen. If anyone was to look in on us, we were in our usual good spirits. She was a dear friend to me, and we could talk about anything while we worked.

Sometimes, the scar that Sister Cecelia left ached, and urged caution, but Catherine knew nothing of my former life. She did not know what I had done. She did not need to know. I had talked about this at great length with my superiors, the guilt fading each time.

I asked Father John why I had been forgiven. Would an exorcism not have been better? But there was no need to exorcise a corpse. There was no soul to save. A shell. That was all she was. I caught a lump in my throat thinking about it: a lie that lived for years beside me. But it was God’s plan. I still believe it.

The shadows of the past hang to obscure the light only if we let them. I chose to pull them down and opened the windows, starting anew.

I felt a closeness to her that I didn’t feel with the others. Of course, we all worked and served together, but Catherine roused curiosity in me. Catherine made me laugh.

In the longer days of sunshine that often went hand in hand with spring, I could see her face in the fading light coming in through the windows. Haggard features. Dark circles under eyes that were never closed for long enough. Nails bitten down until they stung every time the skin stretched to accommodate movement. The candlelight had been kind to her. The sun had not. But no matter how hungry she was for sleep, the insomnia did not seem to dampen her spirits.

That evening, we talked about dreams.

“Do you dream much?” she asked me as she gently placed more plates into the sink. “You know, since coming here?”

“I dreamed…” I was confused. She realised and laughed, shaking her head.

“Sorry, I know about last night, but I mean… Do you dream often?”

“Oh.”

“When I came here, it was strange. I remember sleeping and dreaming a lot as a child, and sometimes before I came here, but not so much now. I wondered what it must be like for you.”

I did not know how to answer, and I did not like the way my gut responded to so innocent a question. Did I dream? Was what happened to me the previous night a dream? Why was she asking me? The panic intensified, and Sister Catherine was waiting for an answer.

“No, I don’t think so,” I said, disappointed with how flustered I sounded. I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand, and made the excuse that the water in the sink was too hot.

“Do you?” I asked.

She continued washing dishes, not appearing to notice my mild distress. “I do sometimes,” she said. “You know I have trouble sleeping, but sometimes I will have a little dream about home or what has happened that day.” She stopped what she was doing for a moment, her shoulders slumping. “Can I tell you about a dream that frightened me?”

I dried off some of the plates with a cloth and stacked them gently. “If you want to.”

“I think it would be of great help if I could just tell someone.” She sighed.

“Then tell me.”

She continued with her work and looked down at the suds. Her red hands and forearms moved in and out of the water mechanically as she spoke. “That night you saw me in your room… Was that only yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“It seems so long ago.” She looked down at her hands for a moment, her shoulders slumped. “I had a strange dream.”

“It woke you?”

“That’s what’s strange about it. I sleepwalked to your room.”

“What?”

“Sister, it frightened me.”

“Tell me,” I said, trying to steady my voice. “Go on.”

“I was in a village. It wasn’t mine. There are mountains in Ireland, but these were none that I had seen before or even heard of.”

“Have you been up a mountain?”

She half-laughed. “No, and this is why it’s strange. I knew they weren’t from home. You know how you just know something isn’t yours? Like a comb you’ve used in your hair that doesn’t drag right, or shoes that have been worn in by someone else. I knew the mountains weren’t mine.”

“I see.”

“I was in a little cottage, and those mountains… they were mountains around me. But the cottage was empty, and there was a storm.”

The shatter of the crockery on the stone floor startled us both. I looked down to see that it had fallen from my hands. I hurried to pick up the pieces before Sister Bridget returned to see what the noise was.

Sister Catherine crouched down beside me and assisted me. “You can’t hide it, Salome,” she said, almost in my ear. I turned to face her, our eyes level. What did she know? She smiled and shrugged. “They’ll know we’re one plate short.”

She looked down at my hands. “What happened? Was that the plate?”

We both stared at the scratches on my wrist, my world going dark.

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If you’re enjoying Salome, you really would enjoy The Muldoon Mysteries series. There are currently two books (standalones) in this series. Click the image below to find out more about them, and find them on Tiny Worlds.

My books are now available at

Welcome to chapter 7 of Salome. This is a Gothic Horror novel set in the late 1880s and introduces Sister Salome, a young Italian nun who will appear in the 3rd Muldoon book. I started this serial to help you get to know her before the events of the next novel.

Last week, Salome was given her training brief and a baptism of fire when she finally met Mother Hildegard.

Chapter 1

Book 3? I need to catch up!

Index

No one came for me that evening, or at least, not that I knew of. I slept through supper and evening prayer. I slept and I dreamt of many frightening things, mostly to do with Mother Hildegard leaving me on the dock, alone and unsure of which vessel to board for Turin.

But the dream that woke me in a panic was one of home. Not the convent, but my very first home.

I was at the little farmhouse, the rooms bare and long-forgotten, the windows empty of glass and a thick blanket of dust enveloping the mismatched table and chairs. No one had lived here since us. My bed, still in the little corner of one of the rooms, remained made, not even an indent to mark that it once had an occupant. Folded blankets, moth-eaten and mouldy, rested on a stool at the foot of the bed.

I peered out of one of the glassless windows and in the fading light of day saw the fields empty of animals. What remained of this place, only whispering grass and still, craggy hillsides, their sharp stones unmoved by the slow moan of the wind. The sky, heavy with the leaden tint of thunder, sat low on the mountains. Night was coming.

I retreated into the house and looked for a candle. I could not find one.

The cupboards were empty, my hands the only ones to touch their surfaces in years, my fingerprints decorating each edge like petals on a gravestone. I sat there for some time, my mind identifying where each glass bottle once lived, or where the playing cards sat. Like the sun, life that was lived here fell into the shadow of the moon, but there would be no dawn here. These people were gone. I was gone. The little child who once slept and dreamed in that bed was no more. I looked across to the other bed where he once slept. It was very much the same as mine.

Using my finger, I wrote his name in the dust. Francesco.

I closed the last cupboard and turned to look about the room, freezing when I caught sight of a shadow in the corner of my eye. Blinking to make sure I wasn’t seeing things, I slowly looked to the direction of the movement. Someone was outside, or so it seemed. A fleeting shadow of a tree in the storm, perhaps, or a trick of the dimming light.

I approached the front door and looked out. Nothing. I circled the house and walked to the empty goat pen, my shawl held tightly around my neck. The wind, more insistent now, blew northwards towards the churchyard, and I followed its direction with my eyes.

A little lantern glowed from within the graveyard.

What compelled me to walk up there, I did not know, but I did. There was something peaceful about being the only one there. Perhaps I wished to be alone and it came true.

I knew every curve, every dip, every jagged stone under my feet as I approached.

Father was here, and mother too.

The lantern rested atop their gravestone.

I reached for it, and held it down over the stone to see their names. Just two. This was where they would stay forever, and it was reassuring to see them, in some way. I made the sign of the cross and knelt on the grassy mound. I remained there for a moment, until another light caught my attention.

The church door was open.

The rain, falling with the heaviness and intent of spring, hammered on the steps of the church. I hurried inside at first but caution caught me, and I stopped in the doorway. In my hesitation to go any further, I held on to the wall and looked outside again. Only when I studied my surroundings did I notice a dark substance on the door, the posts and the lintel. I reached out to touch it, and it was so old that it flaked away.

Then I saw the bones and the blood-stained blade. The bleached skeleton of a lamb, laying exactly where the creature was left after sacrifice.

“They tried to stop it,” a voice said. I narrowed my eyes and focused on a figure near the altar. It was a man, standing in front of a candlelit shrine. Tall and hooded in dark robes like a monk, facing in my direction, though who he was, I could not see.

“Stop what?” I asked.

“Death.”

He approached me, and if he had been a man he would have had to use his feet to do it. He appeared before me, as close as I had been to the door. Through his obscured face, his eyes glowed, as unnatural as fire burning in pure snow.

I stepped back, but his long nails pinched my skin as his cold hands gripped my wrist in an iron vice. “Don’t go. You are here now. You must stay.”

That voice. So familiar a voice.

“Papa?”

Sister Catherine was by my bedside when I woke, gasping for air and desperate for water. The room was not lit, but I could feel her eyes watching me. “Sister, you were screaming,” she whispered. In the faint glow of the moonlight outside, I could see that she was wearing her nightgown, and her dark hair was cropped and brushed back. I did not know how late it was. She handed me a damp rag for my head. I took it and wiped the sweat away from my temples.

“Water,” I said, my throat too dry to resist the coughing that followed. She dutifully rose from the bed and fetched me a glass. I drank it greedily and demanded more.

It flowed down my throat and either side of my chin, dripping on to my habit that I was still wearing. I drained the glass and gave it back to her, shaking my head when she asked if I wanted any more.

“I am sorry for disturbing you,” I said, although I was not sure how I could have disturbed her and only her when she slept in a full dormitory on the floor above me.

“You didn’t. I was walking through the house,” she said. “I cannot sleep as well as everyone else; I walk up and down the stairs in the hope of growing tired.”

I realised that we had not spoken since before my meeting with Mother Hildegard. “Did you… did Mother Hildegard want to…?”

“She spoke to all of us, yes.” Her face betrayed nothing as she lowered her head. “I should have known he was a plant.”

“Why?”

She sighed. “I’ve been here for a lot longer than you have.”

“Two years.”

“No. Longer. I lied.” She turned her face away. “Anyway, now that you’re all right, I should get back to bed.”

“Thank you,” I said. I needed to change and sleep for what little time was left of the night. She rose from the bed and approached the door, turning to look at me once more. “I wasn’t allowed to tell you, you know.”

“That’s all right,” I said. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness and I could see her clearly now. She seemed pale, even in the cool glow of the small hours. Pale and sheepish.

She left and closed the door behind her. I undressed and washed my face at the basin, feeling for the towel and blotting my face with it. I looked up at the mirror and squinted, gasping when I saw it.

The hooded man. He was in my room, standing by my bed. I sharply turned to face him, but he was gone.

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←Previous Chapter

Ways to support this fiction newsletter.

As well as the option to upgrade your subscription to paid, I do also have books that you can purchase as well as a ko-fi and paypal.

Ko Fi Tip Jar

Paypal Tip Jar

If you’re enjoying Salome, you really would enjoy The Muldoon Mysteries series. There are currently two books (standalones) in this series. Click the image below to find out more about them, and find them on Tiny Worlds.

My books are now available at

Welcome to chapter 6 of Salome, a Muldoon spin-off story. This is a Gothic Horror novel set in the late 1880s and introduces Sister Salome, a young Italian nun who will appear in the 3rd Muldoon book. I started this serial to help you get to know her before the events of the next novel.

Last week, Salome learned the story of Polidori’s The Vampyre in an English lesson with Father John.

Chapter 1

Book 3? I need to catch up!

Index

As different as it was from life in Turin, my life in Liverpool was starting to fall into a rhythm. The days began early, and they ended late. I was frequently tired, but happy in my work.

It was an ugly city even in spring: the sky always a metallic grey, or when clear and blue, always windy. On the streets, we frequently saw beggars, some incredibly young. I had been given a map to guide them to the nearest hospitals or poor houses, but they already knew, and simply did not wish to go to them. The realisation saddened me, but we could only guide. I had no desire to force them, and nor did my sisters.

We would frequently walk around the area and return with watering eyes from the bitter wind. My veil flapped about so unceremoniously that I felt I couldn’t walk without one hand on my head and another clutching my robes. The walk up to Jamaica Street often resulted in a visit to the church, which was a welcome change from the breeze outside. Inside, the flames of the candles remained still, and their stained glass windows demonstrated no stress with the elements outside. I liked coming here. Sometimes Father John stood in for the priest and delivered mass; and as a few of us followed him everywhere like a gaggle of goslings, we went along too. It was a way of us getting to know the local congregation, not that we would serve them directly. I was always within a pod of the younger nuns; Catherine and myself, and five other girls.

Strongly encouraged by Sister Bridget to explore the city and take exercise outside like our older peers did, we would channel our reluctance by strictly sticking to the same perimeter of streets and return home as quickly as we could. Sister Bridget, not impressed with the short duration, would then take to sending us on various errands: the chandlers, for more candles, the grocer’s shop for wine, and the butcher’s for some chicken livers for the cat. She could not understand why we were so reluctant, and we could never tell her that our nervousness stemmed from one incident a few days’ prior near a row of warehouses, when we crossed paths with an unsavoury character. The assailant was a very drunk man who, whether he realised or not, opened his coat mid-ramble, revealing all the likeness of Adam under there. Sister Celeste screamed and made a run for it, the candlesticks swinging and smashing into each other as she altered her gait. The rest of us followed in shock, falling over ourselves as we tried to retrieve loose candles from the pavement. Sister Catherine, after a few days, joked that he would not have done that to the older sisters, for she was sure they carried thick slippers as well as sharp tongues.

Looking back now, I shake my head at the ridiculousness of it all. One would hardly believe that we were there to fight demons and vampyres, but a naked drunk man was enough to send us running home screaming. The folly of youth! Our silent promises to do better we made to each other by way of collective courage on the next outing, and the next. We never saw the drunk man again, but we were always prepared when we turned each corner. I was determined to help him, should I see the poor wretch again, but I never did.

The noise from the Mersey was a lot to get used to, as was the noise from the warehouses and factories around us. The thick smoke gifted me a persistent cough, but thankfully I was not ill. Perhaps the place had hardened me. I pined for medieval stone walls, old churchyards and woodland walks. I took silence for granted in Turin; now it was as rare as a white fly. Finding no such thing as quiet in this empire of steel and smoke, I busied myself with getting to know as many of my peers as possible, and by familiarising myself with every corner of this great brick house.

This building was never empty. My sisters were of all ages: the youngest being fourteen and the eldest in her eighties. Sister Therese, being the oldest and no longer able to go around the city on duty, served as the librarian, although I had never seen the library she professed to be managing. She seemed friendly enough, although she never responded to morning greetings if she wasn’t looking at you while you said them. Sometimes when the incessant whirr of the sawmill made me clench my teeth, I envied Sister Therese’s blissful gift of hearing loss. I wanted very much to go into this mysterious library and apprentice myself to her, just for a change of scenery. I suspected that it was behind one of the locked doors I’d passed on my first evening here, for Father John never came downstairs with his books; he always entered the dining room from the corridor.

Our house was not ornately furnished; it was as it was meant to be. The rooms were welcoming enough, and it was comfortable. We ate good meals in the refectory: eggs, porridge, broth and our own bread. Sometimes we would have a hard, crumbly white cheese they called Cheshire. It was mild in taste but it was served with everything. It lacked the tang of soft goats cheese, but I grew to like it. On particularly hard days, if I heard that we were having scouse, my soul lit up. I started to crave the mysterious brown bowl, whether it had meat in it or not. I still could not decide if I preferred the pickled beetroot to the cabbage, however. Sister Catherine would smirk when I scooped a tablespoon of each onto my food.

The other sisters slept in the dormitories that made up most of the other bedrooms. There were five or six dormitories on each of the upper floors. Father John had his own guest room on the ground floor near the kitchen. I was on the first floor in a tiny room. I wondered if I was kept separate until I was sure that this was the right place for me, or if the Reverend Mother was sure if she wanted me to work there. The little cat, Jethro, often visited my room, spending some time on the bed before doing the same across the dormitories. He was a wild but friendly little thing. It was only when I was bringing bed sheets up to the second floor once that I noticed he never went near the third floor staircase. Neither did I, but only because I was never instructed to go up there. It was not my home yet, and I gave it the same lack of independent exploration as any good-mannered guest. Jethro hurried past the bottom stair, or if he did stay, he would look up the steps with caution, sometimes darting away with a bristling tail. Every now and then, I myself stood at the foot of the staircase, but it was dark up there, and I was not invited. Storage, perhaps.

I used the time waiting to meet the Reverend Mother by learning more conversational English, reading some Latin, and when my mind was tired of that, I spent the rest of it listening to Father John read from the book of St Scholastica. He had insisted that I should try and read some of it independently, but his voice was soothing, even if the topic we were reading was not.

After a considerable amount of English lessons, I was able to learn more about my peers and their lives. Catherine was one of twelve children, five of them given to the Church. Her brothers were both priests in Ireland, and one of her sisters was also serving as a Benedictine nun in Liverpool, but not with us. She worked in another convent. Catherine asked about my brothers and sisters, to which I told her what little I could remember of Francesco.

“It is fortuitous that you dream of him,” she said one day, sweeping the kitchen floor. “I cannot remember my brothers. They were much older than I am.”

I told her that Francesco was probably still in Italy, but I knew nothing. “You are very easy to read,” she said once. “It saddens you.”

I could not deny it. I wiped away a tear and nodded. Catherine stopped sweeping for a moment. “I will pray that he is living with good people. Perhaps he even has a family of his own.”

“Perhaps he does.”

“Why don’t you try and write to him? Did you say that he is in Turin still?”

“Turin is where he most likely would be. Or Genoa.”

“Perhaps you could write to your Reverend Mother. Maybe she knows.”

If she did know, she kept it a secret from me for over ten years. The thought sat heavy as I wrung out my cloth.

It was a strange feeling: homesickness mixed with anger and paranoia. What if she knew? What if she knew and decided to never let me see him? I dismissed the thought. She would never keep such things from me. Reverend Mother loved me like a child, and I trusted her as I would trust my own mother. The separation was poisoning my thoughts and memories. I quickly brought the damp cloth back into one hand and went to work.

I would find out all I needed to know about my next phase of work when I finally met Mother Hildegard van den Berg.

When she returned to Norfolk Street, I was downstairs in the chapel. Two votive candles flickered on the stand: one for my mother, and one for my father. I did not have time to light more, as Sister Bridget came down to collect me not long after I’d finished my prayer.

Mother Hildegard’s office was on the first floor, the view from her window consisting of Queens Dock and the great, grey river. She was standing over her desk when I entered.

A tall, severe-looking woman, Mother Hildegard was silhouetted by the morning light outside of her window. “Good morning, Sister Salome,” she said, her voice high pitched and heavily coloured by her Dutch accent. She came from behind the desk and nodded to me. I replied in English, and her face broke into a smile.

“I see you have been learning English,” she said, “very good.”

I nodded.

“I have questions to ask you. Would you like me to fetch Father John to translate?”

“If it… if it is all right, Mother, I can try.”

“Very well.” She pointed to the chair and invited me to sit, returning to her own chair opposite. On her desk, there was a vibrant bloom of cut flowers in a glass vase. They were bright yellow, each with large petals and a frilled orange trumpet in the centre. I recognised them, but I couldn’t remember the name. Although with their colour they brought me an immediate sense of joy, they did not smell particularly pleasant. I tried not to notice them.

My impulsive tongue wanted to ask what was on the third floor, but Hildegard was no Father John, and I sensed I would not be permitted so many questions, especially when she had many for me.

She had been reading through Father John’s notes on my performance. I had not been aware that such a thing existed, but she read through it and raised various points with me. “You encountered a demon in Turin?”

“I did.”

“And were you afraid?”

“Mostly.”

“That demon came quite close to you, did it not?”

“I suppose so.”

“A yes or no will do.”

“Yes.”

She seemed quite satisfied and crossed her hands on the desk and asked me more questions about myself, my family and my life before Liverpool. “The work ahead of you will be harder than changing bed sheets or emptying chamber pots.”

“Yes.”

“I will be honest with you, Sister Salome: you are a stranger to me, and I do not yet trust you with the knowledge of the order. I am responsible for many lives, and I will never risk their safety.” She looked at me down her great, aquiline nose and paused for a moment. It was an uncomfortably long wait until she spoke again. “Even if you are one of us in body and soul, your mettle will be tested to ensure you’re the right fit for life here. At the moment, I cannot say that you are suitable.”

“Mother?”

“One moment.” She rose from the seat and went to the door, opening it. “Mr Vickers,” she called into the hallway.

I turned slightly in the chair to see who was coming. A middle-aged man in a great overcoat came in, his pipe hanging from his mouth. After a few seconds of listening to my heart pounding in my ears, I realised that I had forgotten how to breathe.

Mother Hildegard brought the man into the room. He bowed slightly and smiled. He was fully dressed, wearing polished boots and a flat cap that he then removed.

“Sister Salome,” she said, addressing me. I couldn’t take my eyes off the man. He was clean-shaven now, with his brown hair combed back in an agreeable fashion. “Have you seen this man before?”

“Yes.”

“He was drunk, was he not?”

“Yes.”

“And when you were faced with him, you ran away, did you not?”

We all did. However, the focus was on my actions. My tongue felt too large for my mouth. “Yes,” I squeaked.

“Mr Vickers works for us, Sister. Your first test was street sense, and you failed.”

My heart sank.

“When presented with a naked, vulnerable man on the street, you ran away.”

The shame burned my neck and my cheeks. I cast my eyes down, not knowing what to say. Mother Hildegard wasn’t looking for a response. She continued, “If a defenceless drunk man is enough to frighten you… what power do you have in the face of the Devil?”

“None, Mother.”

“None, that is correct.”

She politely dismissed Mr Vickers who bowed to us both and left as silently as he came. When the door was closed, she returned to her desk. “Do you see what I am up against? I have a pack of novice nuns who are just as much use as a chocolate fire guard.” she waved a hand dismissively. “At the moment, it would save me a lot of time and expense if I sent you all back to where you came from.”

I said nothing.

“‘I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me’... does this ring any bells for you, Sister Salome?”

“Yes. Matthe—”

“I do not care where it comes from,” she snapped. “I care about what it means to you. What does it mean?”

“That, just as Christ would, I am serving God through helping those who need it most.”

She sighed, seemingly pleased that I knew something after all. “While this incident was in no way a real incident involving someone in need, you did demonstrate that you are not ready. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

She sat down, her voice softening: “If you want to defeat what rises from the underworld, you need to be unshakeable in our world. This city is full of drunks, whores, beggars, pedlars, thieves and God only knows what else. You must be able to withstand anything it throws at you. What, Sister, would have been a better course of action?”

“To ask him if he needed help?”

“To insist that he needed help, yes.” She raised her eyebrows. “I was looking for a natural leader among you, and I did not find one.” She leaned back in her chair and linked her fingers across her lap. “Every day is a test, Sister Salome. Fail, and you will return to Turin.”

She studied my face, “Do you wish to return to Turin?”

“That was not the plan—”

“Yes, yes…,” she said impatiently, “but is it your wish?”

“No.”

She nodded slowly, not seeming to be convinced. “Very well. You may go now.”

I quietly returned to my own room, closing the door surreptitiously so she wouldn’t hear. I collapsed onto my bed, burying hot tears into the pillow.

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If you’re enjoying Salome, you really would enjoy The Muldoon Mysteries series. There are currently two books (standalones) in this series. Click the image below to find out more about them, and find them on Tiny Worlds.

My books are now available at

Welcome to chapter 5 of Salome, a Muldoon spin-off story. This is set in the late 1880s and introduces Sister Salome, a young Italian nun who will appear in the 3rd Muldoon book. I started this serial to help you get to know her before the events of the next novel.

Last week, Salome learned arrived in Liverpool, and tried Scouse for the first time.

Chapter 1

Book 3? I need to catch up!

Index

Sister Bridget was short, round and delightfully warm toward me. An older lady, the creases around her eyes were deep, because she was one of those people who smiled as often as was possible. I still believe to this day that our souls can speak, and hers spoke to me kindly. I received a brief, shaded tour of the building before she escorted me to my own room. There were so many stairs. Hard, stone stairs that were incredibly steep, and five staircases. I was young and fit, but I did wonder what would happen to sisters here as they grew older. It was more like a very large house at the front, but at the back there was a warehouse, a library, a gymnasium and several workrooms. She showed me the refectory—a long, glass-ceilinged dining hall. This was where all meals would be taken. The dining room I ate supper in was usually just for guests or private meetings between the Reverend Mother and other superior members of the clergy. The refectory was still pleasant enough; carpets were laid out across the stone floor, with some parlour palms adding character to the blandness. I imagined it would look more welcoming in the morning. We briefly stepped into the kitchen where I was shown the adjoining laundry room. I understood from Sister Bridget’s gestures that this was where we gathered our water for washing. She pointed to a pewter pitcher and basin, nodding when I went to it and picked it up. I was to carry it to my room, I understood. In my mind, I tried to make a note of where everything was in this labyrinth. We passed more rooms with closed doors, and she didn’t open them for me. I assumed they were of no significance at that moment, and could be explored another time. At this point, my purpose in this great house was still not abundantly clear.

The corridors were dark and still lit by sconces. I later learned that while electric light was available in some buildings in the city, the sisters did not have it within their allowance to install it in Norfolk Street. Despite the strange, new surroundings and the occasional thought of the demonic Cecilia bleeding onto the floor of her room, I was able to sleep for some of the time I spent in my new quarters.

In the darkness of the previous night, I did not notice that we were mostly surrounded by factories, with the river on the right when you looked out of the main entrance. In the daylight, it was a very industrial scene. There were no red rooftops like in Genoa. Everything was grey, or black. Even the sandstone which Father John informed me had once been tan, or even red, was now brushed with soot from the chimneys. The window in my bedroom was thin, and rather than wake to the sound of birdsong like I did at home, my morning herald was now the sawmill on the other side of the street. In my first week of living there, I felt the only trees around were the ones that were now being sawed up or fixed to the passing ships in the form of masts. I felt so small in such a large, busy place.

The nearest church was St Vincent de Paul on Jamaica Street, but Father John informed me that although we could go along to services and take confession there, we had a small chapel downstairs on the other side of the courtyard. We did not work in any particular church or chapel. We did not work in any particular workhouse or school. What we were supposed to be doing remained a mystery to me in the first few weeks. I had arrived in the middle of Lent, so I joined my sisters in prayer and fasting as we prepared for Easter.

I met the other sisters across the course of the first couple of days. Most of them were English or Irish, and aside from me now being able to say the English pleasantries such as good morning, good evening and the customary please and thank you, the language barrier prevented much further engagement. We would sit and sew together in silence, and of course prayer outside of Church was in our own languages, but I found myself listening intently in the hope of recognising patterns.

Language, I discovered, was only a small part of making friends.

Sister Catherine accompanied me during many of my tasks. She was Irish, long-limbed and regularly chastised for talking during periods of contemplation. Catherine was not disobedient; there was nothing rebellious in her demeanour, but she struggled to follow the strict rules of the convent most of the time. A raw impulsiveness was her personality rather than the desire to object. She had been there for two years longer than I had, and I think Sister Bridget understood her well. Rather than use the cane, Sister Bridget would simply instruct her to say more prayers in isolation, which she always did. Catherine could not speak a word of Italian, and my English was far from conversable, but there was an invisible thread that held us together as we washed, laundered and cleaned rooms. She was a plain-faced girl, sometimes with a vacant look across her eyes, especially during lectures. I wondered where she visited during those long hours. Sometimes when she was confined in isolation, I would sneak a biscuit or scone through the hatch. I knew that she liked them, and she often missed dinner because of her inability to sit still or be quiet for long periods of time. Sister Bridget caught me coming down the corridor once, but she did not challenge me, even if I truly had no business there. I always had a damp cloth in my hand, ready and waiting to testify for my plea of dusting out of hours. Sister Bridget, although she never said anything, knew it was a ruse; the corners of her mouth betrayed her.

Mother Hildegard Van Den Berg was not at home for a few weeks, and I depended on Sister Bridget for direction of my daily tasks. I did not require instruction when it came to scrubbing the floor, dusting or making beds; I had done as much in Turin. They did not like me opening the windows when I was cleaning though. One morning, a cold gust of wind blew in and knocked a vase of flowers over. The embarrassment was enough to ensure that I was more careful in future.

It was agreed that I met with Father John for two hours a day in the private dining room for study. He had chosen an English book for me to read. Though it was only short, it was a strange book, by a man named Polidori. With an Italian surname like that, I naively expected the book to be written in Italian, but it was written in English. Father John insisted that it was a suitable text for our studies, and that I’d grow to find it of use. The Book Of St Scholastica would have to wait. Father John read beautifully, always patient and checking to see if I was still following. As he had predicted, I found the story entrancing, and listened intently as he read.

It was always with the same unchanging face with which he generally watched the society around: it was not however, so when he encountered the rash youthful novice, or the luckless father of a numerous family; then his very wish seemed fortune’s law—this apparent abstractedness of mind was laid aside, and his eyes sparkled with more fire than that of the cat whilst dallying with the half-dead mouse.

Now it was my turn. Learning English was arduous. Father John would read a passage to me, and then he would show me the words, reading them slowly. I started writing them down in the hope that they would register easily, but he assured me that it was only when I started reading aloud would I get a feel for the language.

Aubrey’s eye followed him in all his windings, and soon discovered that an assignation had been appointed, which would most likely end in the ruin of an innocent, though thoughtless girl.

I saw again in my mind the girls laughing as they ran out of an alley in Genoa, and my eyes widened. I did not see the young man’s face that night, because he was hiding it from us. I remembered that I had seen eyes reflecting light, blinking at us from the darkness. What did Father John mutter? He must have been keeping us safe, and perhaps even the girls. Whatever he had said did not change the fact that I had seen one! A vampyre. The mix of fear, excitement and adrenaline bubbled in my stomach.

“They have always been around you,” Father John said. He could not read minds, he said, but he could read faces, and a face such as mine was an open book. “Since the dawn of time, there have been monsters,” he said. I thought of Sister Cecilia again. An Agent of Chaos, hiding in plain sight. Temptation lurking within the ranks of the most devout.

I continued reading with Father John.

His character was dreadfully vicious, for that possession of irresistible powers of sedition, rendered his licentious habits more dangerous to society.

“Father,” I asked, “are all vampyres… men?”

“Not always. They can be women also. In fact, a female vampyre can present a greater danger. Women, we see as gentle, and would let into our homes or near our children. If a woman is a daughter of Eve, the vampyress is a daughter of Lilith.”

“Can you tell me about Lilith?”

“I will, but now, we will finish this story.”

I found myself entranced by Polidori’s tale of the vampyre, and like a child I wanted to ask question after question. Father John assured me that there would be time to discuss the story afterwards. It was a dark tale, fictional of course, but I sensed there was more lurking between the lines.

“How did Polidori die?” I asked at the end.

“Polidori? The story is not about Polidori?”

“What if it is?”

Father John looked at me askance, “Lord, what have I done?” he asked. He sighed and closed the book. “Polidori was found dead in his home aged five and twenty.”

I gasped.

He nodded gravely. “They suggested it was natural causes… but Polidori was also a gambler.”

“The vampyre bled him dry,” I said.

There was a pause before Father John erupted into laughter. “Very good.”

I didn’t understand why it was so funny, until he congratulated me on my first use of an English idiom.

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Welcome to chapter 4 of Salome, a Muldoon spin-off story. This is set in the late 1880s and introduces Sister Salome, a young Italian nun who will appear in the 3rd Muldoon book. I started this serial to help you get to know her before the events of the next novel.

Last week, Salome learned that the demon is closer to us than we think, and the easiest way to meet a vampyre is to deny its existence.

Chapter 1

Book 3? I need to catch up!

Index

We arrived in Liverpool a few days later, or possibly a week. I find that I cannot reliably account for most of this journey. I was overcome with sea sickness for most of the passage North, Father John forcing me to drink something or eat something at any moment when the sea was calm. The Bay of Biscay was the start of it. The storms frightened me greatly, for I was far from land. Every hour thereafter was rough and difficult to get through.

I thought of nothing other than how very sick I was and how awful a sensation it was as I rocked in my little bed. Sometimes I joined Father John in prayer, but only when I could stand. He prayed and read to me at my bedside, mostly, or wrote letters at the little bureau. I was glad of his company, even though I wasn’t much use for conversation. A maid came and went, changing my chamber pot and occasionally my blankets, but it was Father John who remained at my side.

The wind grew harder and colder as we approached England, but whatever sickness plagued me alongside France now dissipated. I did not enjoy the change in the weather, because I did not have adequate outerwear for the volatile, wet spring that plagued this island. Dolphins as murky as the choppy waters accompanied the ship for some of our time in the Celtic Sea. When I could, I enjoyed watching them from the bow. We passed a place Father John informed me was called Cornwall, and then Wales, whose great mountains reminded me of those of home. The next stop was Liverpool.

I remember arriving some time in the evening, and the water of the river was as black and opaque as the sky above it. As we waited for the pilot to bring us alongside, Father John encouraged me to drink this hot beverage the locals called tea to stay warm. It was unlike any tea I’d had before: black with a faint bitterness. He informed me that the English enjoyed it with milk and sugar. I found myself desiring coffee more than anything else. I had a bag of beans from Turin in my bag, but I realised I had nothing to grind them with. He assured me that the sisters would accommodate me when we arrived at my new home.

Later I learned that the tea was to calm my nerves as we entered the city. It was a dangerous place, busy with traffic and traders. We passed several insistent hawkers and heavily guarded carts as well as ladies of the night who said nothing to us, but lowered their heads as we passed. They caught my attention most, because they were not what I imagined; they wore no paint on their faces, and they were fully dressed, grouped in twos or threes with their shawls held high over their heads, shielding them from the drizzle. I had heard of Jezebels and show girls who were loose and rouged, but I did not see them here. When our eyes met, I saw that they were just like me.

We walked on to a row of black carriages with drivers sitting atop them or standing nearby, the raindrops rolling off their caps and umbrellas. Father John waved to one driver and approached the horse-drawn box. The driver nodded and opened the door for us, taking our bags from Father John.

“Father, there is—”

He gestured for me to get in.

“Father, may I take confession?” I whispered.

“Right now?”

It had to be there and then. I felt weak, not physically but spiritually, as though someone was watching me, waiting to reveal my secret. “I cannot complete my journey unless I take confession,” I said.

He banged on the roof of the cab with his cane and gave the driver the address, and then he quickly closed the window, made the sign of the cross and turned to me. He removed his hat and sat down in the seat opposite, leaning forwards to hear my confession. He nodded, signalling for me to begin, and lowered his eyes.

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned. I have been hiding a shameful secret from everyone around me.” My tongue felt too thick for my mouth as I drew breath for the next sentence. “I cannot read.” I took another deep breath, steadying the thumping in my chest. “I have hidden this from you and others because I am ashamed, and I did not want anyone to think less of me because of it. I let my pride get in the way of the truth.”

Father John gave a half smile as his brows knitted in thought. “My child,” he said slowly, looking up at me again, “if the ability to read was all that was required to serve God and help you defeat the Devil, there would have been a very long line of suitable candidates ahead of you.” He sat upright and placed his hand on my head. Its coolness contrasted with the warm sweat on my forehead. “I absolve you of your sin in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, but I would advise that you do not let such trivial matters fester for so long in future.”

“Thank you, Father.”

The driver called the horse to a halt, and we sat there for a few seconds in the silent cab, the cold wind moaning through the gaps in the frame. “Is there anything else before we go in?” Father John asked. “Any more emergency confessions?” He raised his eyebrows. His face was kind, and I believe he knew that if there was anything else, I would have confessed immediately.

“No, Father. Thank you.”

He helped me out of the cab, my right arm clutching the book again as we collected our bags. He paid the driver and led me up a few stone steps, the top one with a black cat lying on it. The cat, probably frightened by our sudden appearance, immediately fled at the sight of Father John’s flapping black cassock and cape. I watched the bristled tail disappear into an alleyway at the side and turned to face the building again. I looked up, surprised to see no religious insignia on the brickwork at all. It had long, thin windows with white painted frames, just like most of the buildings around it, with several floors and a tall, black door like any others on the street. At the back was an enormous brick chimney, not too dissimilar to that of the factories further down the street. “This is it?” I asked. A lamp glowed faintly on the wall beside the door. I squinted and looked at a brass plaque beside it, but I could not read what it said. It was in English.

“This is it,” Father John said, lifting the heavy brass knocker. He beat it down on the door in three precise knocks.

I narrowed my eyes as I took in the contents of everything around me on the street, the stones of it glistening in the moonlight. The cab driver had gone and after the wheels rolled away, there really wasn’t a soul around. I did not know how far we were from the dock, but it was quiet here. My teeth chattered as I stood at the base of the steps. I was exhausted, and I needed to eat something.

The door finally opened, a small sister in her black habit looked up at Father John and then down to me. She seemed to recognise Father John instantly, and widened the door with an enthusiastic welcome. I did not know where she was from, or what she was saying to him. I assumed it was English, as he answered her in a way that she understood, too. We followed her into the house. wiping our wet feet on the mat as she closed the door behind us, stopping once only to let the little black cat in. I later learned that the erratic feline’s name was Jethro.

The sisters had been expecting us, but it was late when we arrived. The small sister took our coats and belongings and brought us into a small dining room with a modest fire lit against the far wall. My book was still in my arms, and she either hadn’t noticed the book or had thought to leave it with me. I placed it on a side table under the window and crossed the room. I was invited to sit down, which I made sure to do as close to the fire as possible without seeming as though I needed to get away from them.

They continued to speak to each other in English while I sat and raised my hands over the fire. The hem of my dress was wet, and my toes were almost numb. A painting of La Madonna rested on the wall above the stone fireplace. I looked around the bare-floored setting to see a crucifix on the wall above the door, and a tall cabinet filled with crockery and some simple candles. In the centre of the dining table was a lit candelabra, the candles halfway through their lifespan.

It was a welcoming dining room. I studied the crocheted tablecloth—made by the sisters, I supposed. Two places were set on the table: one for me and one for Father John. All of these assumptions were just that—assumptions, until I could speak with Father John and have whatever was being discussed translated. “Sister Bridget welcomes you, Sister Salome.”

I smiled and said, “Bueonesara.” It was all I could think to do. She replied to me in English, and bowed slightly.

Sister Bridget left the room, and Father John came to sit at one of the places set at the long table. “You are feeling the cold?”

I nodded.

“It takes some getting used to,” he agreed. “Sister Bridget is bringing some supper for us. She is eager to get to know you and make you feel settled here. I have not explained that you speak not a word of English—that much is obvious. You will learn it eventually.”

“Are there no other Italian sisters here?”

“You are the only one.”

Of course I was. It was just my luck. I sighed, and shuffled over to the place opposite him. “Do not worry. I will be here for some time, before I have to go away again.”

“Where do you have to go?”

“The Vatican. I visit at least twice a year on business.”

“Can you teach me English? Will that be enough time?”

“We will see.”

Sister Bridget came back with a tray carrying two steaming bowls and half a loaf of bread. She laid it down on the table and handed us each a bowl before checking that we had everything that we needed. Father John thanked her and I said thank you in my own tongue and then she left us to eat together. We gave a prayer of thanks before we dined, Father John delivering it in Italian, for my sake I believed. When I looked down at the bowl, I was confused as to what the contents were.

He laughed. A hearty, surprising laugh that made me jump. “Is everything all right, Sister?”

I felt my cheeks and neck burning with embarrassment. “Please, Father… what is this?”

“It is a local delicacy. They call it Lobscouse.”

“Lob…scouse?”

“A stew. Sometimes with lamb or beef, sometimes with shellfish or fish… whatever they can find. The vegetables are the same at all times, I find; potatoes, carrots, onions or leeks. But the meat? Sometimes there is no meat at all. In fact—” He held some to his mouth on the spoon, blew it slightly and then ate it. When he had swallowed it, he slapped his lips together and said, “It is the end of the month I suppose. No money left in the budget for meat. They still made it with a beef gravy though, so I suppose we should count our blessings.”

Sensing that I wasn’t keen on the brown, lumpy meal before me, he sliced some bread, spread some butter on it and handed it to me.

I ate it without thinking. I then broke into a choking cough thanks to the surprising taste. It was not butter on the bread. I quickly drank some water and swallowed. “Ah,” Father John said, realising what the issue was. “That’s beef dripping. Very good for you.”

I remained still. It was very probable that if I remained in Liverpool, I would never taste olive oil again, or freshly-churned butter. He pushed a small glass jar toward me and removed the lid. “This, I find, will brighten up your scouse.”

“What is it?” I peered down at the bright red contents of the jar. The vinegary sourness made me salivate but at the same time, I was repelled by the acidity.

“Pickled red cabbage. Very good for you, also.”

“Is everything pickled in this way here?” At home, we had pickles, but they were mostly in oil. The pickled foods in Liverpool were tangy, and as delicious as they were eye-watering.

He thought for a moment. “Most things. Pickled, canned, dried… you can get fresh fruit and vegetables of course, but there are no fresh olives or lemons carted up here often.”

“Do they have canned tomatoes?”

He shook his head. “My child, you remind me so much of myself when I first came to this bleak place. You will find comfort in the food eventually. It seems to help you withstand the climate. There are many here who thrive on this kind of sustenance.”

“I am sure.”

“I will tell you what we do have plenty of here, however.” He looked at me levelly. “Garlic.”

I did not understand. “You will understand soon enough,” he said, seemingly reading my mind. Perhaps he could read my mind. My belief in all things strange and even improbable was growing. No longer could I afford to doubt.

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Welcome to chapter 3 of Salome, a Muldoon spin-off story. This is set in the late 1880s and introduces Sister Salome, a young Italian nun who will appear in the 3rd Muldoon book. I started this serial to help you get to know her before the events of the next novel.

Last week, Salome travelled to Genoa and then on to the Vittoria as she began her journey to Liverpool. This week, she talks with Father John about demons and their spawn: the vampire.

Chapter 1

Book 3? I need to catch up!

Index

I only knew one book: The Bible. I knew it well from childhood. It had been read to me. I could recognise the names of each gospel, and all my life I had tried so hard to memorise each passage but now I carried with me a new book; one I must know well as I soon learned that my very life would depend on it. I knew Latin and my native Italian, but only by the grace of my ears and my tongue. My eyes had never been able to pin down the words as they darted off the page, refusing to return when I demanded it.

I prayed to La Madonna, the once-hot tears long since dry and burning the skin beneath my eyes. I prayed several times, and washed for supper.

“You look tired,” Father John said when I joined him in the dining room.

“I am afraid,” I said quietly, the rhythmic clinking of the cutlery around the room unmarred by my whispering revelation.

“That is understandable,” was all he said, placing a piece of goat’s cheese on a slice of ciabatta, handing it to me. “You must eat, though.” A faint smile stretched out from his thin lips. “We can’t always be courageous when we’re hungry.” He was drinking grappa, but he poured out some wine for me.

“I haven’t slept for days,” I said.

“Then you must sleep.”

“The fear keeps me awake.”

“Then you must pray.”

I did pray. I said every prayer in my rosary but I supposed that without it, the insomnia and dread could have been unlivable. I ate my food and pondered, sipping the wine to wash it down.

“Enjoy the wine,” he said. “Where we’re going, you won’t get wine like this again.”

Another thing to live without, I thought. His inquisitive old eyes bored into me, as though he knew what I was seeing. The spectre of Cecilia stood against the back wall of the dining room, watching me. She did not smile, nor she did her face bear any particular look of emotion. She remained as still as the furniture. I focused on the meal before me, letting her fade into my peripheral. “How did you find your cabin to be?”

“Comfortable,” I said. The ciabatta was soft and warm, but the meal went down with a finality. There were many of us who left our homeland for a higher purpose, and I wondered if they had all felt the same as I did now.

Father John was a Spaniard by birth. He told me that his name was Juan Fernandez Ruez, but he chose John when he was ordained. “Most of my work is in England,” he said. “It was simpler to be John.” He was an old man, but I did not know how old. I had not known my father beyond the age of four. I had never met my grandfather, so I assumed he was somewhere in between them in age. He was a reserved man and what the English would call a man of few words, but I felt safe in his company. “You must also learn to speak English,” he said, tearing bread.

“That is all they speak?”

“Yes. The Irish in the workhouses will pretend that they don’t speak it,” he said, taking a bite of his bread. I waited for him to swallow it and continue. “But everybody does.”

“Is it a simple language?”

He laughed wryly. “No, but you will manage.” Father John knew many languages: Spanish and Latin of course, but also English, Italian, and French. I admired his skill, and I felt that I was so far behind in proficiency, I would never catch up. Languages and the pronunciation of words were exciting to learn. Reading and writing were not.

I buried the panic of facing yet another fortress to penetrate and ate some more food.

“What do you know of Liverpool, Sister?” he asked.

“I have never heard of it before this week. I know very little.”

“Then I must prepare you.”

He told me of the industrial cities of England, and how they were some of the poorest, most deprived parts of the modern world. I pitied the people. Unlike the poor farmer, they did not have clean water or fresh air, or have space between houses for sanitation. Through him, I learned that Catholics had been persecuted there for centuries, only recently gaining emancipation a few decades before. He told me all he knew about this country; of the Protestants and the Catholics and how they differed when it came to education provision, how Benedictine nuns came to the city to educate and support the Catholic community there, and how there was still much more to do. “It is no longer a Catholic country like yours or mine,” he explained. He told me of the factories and the child workers, the influx of the Irish, and others from around the continent, of the fallen women and the opiates. It sounded like a troubled place. My heart was heavy, bringing my mind back to the beaten woman on the streets of Genoa.

“Like Genoa?” I asked, trying to envisage the port in my mind.

He shook his head gravely. “Genoa, it is bad. Liverpool… much worse.” He smiled apologetically. “Much more sin.”

And it appeared that there was much more to talk about. Much worse to talk about.

We decided to walk around the deck for half an hour before bed to speak of the things we couldn’t say in front of the other passengers. “Sister Salome,” Father John said in a soft, lowered voice, “Tell me about the demon that possessed your friend.” We stopped for a moment, letting two other passengers walk ahead. My friend, as far as I knew, was behind us. I did not look at her.

“She changed.”

“Around everyone, or only you?”

“I think she thought she was the same in front of everyone, but she did not know what I could see. I saw it in her face. Her eyes. Her manner.”

“How so?”

I thought about it. It was hard to explain, especially given that there were no obvious outward changes. It was as natural as identifying that the wind had changed direction, but it was only evident to me. “The voice she spoke with was not her own. The light around her had changed colour. She would talk at length to herself in her room.”

“Talk about what?”

“I could not always hear. It was more that her voice changed, depending on who was speaking. She spoke often to this demon, and it to her. I suppose she became quite withdrawn from us. Cecilia was amiable. She could talk to anyone, and make them feel welcome.”

“And what about you? Were you amiable?”

“No,” I said bluntly. Father John laughed and shook his head.

“Honesty. It is refreshing.”

“Father?” My confusion made him laugh even more. Until then I had believed that everybody was honest. Then I felt the guilt set in when I remembered I hadn’t confessed my illiteracy. I was honest about what I’d done to Cecilia, but that did not atone for the fact that at that moment, I was still a liar.

“Does she haunt you still?” he asked.

“Always.”

He gazed up at the starry sky as I turned to look back in the direction of Genoa, but it was gone. I could see the last of Corsica to my left, its black silhouette outlined by the full moon, though at the time it could have been anywhere, my geography was so poor. I listened to the hum of the propellers below as they thrashed at the water, leaving white trails of foam in the Ligurian sea. The wind was calmer now, giving my skin a chance to recover from the strain of the elements and the salt of my tears. We moved on and continued strolling across the deck.

“How did you know?” he asked.

“I could sense that a demon had taken over,” I said. “I do not know its name, but I assumed it was the Devil himself.”

“Why?”

“It knew my name.”

“It could have known that from your friend.”

“No, Father,” I said, my pulse quickening. “It knew my name from before I became a nun.”

“Your Christian name?”

“Not even that. The name my mother called me. I was baptised Maria Salome, but she never called me that. She called me Lucciola.”

“Lucciola… I am not familiar with that name. What does it mean?”

“Firefly.”

He paused. “The Devil and his agents know us just as God and his angels do. That is how they tempt us, and lead us astray. They act as an ear who will listen, and they know you intimately. How else can they get under our skin? Do you tell strangers of your innermost desires, your fears?”

“No.”

“Do you tell them all about your life and your family?”

“It depends, Father.”

He waved his hands. “Begin again, Sister. Pretend for a moment that we are not clergy. Pretend we are simply two lay people, and you are not fortunate enough to have a family priest. Try, even if it is hard to mentally remove the habit for a moment. You are not a nun, but you are troubled and alone. If you are surrounded by strangers, do you go to them with your problems?”

“Probably not, no.”

“No,” he agreed. “And you would not go to them first for help if you knew there were people more familiar to you near, would you?”

“Not necessarily.”

“Now pretend you have no one you know around you, and you are troubled. You have many sins in your heart, and you cannot seem to stop yourself from committing more. They are so plentiful now that you fear judgement if you go to God. Let’s say that you are desperate, and you do come across someone. They are kind and they listen to you, then they promise they can help. They accept you for who you are and what you’ve done. They can take your troubles away. They seem to care and ask for nothing in return. They would be easy to talk to, would they not?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

“Are you more likely to talk at length to someone like that about your troubles?”

“Yes. They would be like a friend, or a family member.”

“Yes. That is when the Devil strikes. What I said about asking for nothing in return: Sister, if you lend your ear to someone suffering, you ask for nothing in return. You give, because God has given you his love and you use it to bring his love to others. That is where the demon is different. After the demon has given so much, they lay out their fee. They have ensured that you only go to them, because you could not possibly put your trust in someone else. They know your secrets, your sins, and your shame, but they do not encourage you to repent. They let you indulge them. They make you feel justified in your decisions, excused for your behaviours. They tell you what you want to hear. You don’t need anyone else when you have them. Why go to God when this demon knows you better than you know yourself?”

“But God… God is there.”

“God is not. If you can only put your trust in a demon, you have shut God out. You gave in to fear and shame and self-pity instead of speaking to God. You didn’t turn to him first. Do you see?”

“I think so.”

“The Devil is the master when it comes to finding our weaknesses, our shame. But if we turn to God first, we are stronger, because he will give us his strength whenever we need it. He loves us unconditionally. Did your friend lose her trust in God?”

“I don’t think so.” I realised then that I didn’t know. I only knew of her what she had told me. “I don’t know.”

He grunted. “Where did she come from?”

I stopped. “A town in the south called Montepadoro.”

“No such place exists.” He tilted his head sympathetically.

As I said, my geography was poor. I gasped and held on to the rail. “It was not your fault,” Father John said. “You were tested. The test was particularly difficult, and you still chose God.”

“I murdered a woman.”

“A demon.”

“No.” I shook my head, the tears falling again. “She was possessed.” It sounded more like a plea than a statement.

“She was not.” He cleared his throat. “The young woman she claimed to have been was Monica Modigliana, who committed self-murder in Alessandria. The year was 1879. Her grave was never occupied.”

I stared at him, open mouthed and trying to find the words to say. A demon, not a woman. Not a sister I befriended and loved. I looked around, trying to find the ghost of her on the deck. It was gone. The spectre of my guilt.

I slumped against the side of the ship. Father John caught my arm and escorted me to a bench. “When that young woman rejected God’s gift of life, she offered herself as a vessel for a demon. A demon that found its way to you.”

“Why? Why did it want me?”

“You have a gift. A gift that is a great threat to them. They need to be rid of you, for you disrupt their chaos.”

“And you?”

He nodded. “Me also, my child.”

“Are you not afraid?”

“No,” he said calmly, smiling. “God is with me.”

I felt weak. My friendship had been a lie. “I told her so much.”

He shook his head. “Do not fret about that. She would have known all about you anyway. People like us are on a list somewhere… I believe it.”

“But she took communion?” I couldn’t accept the truth.

“It is only the blood and body of Christ to those who accept God. To her, it will have simply been bread and wine. If she was even affected—which I don’t believe is possible—she would have earned a mere blister on her gullet for coming so close, but it will not have had much impact. They are fallen angels or the spawn of them, remember. Made by God, just like us.”

The realisation of how close we came every moment to our own destruction pressed on my mind. A flitting paranoia coloured my thoughts; had I known demons all my life? Were there demons around me at that moment? I looked at Father John and back at the wooden planks of the deck. There was nobody around, but I understood then that there could always be, if I wanted that.

“Father, she had a crucifix in her room. Does that not hold power over the fallen?”

“Sometimes.”

The myth of vampyres and werewolves blurred with what I’d learned of demons, and my mind was overflowing with questions. “What happens to them when they are near a crucifix?” I asked.

“The demon can last a surprisingly long time in the face of a crucifix.”

It was upside down in her room when no one was looking, but she let me see it. It was the way she needed it to be, but she could stand near it. She could touch it.

“But… I thought it could ward off evil?”

“I know what you are thinking of,” he said. “Prayer and our symbols of the faith can indeed push back the dark…” He looked around, his expression solemn, his voice lowered even more than I thought was possible, “And there is one creature a single crucifix can weaken.”

“Father?” A number of names made their way to my mouth, but none ever stepped onto my lips to make the leap.

“Sister Salome,” he said, “what do you know of the vampyre?”

“The vampyre?” I asked, dumbfounded. I had heard of the myth, as had everyone in the world, I supposed.

He offered out his hand and helped me back onto my feet. I accompanied him for another slow walk around the top deck, inhaling the sea air deeply as though it would wash out the dread in my bones.

“You have learned of vampyres, yes?”

“What are they, exactly?” My voice was surprisingly high-pitched from the adrenaline. “I believe that they exist, but I do not know them as well as I ought to.”

“Good.” He looked at me sternly. “You must never question the existence of the vampyre. The easiest way to discover if the vampyre is real is to question its existence. The proof will be swiftly delivered.”

I stiffened. “Then, what should I know about them?”

“They are creatures of the night. Born in the darkness. In a way, they are the offspring of the demon.”

“How so?”

“Demons make them.”

“How?”

“By giving a mortal man their blood,” he said, “and taking their soul in return. They are different from their sires. The vampyre cannot step foot on hallowed ground, or enter a church, or see the sun. A crucifix or holy water can render them to nothing more than dust. The demon can play the human for as long as is needed to achieve its goal, but the vampyre is simply the monster that stalks us in the dark. It has no power in God’s light, or against those who carry His light into battle. But it is very much like the demon in the way it tempts us to become its prey or worse… one of them.” He looked around at the cool, clear night. “They are cruel, and some are so powerful that they can torment the mind of any mortal. Just think of what they could do if they turned a mortal like you into one of them.”

The thought chilled me. “They drink blood, do they not?”

“The blood of men, women and children, yes.” He sighed. “This is the most common kind of vampyre I am telling you about, of course. There are other, rarer kinds in your book.”

“I see.” The book again. I memorised as much as I could about the origin of the vampyre and why they existed, but I was going to have to address the pressing issue sooner or later, I felt.

“If there are vampyres, why am I not going to…?” I couldn’t remember the name. “Up in the east… Carpathian mountains.”

“They call it Romania now. And there are plenty of us already in that part of the world.”

“Us?”

He nodded.

“There are more like us?” I do not know why I was so reluctant to believe it. Father John had been clear about his own powers, and I accepted that; however, I had been the only one with my abilities for the last eighteen years of my life. Reverend Mother could not see more than the average eye, even though she was sympathetic to my experiences. She knew of my second sight, and accepted it, much as she would have accepted one had had a visitation from La Madonna or presented her with bleeding stigmata.

“Many,” said Father John. “Though they are not all in the clergy. And not all who fight demons need to be able to see them.” He looked ahead. “There are many like you, yes.”

“But why Liverpool?”

“I believe that all will be explained to you when you arrive, but you must know that every one of us with these powers are in danger, all of the time. You can no longer hide behind the ancient walls of Turin. The world is a dark place, and they are waiting for us.”

“Who are they, Father?”

“Agents of Evil, my child.”

Not only did I have to fight for my life, but also my soul.

Father John, even if he was with me in conversation, seemed to always have an eye and an ear elsewhere. I noticed it now that he was standing in front of me. I wanted to ask him what he heard. What was out there? But I did not want to hear the answer.

“Are we going straight there?” I asked.

He nodded, his eyes cautiously looking around. “Yes.”

Good, I thought. I did not want to see any more ports until we got to this mysterious city on the River Mersey. We continued walking as I asked more questions about the order who were stationed in the city. “I have not been there for a few years, but Sister Hildegard van den Berg will be your head tutor.”

I wondered what she was like, and whether she would be as kind as Reverend Mother back home. Home. That word again. It made me feel sick with longing. I wondered when the pain would end.

He stopped, putting a hand out to stop me also. The wind had dropped. “We must now retreat to our cabins, Sister.” He turned to look at me. “Are you wearing your crucifix?”

“Always.” It was cold against my skin. I lifted it out and placed the chain beneath my collar. He nodded in approval. “You wear it above your habit at all times.”

He escorted me to my cabin, looking over his shoulder once or twice in a way that made me sense something was wrong. “If there is anything else that you need, you call for me.”

“Goodnight, Father.”

I closed my cabin door and locked it, removing my veil, hanging it on a hook. I moved the book to the small table beside the bed, changed into my nightdress and sank beneath the woolen blanket. I lay looking at the ceiling for some time, the creaking of the strange ship as it rocked side to side delaying sleep while the whirr of the propellers encouraged more thoughts. I heard footsteps patrolling the deck outside and I realised that Father John had not said to go to his cabin. He simply said, “Call for me.”

The reassurance of his patrolling presence made my eyelids heavier than they had been for some time. I drifted off to the calming rush of the waves against the ship.

In the same stretch of luck that I had had in being able to sleep, I was fortunate enough to dream. I enjoyed waking from a dream, even if the dream did not particularly evoke feelings of joy or security. I suppose that even though life had not gone as I had hoped it would, I was grateful to be alive. I was grateful to serve a purpose beyond fulfilling my own sad, unachievable desires.

I dreamt I was with my mother. We lived in a small village not far from Turin. My parents kept a small farm, rearing goats and sheep in the Italian Alps. In this dream, it was a summer morning and my father was alive. These dreams were often bittersweet, as no amount of hope could bring any of them to life, but I enjoyed being with them again, if only for a dream. I basked in the warmth of my mother’s arms as she held me and sang to me. I felt my father’s rough hand stroke my cheek as he kissed me goodnight or wished me good morning. I smiled every time I heard my brother’s laugh. I could still feel the wiry hairs of the goats as I went to milk them in the yard, my tin bucket rattling against my little legs. They would try to eat everything, even my little dolls. Once, when milking a nanny goat, I knocked a bucket over by accident. My mother scolded me, and my clothes were soaked in spilled milk, the new scent on them growing worse as the warm day went on.

Our little hamlet was a happy home, until disease came.

It took my father first.

Then after some hard winters, it returned for my mother.

I was eight years old when she lay on her deathbed, begging the Church to take me and my brother, the white bones of her hands protruding through translucent skin as she clutched the priest’s hand. I remember the look of sorrow in his eyes as he read her her last rites. He said he would do all that he could, and he did.

He was able to find a place for us, but not together. Francesco was eleven, and—they argued—old enough to be at work. They would find him an apprenticeship in Turin, they said. I would go to an orphanage.

I walked down the little lane behind the elderly nun who had come to collect me with her donkey and cart that waited at the foot of the hill. My small bag with everything I owned in the world lay half-empty on my shoulder. I turned to look at our little stone house one more time. Francesco stood on the doorstep, his bag also packed and ready to go with his new guardian. He raised one hand, his sun-tanned face taught and his lips narrow and pale. I did not recognise it then, but now I see that he was trying not to cry. I never saw him again.

When awake, I would always experience these memories with sadness in the pit of my stomach, but this was a dream, and in this dream there was no sickness. My mother wasn’t thin and weak, coughing blood into her handkerchief. My father’s body did not lie cold in the churchyard on the hill; he was alive and strong, herding his goats and sheep up and down the craggy hillsides until it was time to come home for supper. I hoped that this is how they were up in Heaven. I hoped that they were waiting for my brother and me to join them one day. That was how I coped with the memories. That was how I woke from the dreams without despair.

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Salome is a young nun from Turin who discovers her true purpose when she murders another sister in her convent in Turin.

Salome has a gift, but it would be of great benefit to the Agents of Chaos as much as for the Warriors of God. Which side will she choose? God has made her suffer, and the demons promise comfort. The road ahead is still unpaved, and all the signs point to temptation.

Part 1

Chapter 1: The Death Of Cecilia

Chapter 2: Genoa

Chapter 3: Agents of Evil.

Chapter 4: Liverpool

Chapter 5: Polidori.

Chapter 6: A Test Of Will.

Chapter 7: The Dream.

Part II

Chapter 8i: Sister Catherine’s revelation.

Chapter 8ii: Challenging the authority.

Chapter 9: The Lord Is My Strength And My Shield.

Chapter 10: Everything that hungers consumes.

Chapter 11: The Dream Ends Here.

Want more? If you can’t wait for the weekly instalments and want to dive straight in to this series of Gothic Victorian mysteries, you can get the books here:

Welcome to chapter 2 of Salome, a Muldoon spin-off story. This is set in the late 1880s and introduces Sister Salome, a young Italian nun who will appear in the 3rd Muldoon book. I started this serial to help you get to know her before the events of the next novel.

Last week, Salome introduced us to her life in a priory near Turin. A close encounter with a demon resulted in her departure from the priory she’d lived in most of her life. With Father John as her guide, Salome learns of what has happened, and what is to come. We also learn that Salome carries another secret that will hinder her progress. If you haven’t read chapter 1 yet, click the button below:

Chapter 1

Book 3? I need to catch up!

Chapter Index

My journey began in earnest in Genoa.

By day, the sun illuminated the clay-tiled rooftops, the small birds sang amid bustling transport, smoking chimneys and markets flooded with people. By night, the port was possessed by a different spirit. Father John remained at my side as we headed to the docks. I could not see his face under the brim of his wide hat, but his rigidity as he walked alongside me made me aware of every alley, every window, every pair of wide, starving eyes reflecting light in the shadow. I dared not look behind me in the cobbled labyrinth of streets leading to our ship; I would not lose my way. Father John focused his face straight ahead toward the sea, and I followed, clutching the heavy book to my chest as though it would protect me from those responsible for the hairs on the back of my neck standing erect.

No longer were the streets filled with hawkers, construction workers and street urchins. The cries of infants and coughs of the sick came from inside the buildings, and the shutters on most of them were closed, awnings above doors drawn back. The bells of a nearby church tolled as I looked up at the street lamps guiding us further south. The laughter of two young women startled me. I quickly turned to see them scurrying out of an alleyway, a young man in pursuit. I heard Father John mutter something under his breath. Perhaps he thought they were foolish. I thought they were foolish, too. How could they not feel it? Even the mouse, who could be the most timid and simple of God’s creatures, knew when the cat was near. The closer we were to the ship, the greater our danger.

The port itself was miserable, full of miserable people, some of whom pleaded for help as travellers passed them. The spring wind had been warm a few hours before, but by the sea it was stronger, carrying a bitterness that pinched my face. The peasants near the docks begged on their knees, their hands open, their clothing ragged. One woman had sores around her mouth and eyes, and it was difficult to look at her. She wanted food, money, and water. She was no different to the others when it came to what she required, but I couldn’t look away from her. In my pocket I had a small parcel of bread and cheese left over from my breakfast. I moved the book into my right arm and held it tightly as I found the remnants of my breakfast with my left hand. I gave it to her, still wrapped in cloth. She looked up at me gratefully, the street lamp showing me more of her face. On closer inspection, I could see that the sores were accompanied by bruises. I wondered if she had become the victim of the vices that consumed others around her. Her nose, slightly misshapen and cut between the eyes, had been broken. She thanked me with a bowed head as though she felt my eyes on her, and she scurried away with it clutched to her chest. If she had children to feed, my pitiful donation wouldn’t be enough.

I hurried on to catch up with Father John, who didn’t seem to have noticed that I’d stopped.

The rest of the scene was as harrowing as the beaten woman. Most of the men on the street were drunk, or fighting, or worse—as still as stone, slumped against walls. Passengers spilled out of waiting rooms and hotels, bags and boxes shoving sharp angles into the ribs and backs of the people in the coagulating crowd. Carabinieri blew their whistles, no doubt intervening in the violence unravelling in the taverns behind me. Sailors, eager to get away from the scene, threw their sacks over their shoulders and in a fashion I can only assume was an attempt at pretending to be sober, walked airily up the gangways of various ships, their caps barely handing on to the crowns of their heads. I heard the great chains clank as sailors winched them from the black water, and I watched heavy anchors emerge from the black depths. So many ships were leaving after waiting out an earlier storm, their sails open like the pale wings of a gull, their white cloth glowing in the moonlight. Steam erupted from the chimneys as various large vessels sailed away into the distance, eventually falling into the shadow of the lighthouse. I slipped behind Father John as though his larger frame would protect me from the chaos ahead. I did not know which ship was ours, and the drunk people were loud and unpredictable. I wanted to go home, but the heaviness in the pit of my stomach told me that I was never going home. This ship would determine my future, and all I could do was pray that it would carry me there safely.

After a few more minutes of shuffling on behind my guide, Father John led us to a gangway attached to a small ship called Vittoria. The pungent, salty scent of bilge made my nose curl. I covered my mouth and nose with my handkerchief in a desperate attempt not to retch.

I remember my heart throbbing at the back of my throat as we ascended Vittoria’s gangway. Two members of her crew were forcefully escorting a drunk man away from the ship, the onlookers moving out of the way quickly as the man scrambled and lashed out. One woman gasped as her husband’s hat was knocked off in the frey. Father John retrieved it for him and returned it gracefully, unruffled by the chaos. I looked down at a little boy who could have been my reflection in a mirror, the fear on his face was so palpable. He was clutching his mother’s hand while her husband handed their papers to the captain. I noticed he was looking up at me, and I smiled as kindly as I could. I would not let him see the fear in my own eyes even if it was all so strange to me, too.

The ship, although not as large as some of the steamers we’d seen leave the riviera already, was enormous to me. I peered up at the towering chimneys, and down at the long deck. I followed Father John down a creaking wooden staircase to the decks below. He had to lower his head so as to not hit it on the beams. Though not as tall as Father John, I felt naturally inclined to stoop too, just in case anything caught my veil.

When Father John had put my single, small bag beside my little bed, he informed me that he would see me at supper. His room was three doors down and there was a small dining room opposite my cabin. The ship was so noisy, either with passengers and crew moving on the planks above me or the whirr of the engines. I later learned that there were men in the deck below me, their duty to shovel coal into the furnace for the duration of our journey; the sails were an emergency backup in the event of engine trouble. So many things could go wrong, and yet nothing did.

I carried the heavy book to my bed and sat down with it on my lap. There was a little lamp attached to the bulkhead above. I was grateful for its glow, albeit weak and threatening to snuff itself out at any moment. It was there, and I could make use of it.

We had been travelling for two days and I was tired. The clock above the door showed the hands of nine o’clock. Supper was at ten. I hadn’t eaten since before dawn, and now it was very late. I decided that I would pray before resting my feet. I moved the great book off my lap and placed it on the pillow. Its heaviness felt symbolic; there was so much still to learn.

On the road, Father John had mostly remained silent when I was looking through page after page in the coach. He did not try to encourage conversation about our journey, and to my relief he did not ask about the text that I held open on my lap. He could have asked at any moment, because the book was beautiful. I had never seen anything like it. I felt that I should show willingness, as for all I knew, he would be returning to the priory or writing to Reverend Mother to report on how I fared. For hours, my head was bent over the pages, my eyes fixed on the revelations before me. I had the presence of mind to cover it any time we were around others, as the images were of demons and other monsters I am certain would have surprised onlookers, especially in the hands of a nun. Father John would look around when the people had passed us, but he said not a word about the book to me. I am sure that he would have been pleased to see me taking the task of my study so seriously.

But Father John did not know that it was all a lie. He did not know that all I was capable of doing was looking at the illustrations, trying to understand what they meant and what relation they had to the beautifully written words on the page.

My stomach muscles tightened. The shame, eventually finding me, drowned me in that hot, sickly sensation of fear that I so often had in those days. I began to cry.

I would have confessed all to Reverend Mother, but not once had she ever asked. I was never subjected to intensive study in a schoolroom. I suppose that it wasn’t important. I did my duties well, but anyone can scrub the floor and dust the tabernacle. In churches, they gave those roles to lay people. In convents, these tasks were easily completed by my sisters or those they cared for in return for food and shelter. I learned from Father John that I was there for my own protection more than for any significant service. I felt foolish for never having noticed. The other sisters engaged in extensive study, whereas I would be gardening or cleaning. When we were together again, I would be sewing or knitting while listening to them read aloud. Things would be different from now on.

Where we were going, I was expected to demonstrate autonomy and self-reliance in my studies. There would be no one to read to me, because I was no longer a child. I was no longer a beggar in a threadbare dress. I was no longer able to conceal myself within a sanctuary where the Bible was the only book I needed to know the meaning of.

I could not tell Father John my secret. I could not tell anyone.

But the impossible situation unravelled before me like spilled rice in long grass. Try as I may, I would not be able to pick up every piece and get it back into the bag. Such messes were of my own creation. Because of my fear and my pride, I dared not tell a soul that the bag was splitting with the burdening weight.

How was I to conduct my studies and join the cause of defeating the Devil if I could not read?

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A little treat for you. First of all, thank you for your patience while I took a much needed rest over December and January. I just didn’t have it in me, and it turns out that after hundreds of fiction posts over the course of nearly two years—you can get a bit tired!

I’ve been working on book 3 of the Muldoon Mysteries and it has absorbed me so much that I even have character backstories here. You haven’t met Mary Salome yet, but you’ll see more of her in both The Thirst and The Covenant later this year. For now, here’s a story that will be told in parts.

Book 3? I need to catch up!

Index Of Chapters

I had not slept before that day.

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned.” My words left my mouth effortlessly. The ritual. The routine. The monotony. It was reassuring.

“How long has it been since your last confession?”

I did not have to go far to find the answer, but the guilt I carried seemed to ensure that time moved more slowly, just for me.

Father John waited. He was a patient man.

I dared not close my eyes. If I did, I would see her again.

The sound of my slowing breath steadied me until I waited in suspense for my own words. Just my voice. Just my breath. I sat in the solace of the dark abyss that was my half of the box, wondering if any of this was true. Once when I was no more than a child, this was a space that felt like a coffin entombing me. Now it was a wooden womb that promised to protect me in exchange for my confession. My mother. My saviour. My hope.

The final frontier between me and eternal damnation.

I thought of her again. What she was, and what she was not when I condemned her to hell.

What she was before the demon within her revealed itself to me.

First, let me tell you about my dear friend.

She chose the name Cecilia, because she could play piano beautifully. She wanted to teach poor girls how to play, too. An orphaned daughter of a ruined pawnbroker, she possessed an otherworldly wealth that had me green with envy. Her mouth, full of tiny even pearls, the hair she tied away beneath her habit as gold as the thread in a fairy tale; the jewels in her eyes, and the purity of her soul. I both hated her and loved her.

I loved her as I held her and let her blood soak into my skirts.

When she discovered what I had done, Reverend Mother did not chastise me. She remained silent, and disappeared within her study for some time. The others, their tongues as heavy as stone, did not even look at me as they removed her body from her room.

I waited in the garden, my hands clutching the secateurs though I did nothing of use with them. Swollen scarlet blooms hung over entwined thorns, unable to lift their vibrant heads to look at me. To judge me.

I did not belong here. They knew it. Everyone did.

I felt their eyes on me as they passed along the cloistered path, their voices hushed. My instinct was to smile in defiance, but I fought it. I lowered my head. Submission.

Reverend Mother returned to me some time later, and asked me to go to my chamber. “Speak to no one. Wait for confession, and God will decide.”

God would decide now. God would decide what to do with me as I confessed my sins to Father John.

“I took another life,” I said. There was a pause.

“The life of Sister Cecilia.” His voice was level, simply stating the fact as it was.

“Sister Cecilia, yes.”

My spoken confession was born flailing and it would suffocate within this box, but everyone with eyes knew the truth. I was a murderer.

What little point there was in this ordeal! My cheeks flushed with the fury and frustration that brought me to a life of servitude in the first place. Father John absolved me—what else he could do, I knew not—and left the box.

I waited for God, but he did not speak to me.

My next conversation was with the Reverend Mother in her office.

“Sister Salome, you will have to leave this priory now.”

The noose was as good as knotted and tightened around my neck as she said it. I wanted to throw myself at her feet and beg for my life, my face red and swollen from the crying as I buried it in the hem of her skirts, but I remained still.

“You will be collected in the morning. You will say no goodbyes.” Her pale eyes found their way to me, but they were as impenetrable as a steel door. “They would not want to speak with you anyway, but,” she attempted a weak albeit reassuring smile, “that cannot be helped.”

“I don’t understand,” I said, my voice hoarse from the dehydration. “If I am to be ex—”

“No, no. No such thing.” She approached me quietly. “While you have committed something akin to murder, you have done God’s work.” She looked out to the garden. If she was thinking of the flowers, I was a terrible gardener and I agreed. I could not sew, and I could not cook well. I did not befriend the others as easily as I perhaps should have. I wrestled with my failures while she pondered. “Do you still have the visions?” she finally asked. “Is that what helped you… see her?”

“Yes.” I saw her alone. I saw the way the crucifix turned downwards above her head. I heard her moans as she received pleasure in return for her actions. When she was herself, she cried on my lap and told me of the impossible choices she had been forced to make. She’d signed the covenant, and she could not go back.

I saw her for what she became, and she begged me to destroy her for it.

Then the voice came for me.

Touched by God, the priest said. Those who meet the Devil are closest to God. He reminded me of Christ’s temptation in the desert. He warned me that my powers were what he desired most, and if I used them for selfish gain, I would become his.

He wanted me now. He wanted me all the time. That’s why he did what he did to Cecilia.

I understand now, that this is what I was being protected from. As a child, my poverty made me vulnerable. Perhaps my late mother knew this. Perhaps it was the cross she bore too.

A lost child brought to the priory as a last resort. A mad child who needed God’s guidance and solace within walls far from civilisation. A wicked thing who spoke to the dead, dancing with demons. Though by the laws of nature, Reverend Mother was not my mother, I know now that she did care for me as a mother would. I was simply too stupid to understand.

I did still see the visions. I did still struggle to discern the reality of our world from that of others. She never questioned it, and this was why I trusted her.

On that final day, she gave me a gift. She rummaged in the top drawer of her desk and produced a large, leather-bound book. She held it out to me. It was not the Bible. It had no discernible cover to speak of, just a crucifix and gilded edges, but I knew that it was not the holy book.

“St Scholastica,” she said quietly. “There is much you need to learn from her. Everything you saw… everything… it is God’s work that you did.”

“I imagined it.”

“No, you did not.” She seemed exhausted, sighing and leaning against the sill of the latticed window. “You did not.”

“What will happen now?”

I did not want to go. I was not ready to leave her, or my home.

“Father John will collect you and take you to… Liverpool.” She must have sensed the shock. “I know it is far away, but that is where you must go.”

It was far away. I’d have to cross the sea.

“I will do God’s work.”

“You will. Be not afraid, dear Salome.”

“He speaks to me.”

“Then fight him. You have the power to, and right now… this is the weakest you will ever be, my child.”

Only Reverend Mother waved to me as the cart left the gates of the priory. Father John said not a word. The air, thick with morning mist and apprehension, weighed heavily on my mind and my heart.

Chapter 2: Genoa

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“I love you. I would do anything.” 

“Anything?” 

“Name it, and it’ll be done.” 

One grey, drizzly morning of March, 1940, a large rickety van rolled onto the long, uphill driveway of Helsby Hall, the glazed gravel crunching beneath tired wheels that rolled along it. Mr Eckland, a greying man in his late forties, had asked to be wheeled to the front of the house where he waited to see the treasures that had been bestowed upon him for safekeeping. He waved to the driver of the van and the black car that followed it to the front of the great country house. Both vehicles parked up with the screeching of brakes and the ratcheting krrrrr of the handbrake finishing the job.

Out of the black motorcar came Mr Richards, holding a cane. Injured during his army training, the young academic sought solace in his research, working for the World Museum in the city. Using the cane, Richards confidently strode over to Mr Eckland and held out a hand. “Mr Eckland! Thank you for waiting for us.” Eckland took the hand and shook it firmly.

“It’s not a problem. We’ve cleared one of the rooms downstairs, just for the artefacts. My wife will show you where to go.” He turned to look behind him and found Felicity Eckland descending the front steps, her heeled shoes click-clacking on the sandstone beneath her dainty, shapely feet. For a brief moment, Mr Richards had to make an effort to close his mouth. She wore a figure-hugging knitted tank over a low-cut blouse. Her skirt, although coming down to just below the knee, showed off enough of her shapely, slim legs to draw his eyes. Without meaning to, he looked from husband to wife. There was a clear age difference, but he couldn’t tell what it was. Her face was timeless: beautiful.

“I’m Felicity,” she said, holding out a hand. He took it: it felt soft in his.

“I’m Warren Richards. Thank you for both agreeing to take the artefacts.”

“Oh, we didn’t,” she said with a slight curl on her carved lips.

“Felicity was using the space as an art studio, Mr Richards,” her husband said with a patronising smirk. “I told her this was far more important than some sketches.”

Mr Richards, feeling that he could have cut the air with a knife, pulled in a deep breath and said, “shall we?”

“We’ll get out of your way,” Eckland said. “Fliss, take me inside please.”

Dutifully, she grabbed the handles of his wheelchair and turned Eckland around, pushing him towards a paved path at the back of the house. Richards watched her struggle across the gravel and turned away reluctantly.

“It’s a thing of beauty,” Eckland said as he admired the wooden sarcophagus in the middle of what was once the art studio.

The tall, Georgian windows were open, allowing beams of mid-morning sunlight to warm the room. “There’s a bit too much light in here, but one would hope that it won’t be here for long,” Richards said.

They were all silent for a moment. Felicity scanned the length of the painted coffin with her eyes. The sarcophagus’ wide, open face was slightly scratched across the eyes and nose, leaving only traces of heavily painted eyelids and rounded, smiling lips.

“Who is this for?” she asked.

“We’re not really certain, but it’s definitely for someone of noble birth, as it’s been painted with their likeness. There are some things in this box that were found in the same tomb…” he reached for the small wooden crate and unlocked it, “would you like to see them?” Felicity nodded, but not before shooting a glance in her husband’s direction. He nodded too.

Inside the straw-padded box were a few stone jars lidded with various animal heads, and something that caught Felicity’s eye. “What’s that little one?” she asked.

Richards carefully parted the jars and lifted the figurine out of the box. “Oh, I didn’t realise this was in here,” he said, frowning. Like the face of the sarcophagus, the visage of the figurine was slightly damaged, but it was the figure of a black-haired female, wrapped in the same linens as a mummy would have been. “This little thing is called a shabti, Mrs Eckland.” He held it up in the light. “This one is made of clay, while a lot of the others we found are made of stone and wood. Rare. This one has even been painted. Whoever this belonged to, they wanted their shabti to be well presented in the afterlife.”

“Why?” Felicity was like a child with her fascination for the little object.

“Oh, well,” Mr Richards beamed, “the nobles who died… in life, they’d had slaves and servants. It was all they knew, and it was the same in the afterlife, you see. The ancient Egyptians believed that in the afterlife, everybody had to help with farming in order to stave off hunger and thirst. Nobles didn’t farm, so they had the shabti or ‘the answerer’ to do the work for them. The shabti was happy to. It was their purpose in the afterlife: to serve.”

Eckland looked down at his disused legs.

“That’s fascinating,” Felicity said.

“If you’d like, you can keep this in a case. It doesn’t have to be locked away as long as it’s cared for.” He didn’t know why he had broken the rules for an undocumented artefact. The protocol was to add it to the catalogue immediately, but he was overcome with the desire to please her. “I have a case in the van, actually.”

Felicity’s eyes lit up. She looked at her husband who remained stony-faced. “What do you think about that, Frank?”

“As long as the children don’t touch it,” he said, gruffly.

“You have children?” Mr Richards couldn’t mask his surprise. The house was silent. Eckland eyed him scornfully as Mrs Eckland blushed.

She waved a hand. “Evacuees, from the city. They’re not ours.” She tugged at the bottom of her top. “We don’t… we weren’t blessed with children,” Felicity added quietly. “We can give these ones back, so that’s a bonus.” She smiled. Richards caught on and laughed.

“It is. Well, I’d better be getting back. The museum is almost empty.”

“How could they do such a thing, bombing these wonderful things?” Felicity asked, shaking her ringleted head.

“They’d bomb people too, you know,” Eckland said.

“Of course. I just mean… oh never mind.”

“It’s just a precaution, Mrs Eckland. It may not even come to that. The war could be over in a month, for all we know,” said Richards.

“Let’s hope so,” she said with a coquettish smile.

Richards made his farewells and waved goodbye to man and wife as they watched from the steps of the old house. He looked away, thinking of Felicity Eckland for only a moment before something else caught his eye. Coming down the driveway, he passed a beautiful young woman, with caramel skin and rounded, black eyes. Her braided hair hung down to her petite waist, revealing full, curved hips that her dress outlined perfectly. As though she knew he was looking, the girl smiled flirtatiously and gently waved as he passed. He caught the rest of her in the rear-view mirror and regretted having left so soon.

***

“Frank, I’ve finally found some help for Mrs Carter…” Felicity blushed and turned back to look at the girl. “I’m so sorry—it was Femi, wasn’t it?”

“Femi, yes,” she said with a thick Mediterranean accent that Felicity couldn’t place. Just as she was about to ask Femi where she came from, Felicity stopped and felt her face redden. Her husband was staring at the young woman with hunger in his eyes that she’d never seen when he looked at her.

“Femi will be working for us, seen as nobody else applied,” she said, turning on her heel. “Femi, come with me so I can show you where everything is.” She sounded more curt than she had meant to, but she didn’t apologise and led the girl out into the rest of the house.

Frank watched longingly as she left the room, inhaling the remains of her scent as it lingered.

“I’m glad you’re here, Femi,” Felicity said, softening. “Mrs Carter hadn’t meant to get so old, but it was near impossible with just Mrs Carter in the middle of a war with the children here also. I almost gave up hope.”

“I understand, Mrs Eckland. How do you say? ‘I am sorry for this.’ I do not know.”

“Sorry for your loss, you mean?”

Femi nodded with a wide, beautiful smile.

“Oh she hasn’t died, dear—she just needs a hand around the house.” Felicity could hardly be angry about the girl’s beauty. She was a ray of sunshine in an otherwise gloomy old house. Femi was exotic and proportioned like a sculpture: Felicity was tall and thin. “There are extra mouths to feed now. Do you like children, Femi?”

“Children?”

“Yes, children. Little people. Kids?” Felicity pointed at the brown-haired children playing outside on the lawn. Frank didn’t like them trampling on the grass, but Felicity didn’t care. She was glad to have the company.

“Kids, yes.” Femi nodded.

“That one—the girl—that’s Pauline, and she’s seven. The boy is George, and he’s six.”

“Pauline. George.” Femi nodded.

“They’re a bit rough around the edges, but you’ll get used to them, I’m sure.”

Femi lingered at the window, watching them play with her head cocked. Felicity, wanting to move on, coughed politely. “Well, let’s go and find Mrs Carter, shall we? I’m sure she’ll love you.”

Two days later, some time after the makeshift family had eaten their dinner in dim, war-induced candlelight, Mrs Carter silently shuffled into the dining room to clear away the plates. The children had been sent upstairs to wash. Felicity folded her napkin and stood up. “I’ll run the bath, Frank.”

“That won’t be necessary,” he said flatly as he drained the remainder of his beer. “Femi will do it.”

Before Felicity could object, Femi, as though she had heard her name, sailed into the room and reached for the handles of Frank’s wheelchair. “Thank you, Femi,” was all she could think to say. Mr Eckland’s personal care had not been included in Femi’s duties, but Felicity wasn’t about to fight over a job she hated doing. “He’s all yours.” She quickly went upstairs and lingered in the shadows, waiting for them to pass the staircase. The sound of Femi’s velvety laugh made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She edged closer to the wall, so they wouldn’t see.

“You make me feel young again,” she heard Frank say softly as she pushed him to his room. Felicity twitched, watching their shadows growing smaller until the light of Frank’s downstairs bedroom faded away with the closing of his door.

Before she could listen any more, the bedroom door behind her opened with a resounding bang, followed immediately by George asking, “What are yer doin’ in the dark Missus Fliss?” Felicity, since meeting the boy, had decided he was in need of a volume dial as standard but on that night, his voice seemed to bounce off the panelled walls with panache.

“George!” she gasped as she held her chest. “You gave me a start. I came to read to you.”

“Why din’ yer just come in?” The little boy asked with a face scrunched up in bafflement.

“Shh, come along now. Time for a story.”

The following morning, Felicity sat across from the children at the kitchen table watching the clock. She had knocked on her husband’s bedroom door on her way down, but he hadn’t answered. He had a bell to ring if he needed her, so she decided to leave him be. By nine o’ clock, Felicity saw Femi enter the kitchen, arrange a tray of breakfast items and leave again without saying a word to anyone. The girl’s wavy, chocolate hair had been loosely flowing down to her waist as she hovered over the fruit bowl and the bread items. Felicity watched a slender, feminine hand grab an apple and gracefully take it away. She smelled of her usual floral perfume—the one that infuriated Felicity and intoxicated Frank. Stalking her from the doorway of the kitchen, she spied the girl hurrying into Frank’s room, closing the door behind her. Gripped by curiosity and unable to stop herself, she followed without a sound and leaned in to listen behind the door. The voices were muffled, but she felt that any sentient creature could feel the tone of the words. They were lovers, and she couldn’t do anything about it.

“That’s the shabti, George—careful with it.” Felicity took it from the boy’s hands gently. Her red nail polish gleamed in the candlelight as she handled it carefully within her slim white fingers.

“What’s it for?” asked George.

“It’s a servant, of sorts. The Egyptians believed that in the afterworld, there were endless fields of crops and some labour was required to harvest those crops.” She tried to remember the words of the lovely Warren Richards. “The wealthier members of society were buried with one of these,” she held up the little figure and gently turned it in the candlelight, “to do the work for them.” The children studied it for a moment.

“What if they didn’t want to go?” asked Pauline. Mrs Eckland rolled her eyes slightly and scoffed.

“There was no say in the matter, you know. It was just… what they did.” Felicity placed the shabti back in the glass case and locked it with the little key that Mr Richards had entrusted her with. She placed it in her pocket.

The children shuffled around on the rug in front of the fire. Pauline stretched her bare legs out in front of her and yawned as Felicity said, “It’s time for bed, anyway,” clapping her hands together. “We’ve work to do in the morning. I’m sure your mother will want you to write her a letter.”

She escorted the children to the foot of the staircase and said goodnight. They went to their bedroom without a word, closing the door behind them. Felicity Eckland smiled. It had been a good day. The silence of the large, ornate hall was comforting, until she heard whispers coming from her husband’s room. She removed her shoes quietly and crept to the room behind the staircase. The door was ajar.

She overheard her husband talking earnestly again. Felicity dared to edge closer, bringing her eye to the gap in the door. Much to her disappointment, the man speaking softly was Frank, and he was still fawning over the girl. He was sitting on the bed half dressed, talking to someone on the other side of the room. She hoped it wasn’t Femi. Felicity held her breath and listened.

“Would you do anything for me?” It was Femi, speaking English without any pauses this time. Felicity moved over to see if she could see Femi’s reflection in the mirror by the bed. She could. Femi was standing by the window, undressing. Felicity stifled a gasp.

“I love you. I would do anything.” His words struck her, knocking the breath out of her lungs, flattening what was left of them. Still, she couldn’t back away.

“Anything?”

“Name it, and it’ll be done.”

“I want you to get rid of her so we can be together… forever.”

Felicity crept away from the door, covering her mouth. She rushed to where her shoes were and scooped them up. She waited until she had returned to the sitting room to put them back on and walked back into the hall, her heels clacking against the polished wood flooring. Straightening and clearing her throat, she stopped halfway between the foot of the stairs and her husband’s room. “Frank, I’m going to bed now. Do you need any help?”

There was a long, agonising silence before she heard him speak. “No, thank you. I’ll see you in the morning.” The door slammed shut.

Felicity blew the candles out, grabbed a knife from the kitchen and went to bed, locking the nursery door before locking her own.

The following morning, the children woke to find Felicity already up and about. She had laid their clothes out on the bed and asked them to wash before breakfast. They rolled out of bed with hair on end and blurry eyes, but did as they were told. The children liked her, and she liked them. Like her, they didn’t like Frank. His perpetual glumness permeated like damp on the walls; they thought best to avoid him as much as possible, for the sake of their happiness and health.

At breakfast, Mrs Carter had laid out boiled eggs and toast for everyone. Felicity poured tea from the pot and passed a cup each to George and Pauline, who were fighting over the sugar bowl. She almost scalded her mouth on her own cup when Femi walked into the kitchen. “Is that my barrette?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at the twinkling flower in Femi’s sleek, midnight hair.

“I said she could have it,” said her husband. Frank, to his wife’s amazement, walked into the kitchen unaided. Felicity’s heart stopped. Mrs Carter, after doing a double take, also stopped what she was doing and dropped the crockery into the sink, her mouth agape. As though the knife hadn’t gone in far enough, Felicity watched her husband slip his arm around the girl’s waist. “Femi can have whatever she wants.”

“Frank, you’re walking! What—?”

“It’s a miracle, isn’t it?” he said with a smile on his face that was so rare it seemed unnatural. “It must be the power of love.” He leaned in and kissed Femi on the cheek. She looked directly at Felicity with her sweet, charming smile. “Anyway, we’re off out for the day. See you later.”

Felicity watched the wheels spin and roll away from the kitchen window. All she could do was watch.

The headlights of the car flickered through the slits in the curtains, breaking Felicity’s evening meditation. She had waited in her unlit bedroom, ruminating. As soon as she heard the familiar screech of brakes and the slamming of car doors, she decided to wait for the offenders in the hallway.

“Is it a divorce you want?” she asked as Frank came into the hall, still in his hat and jacket. Surprised by her presence, he stared at her for a moment before she continued. “I heard you talking. You said you would get rid of me…” She sensed something wasn’t right. “Frank… where is Femi?” He did not take his eyes off her. “Frank?”

The sensation of liquid running down her shoulder came first, then the sting of punctured flesh, forcing her to the floor. Felicity cried out and turned around to find Femi holding the knife. “You must do it now, my love.” Femi’s eyes were unnaturally bright, glowing in the gloom. Felicity looked up at her husband, who was holding a gun.

“Frank?” she asked, pressing down on her wound with her hand. Blood trickled onto the floor as Felicity pressed as hard as she could. Frank’s hands were shaking.

“Say the words, Frank. She will be gone forever, taking my place. Say them, and we can be together, forever.”

Frank didn’t get the chance to speak. Femi let out a monstrous scream as her hands started to fade, dissolving into a black hole behind her. Frank, dropping the gun, ran to her and held what remained. “Femi!” he cried, holding her tightly. Felicity covered her eyes from the blinding storm before her as she heard them both scream. When she dared to peek through the gaps in her bloodied fingers, she saw the lovers dissolving, shrinking, sinking into nothing until she was the last person remaining in the hall. She looked around, bewildered. Her wound had gone, as had the blood on her hands.

“Missus Fliss,” came a voice from the sitting room. It was George, looking sheepish. He brought his hands out from behind his back. “I know you said be careful. I’m sorry.”

Felicity’s eyes narrowed, surveying the pieces of pottery in his hands. After observing a minute or so of silence from Mrs Eckland, the boy jumped when she started to laugh uncontrollably, kissing his cheeks and squeezing him tightly, with tears in her eyes. “Thank you, George!” She lay on the floor and wept. The shabti had been smashed in two.

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Want more where this came from? The Shabti is one of 5 Gothic tales featured in my new book The Shade In The Sands And Other Stories. It’s available everywhere that sells books.

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Hey folks! Miguel from The Fiction Dealer here.

Hanna has graciously allowed me to take over the shop today. Don’t worry, I know exactly what you need. I hear you guys have a taste for mysteries, horror, and the paranormal.

I’m sure you loved The Spider as much as I did, so I brought you a sample of my own supply. It’s a darker, fantastical mystery called Quietus, and it scratches that same itch.

The synopsis:

Zoe Wright joined the Arcanum Crime Unit to find the monster who killed her sister. Instead, she got Xavier Hunt—a cynical, chain-smoking detective with magical tattoos who can turn his body bulletproof. Now, the mismatched duo must stop bickering long enough to solve a case involving a killer who can silence a room... literally.

Here is a taste. The first one’s always free…

Sal’s bodyguards immediately drew their revolvers and pointed them at the girl.

Zoe saw the mud-stained face of a fifteen-year-old, the fear reflecting in her eyes as tears froze on her cheeks. Zoe reacted without thinking. She drew her gun and stepped in front of the young arcanic.

Her gaze met the barrels of the guns trained on her.

“Put your guns down!” she shouted. “You’re under arrest!”

The men exchanged confused glances and pulled the trigger. The street exploded with gunfire.

Twenty-two years of life flashed in front of Zoe’s eyes. But before the first bullet reached her, a towering figure stepped in front of her.

Zoe covered her mouth, eyes wide in disbelief as she watched Sal’s bodyguards empty two revolvers into Xavier’s back.

The world stopped. Everything went silent.

So silent that the pounding rain sounded like hammer strikes in the street choked with the smell of gunpowder. Every single person in that alley watched the detective, waiting for his body to fall.

Yet, even after twelve bullets, Xavier was still standing.

And then he moved.

It wasn’t a natural human motion—more like a statue coming to life. Zoe stepped back as Xavier straightened with a cracking motion. Most of his skin was covered in a thick alabaster film; his many tattoos were glowing with a teal hue, the same that flickered in his otherwise gray eyes.

He spared her and the young girl a glance before turning toward the gangsters.

“Well, you bastards,” he said, drawing his gun…

If that hooked you, the full novel Quietus is available right now on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited. [links]

And if you want a steady supply of stories like this, come subscribe to The Fiction Dealer. I serve up weekly micro-fiction and occasional longer reads while I work on the second book in the Quietus universe!

The Fiction Dealer

1. Do not finish a book if you’re not enjoying it.

Actually… that was it, really. If I was 1/4 in or over 100 pages and I didn’t enjoy it, I just put it down and read something else. I’m a full time author. I don’t have the time to struggle through books if I’m not enjoying them.

With no further ado, here are the 52 books I read this year:

January 2025

1. The Phantom Of The Opera - Gaston Leroux

A Gothic classic. Christine was insufferable, but I enjoyed the premise nonetheless.

2. At Midnight I Will Steal Your Soul - John Llewellyn Probert

This was a short book. I felt the descriptions were OTT in parts but it was a satisfying, short read. Actually excellent for anyone looking to get back into reading.

3. Northanger Abbey - Jane Austen

Maybe I just didn’t go anywhere in January. This is a classic and I thoroughly enjoyed Austen’s humorous take on the way Gothic literature affected women of her time. She rolled her eyes at it in the same way I might roll my eyes at ‘cosy Christmas romance’ and then end up reading it anyway.

4. Lady Susan - Jane Austen

A really, really short book. Cheeky, witty and in the epistolary format.

5. Eucha Falls -

A horror story from one of our own indie authors here on Substack. If you want to read something that will make you go “no, don’t do it! Get back in the car!” several times, please read this story.

6. The Last Ritual - SA Sidor

Couldn’t put it down. I loved the mix of the roaring 20s and Lovecraftian horror. I read this in 3 days, because I just had to know how this mystery was going to be solved.

7. Water for Elephants - Sara Gruen

This was a reread to get me in the zone for The Ring. It’s not a Gothic tale, nor is it particularly Victorian but I couldn’t remember anything about this book since reading it in 2010. A love story, and an adventure through the Great Depression in America with a travelling circus. I absolutely loved the ending, too.

February 2025

8. The Silence Of the Lambs - Thomas Harris

Fantastic. The way Lecter can get under Clarice’s skin was excellent, and I stormed through this book.

9. Black Salt - Seafarers Of African Descent On British Ships

I read this for research as I write novels set in 19th century Liverpool. I already had some awareness of black seafarers living in Liverpool but this was a great exploration of the Royal Navy and the lives of black sailors either joining up from their respective African countries or fleeing from slavery. I’d recommend this to anyone who wanted to know more about black British history.

10. Bloodlines -

I bought all the volumes in one go. I think this is one of the strongest character developments I have ever read. It’s a story of becoming. A story of transformation. A story about fitting in, or not fitting in, and finding that you may not fit in as a follower, because maybe you’re supposed to be the one who leads.

11. Red Dragon - Thomas Harris

Couldn’t put it down, and it’s probably one of the best serial killer stories I’ve ever read.

12. Tiny Worlds, Vol. 1 -

Excellent storytelling in such careful, precise shots. I can sense J’s passion through his writing, and you will too.

13. Pet Sematary - Stephen King

I received a copy of this book for Christmas and wow. This book messed with me. It’s one of the best horror books I’ve ever read because it reached inside to find your deepest fears and laid them out in front of you. One of King’s finest, in my opinion.

March

14. Hannibal - Thomas Harris

Having read The Silence Of The Lambs and Red Dragon this year, I thought I’d complete the set. What a mistake that was. The most disappointing of the series.

15. Picnic At Hanging Rock - Joan Lindsay

If you like your mysteries to have clear resolutions all tied up with a bow, you won’t like this one. I loved it, however. Your perception of the characters and what part they might have played in the disappearance of the girls kept shifting, leaving you with only your personal theories for company at the end.

16. The Midnight Vault - and many, many more.

I was featured in this anthology with 28 other authors, but I read the entire book of stories and it offers all of the things you want from The Twilight Zone: Mystery, Sci fi, Thriller, Weird, Fantasy, Horror and more.

April

17. Gothic Short Stories - David Blair

This book is becoming one of my comfort books. It is a collection of Gothic tales from the 19th century, some of which are by anonymous authors. I discovered Elizabeth Gaskell’s ‘The Nursemaid’s Tale’ in this one and it still haunts me to this day. If you ever wanted an insight into Gothic fiction but didn’t have time to plough through the novels, this is a great introduction.

18. The Lottery and Other Short Stories - Shirley Jackson

Now, Shirley Jackson is one of my heroes and has inspired a lot of my work, but I did not love this particular collection. There were some strong contenders in here, but I didn’t have any strong feelings either way, unfortunately. I have forgotten most of it. I might revisit next year.

May

19. The Terror - Dan Simmons

The best book I’ve read this year: a perfect mix of historical and supernatural horror. I felt so much for Captain Crozier. No, I am still in love with that grumpy Irishman. This book moved me. This book inspired me in more ways than I can tell. This book brought me nose-to-nose with the hostile Arctic wind, and Simmons managed to make me care about a crew of over 100 men. Excellent villains, too. A phenomenal book. I need to read it again.

20. Daughter Of The Sea - Elisabeth Hobbs

Every now and then I like to read something set in a similar era to when the Muldoon Mysteries are set. I really enjoyed this. It’s historical fantasy romance and it’s such a sweet story. Set in Whitby in the 1880s. I didn’t know what to expect, but I’ll read any genre if the story sounds good, and this one didn’t disappoint.

21. A Game Of Corpse And Robbers - Remus Noronha

This is one of ‘s Thorfinn Grimm murder mysteries. This one was highly entertaining and I don’t know how Remus can continue to deliver this classy wit through Thorfinn time and time again.

June

22. The Once And Future King - T H White

When I finished this book, I was probably sitting there staring at a wall for half an hour. Another brilliant, human book. I can’t even think of what to say. The Sword In The Stone was my favourite of the parts, but overall, I don’t know why this book isn’t more famous than it is? I have pleasant memories of reading this on sunny days in the back garden. I’m probably going to read it again, and again, and again.

23. The Brothers Crunk -

I love this guy’s weird fiction. This book in particular struck me as Antz meets Mad Max. It’s the only way I can describe it, but it really is its own thing. Post-apocalyptic Japan featuring ostriches and wasp women. Such a fun read.

June

24. Swells Over Still Waters -

What can I say about this book? So much! beautifully written, and I drifted out to sea along with the ship. It reminded me so much of The Windwaker (Legend Of Zelda) even though it is a completely different story. A whimsical fantasy sea-faring adventure.

25. Double Blind -

I enjoyed Gabriel’s sci fi twist on an actual scientific study. This one was full of twists and turns and I blasted through it in two or three days. Great character development and I was excited to see more of Sam… which I will.

26. Dracula’s Guest And Other Stories - Bram Stoker

This was really hard to get through, and every story was a bit ‘meh’ resulting in complete abandonment of The Lair Of the White Worm. I just don’t get on with Stoker’s prose. Couldn’t wait to return this one to the library.

27. The Castle Of Otranto - Horace Walpole

A Gothic classic, as we all know. Clunky and certainly not what we’d call ‘good’ writing these days but it was a great story. Eerie, dark and foreboding with all the trimmings you would expect from a Gothic tale in an old castle. A Cronos of the Gothic literary canon, later outperformed by its children, but a trailblazer nonetheless.

28. Weird Woods. Tales From The Haunted Forests Of Britain.

This is a collection of short stories themed on weird woods or haunted forests published by The British Library. I am suspicious of any new collections that bundle together out-of-copyright unknowns for a quick buck, and this made me feel vindicated. My local library is full of them. Some of the tales are lesser known for a reason. Nothing stood out, particularly. Well, maybe Edith Nesbit… but still.

29. Psycho - Robert Bloch

This one was surprisingly difficult to get a physical copy of despite it siring one of the most famous horror adaptations we have ever seen on screen. What can I say about this book that hasn’t already been said? It’s fantastic.

30. Lot 249 - Arthur Conan Doyle

So yes, this is technically a short story but I did read it as part of a wider Conan Doyle story collection (and I can’t remember which one) but I really enjoyed this. Supernatural horror and Egyptomania at its best. I’ve always been a fan of Conan Doyle but I hadn’t read this tale until this year.

July

31. Wildflower- Iris Trovao

‘s romance pen name doesn’t seem to ever get easier to spell. This is straight-up romance, and in one of my least read genres, but Emily was looking for ARC readers and I wanted to help her out seen as she has been the world’s greatest ARC reader for me. This book was wonderful. I love that I went in blind, and became a better person because of it. It’s a ‘why choose?’ contemporary romance, with excellent characters and a satisfying plot that keeps you rooting until the end.

32. The Crimson Reaper -

I was so happy to return to Deer Falls and read the next book in the series. I enjoyed Pandora Reborn back in 2024 and quickly grabbed a copy when it came out this year. Solid entertainment, just like in the first book (Pandora Reborn). Reminds me of It, mixed with some Stranger Things and Buffy. John knows how to put you in the character’s shoes and experience waking nightmares just as they do.

33. Dracula - Bram Stoker

It’s so hard to write this because this is the father of the modern vampire, but I didn’t love it. An incident happens, and then we have to read 3 more separate accounts of the same incident, none of which further the plot. Van Helsing could have simply told the other men what’s going on but no, he kept it all to himself and kept disappearing to ‘find out more’. I found it incredibly frustrating. Everyone should read this, because it is a classic, but it doesn’t mean it’s good. As I said earlier about Stoker, I don’t enjoy his prose. People have since said to me ‘it’s the epistolary format’ but I disagree. I’ve read great epistolary books. Address Unknown by Kressman Taylor comes to mind.

34. The Hermetica: The Lost Wisdom Of the Pharoahs - Tim Freke and Peter Candy

This is more of an introduction to Hermeticism than a full blown book about it, but it was fascinating. I didn’t know much about this period of spirituality that was so controversial, a librarian was killed over it. There are over 18 texts actually belonging to The Hermetica— some of which are missing, but this book gave me a bit of insight into why Alistair Crowley was such a controversial historical figure. This book contains a lot of overviews and extracts from the texts.

35. Later - Stephen King

The most rubbish King book I’ve ever read. Slow, repetitive, brimming with pop culture references and openly derivative of other stories. A kid can see dead people, and before they pass on to wherever they’re going, they have to tell you the truth. Lots of references to people snorting cocaine and obviously, dead children. Maybe I’ve just read too many King books…

36. Some Thing Wild -

It’s that guy again. I enjoyed this more than the previous book, actually. It was exciting all the way through with some shocking twists (an incident with a Youtuber in the woods) that just kept me turning the pages! Another swift sci fi thriller from Gabriel.

37. The Doll Master And Other Tales Of Terror - Joyce Carol Oates

Every time I go to the library, there is hardly ever any Carol Oates, but in July I was able to snag one. The Doll Master is chilling. Truly horrific. That one blew me away, and also left me with high expectations for the other tales. They weren’t as strong in my opinion, but I did enjoy this collection of horror stories.

38. Rosemary’s Baby - Ira Levin

I am never going to stop talking about this book. Chuck Palahniuk put it beautifully in the introduction when he talked about how horror always happens ‘somewhere else’—in some castle in England, for example. No, Levin brought the monster to the heart of modern 1960s Manhattan. I can’t stop thinking about this book and how we never actually see any overt monsters… but we know they’re there. This book is still relevant today. Absolutely.

August

39. Flowers In the Attic - V.C Andrews

Another haunting, Gothic read. Incredibly disturbing, and I hated it. I read it all, but I hated it. But that was the point. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, this is a dark one.

40. Killers Of The Flower Moon - David Grann

I couldn’t put this down. It had been on my reserve list on Borrowbox for weeks, and when it was mine, I devoured it. As a Brit who doesn’t know much about 19th and early 20th century American history, this was eye-opening. Excellent storytelling from Grann, and I disagree with the claims it could have been 50 pages. I think all of it mattered. Especially touching when he met with the living relatives and explored the damage that was still stinging inside the family wounds.

41. The Wager - David Grann

Excellent storytelling, shining a light on a long lost tale of shipwreck and mutiny. I couldn’t put it down because Grann is an excellent storyteller. A completely different story to Killers Of The Flower Moon but a gripping one.

September

42. The Edge Of The Sun -

Another indie read from one of our own on Substack. I first read Bird back in 2024 when he was advertising Midnight In Footscray and I’m telling you now, this man writes excellent characters. They’re so vulnerable and human. This book is overall quite heartwarming, and so gently philosophical at the same time. Frank Bird actually told me that ‘nothing happens for 60%’ and that I should stick with it. Sticking with it wasn’t a problem because I was 100% invested in Holden Jones and wanted to see if and how he’d grow as a character. I was not disappointed!

43. The Curious Case Of June Watson -

Incredibly witty, funny and clever. I could say this about any of Noronha’s Thorfinn Grimm tales.

44. Transference -

This book tells a story of survival in a dystopian world where health is tied to your bank balance and the rich can live for centuries. Transference is fiction but as with all good Sci fi, it tells a story that could well really occur a not-too-distant future. The stakes are high, and the challenges are ever-changing what with the characters being human (and it’s never straightforward when you’re human) at the end of the day. Particularly enjoyed the character of Dotty and the comment on how it is so easy to villify what you don’t know or understand. Some excellent comments about humanity and how simple it is to lose it, too.
Fans of ‘Altered Carbon’ and ‘Do Androids Dream Of Electric Sheep’ will enjoy this book!

45. Synthetic Magic: The Bloodless Affairs -

There was a lot going on in this novel, but Barr didn’t drop any of the spinning plates. This book has magic, science, medicine, ‘synthetic magic’, steampunk and a bit of academia, as well as interesting races such as the bifrostians. I got to the end of the book and realised I was sad to see it coming to an end. I’d love to see where this bigger story goes in the next book. Looking forward to it!

46. Salem’s Lot - Stephen King

Chilling.
I actually found the metaphor of the invasion of the outside influence (investment, business operations, industrialisation etc) more disturbing than the creatures. A small town can lose its significance, community and in the end, its identity. Far too familiar. (Thank you for reminding me that I actually read this!)

October

47. Among The Living - Tim Lebbon

This was really hard to get through. I know I said I have a DNF rule but I kept thinking it was going to get better, and it just didn’t. Mostly angry shouting and people making terrible decisions and not listening to each other. I could go on X or switch reality TV on for that.

48. The Jewel Of The Seven Stars - Bram Stoker

This one was the nail in the coffin for me and my future of reading any more Stoker books. He’s just not that good. The premise of this one was really good : the spirit of an ancient Egyptian queen seeks revenge on the unlucky mortals of Victorian England but the delivery was waffley and dull. I don’t need three paragraphs describing the contrast between a short, stout fair woman and a tall, pretty dark woman that then achieves nothing but a moment of insight into the lovesick lawyer’s brain. I later read that Stoker had to change the ending from ominous and Gothic to an Edwardian-standard happy ending. Boooo.

49. The Rats - James Herbert

Fun, disgusting and visceral. Some of it had me laughing out loud (Mary Kelly) and I was struggling to read other parts because of just how horrible they were.

50. Hallway -

I’ve said a lot about this in my Goodreads review but overall, this was a fantastically creepy, unsettling, claustrophobic horror story. I really enjoyed it. Andy magically carried me through a first person POV that did not feel limited even once. God, he’s good. This is a gory, honking, gritty story, and you feel like you need a shower afterwards.

51. The Mummy/Rameses The Damned - Anne Rice

Loved the setting, the characters and the obsession with immortality. It turns out that you might be able to have immortality but you’ll always have to be human. Too bad.
Such good fun from start to finish. Excellent tension throughout and oh, what a bunch of fools people in love are. It’s actually the perfect recipe for a horror book. I am still thinking about this. It’s one of my favourite books that I’ve read this year.

November

52. Needful Things - Stephen King

Now, this was technically a DNF but I read over 450 pages and that’s more than some novels. With this in mind, I am including it. I enjoyed the creepy beginning but this one was so slow to get going. I understand that it’s a small town horror story but I just wasn’t that interested in the characters and didn’t care what happened by the end.

53. The Ring Of Thoth - Arthur Conan Doyle

I was quite harsh in my initial review of this but it grew on me. It’s one of those stories that sets seed while you’re reading it and blooms a few days later, when you’re remembering it fondly. It’s the yearning that got me. I read that Anne Rice was inspired to write The Mummy after reading this and I can completely see why. It captured my imagination too, and that’s why I wrote The Woman With The Emerald Eye for my latest collection. Magical.

December

54. Armadale - Wilkie Collins

I went on a Wilkie binge in 2024 after someone said I write like him, and I have loved him ever since. I knew about his sensationalist novels back when I was studying English Literature at university, but I never got around to him. He’s one of my favourite authors now. This is a book that was shocking when it came out, as we have a female villain, and a good one at that! I felt so much for Lydia Gwilt but at the same time, I didn’t want anything to happen to the other characters. It’s a great read.

55. Well Water And Other Odd Tales -

Another indie book for this year (I think that’s 14 in total) and this time it’s from Lyndsey Resnick. This is a collection of charming, weird tales. She really left ‘charming’ out of the title. Like ’ Tiny Worlds Volume 1 & 2, Lyndsey crosses boundaries between weird, violent, humorous and dark.

[I have just realised it’s actually 56 books because I wrote a blurb for Tiny Worlds Volume 2. Doh!]

I hope to go on more adventures this month and in 2026. Currently, Blackfern Girls by is waiting on my TBR.

The Midnight Vault II Stories Featured:

The Lobby by

Lonesome End by

Blackbird by Yours Truly (because Murph told me to do it).

That’s three off your TMVII reading list! I’ll be back with more soon.

I’ll leave you with a photo of me and Ludo, the dog who—you might have noticed—was trying to break in while I was reading.

• You can catch the previous reading here, where I read Amusing Elwood by and It’s Never Aliens by !

• Need more? The Midnight Vault II is open and available here.

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Have you been enjoying The Midnight Vault II so far? You might like The Midnight Vault book, too.

It was so much fun: not only did my camera arm start failing to do its only job but ‘s story seemed to make my mascara run without any tear jerking. Impressive!

FYI: told me that there were comments, so I am very sorry if I didn’t seem to see them. There was nothing coming through on my end after the first 15 minutes!

I’ll do a few more of these (2-3 stories each time) throughout the next two weeks as a lot of you shared stories with me today. I’d like to get them up there.

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