A group of short stories of which I have written over a number of years, and have just fine-tuned.
There are tales of revenge, haunting and possession to enjoy, but don't have sleepless nights!
Also by Graeme Winton on obooko:
Author's Website : www.graemewinton.co.uk
Exerpt from 'Black Vicarage' :
Miriam ran along a golden beach beside a deep, blue sea and laughed as she kicked a multi-coloured ball. The sunlight danced on the little waves as she then fell onto the warm sand. “Help me!” shouted someone in the distance.
She turned and shielded her eyes from the glare of the sun with a hand and looked out to sea, but could see no one. She turned and looked along the beach, but again there was no one. In fact it had never occurred to her before, but she was alone on the beach.
“Help me!” shouted the faint voice again.
She opened her eyes and gazed around her darkened bedroom “It was only a dream,” she told herself with the relief that she would not have to save some one.
“Help me!” shouted the voice, which came through her slightly opened window. She sat up and stared at the window as the curtains waved in the night breeze. The voice had a frail quality that she had never noticed in her dream also there was something else: yes… there was sadness, she thought. Miriam pulled on her housecoat and left her bedroom. She crept along the upper hallway of the sleeping house and then descended the stairs, one step at a time, while keeping a firm hold of the cold banister The lounge was still warm from when her parents had been sitting watching television. She passed a coffee table with two mugs and empty chocolate biscuit wrappers upon it. Miriam then pulled back a pair of white curtains to reveal large French windows painted white to match the woodwork in the rest of the room. Turning the key, she released the bolt at the bottom of the windows and opened one side. A cool air rushed into the room as she stepped onto the old, paved patio and gazed at the pale moonlight as it caressed the slate roof of the derelict church next-door.
“Help me!” the voice shouted from somewhere deep in the darkened garden. She could feel the dampness of the grass through her slippers as she passed the cherry tree and headed toward the large hedge, which divided the garden in two. Stopping to gaze at the black, gothic shape of the hole cut in the hedge to allow passage she felt the sadness of the place. “Miriam, go through the hedge. I’m on the other side,” said the voice, which was now in her head and was different: more confident, still as pleading, but stronger.