The Boxing Day Murders - Chapter Two

I dream of the ghost I saw on the path to the manor. Tawny curls fall over her shoulders, forming a frame for her corseted cleavage.

"Hello lover," she says, leaning on tiptoe to kiss my cheek, leaving the aroma of cloves in the air immediately before me.

"Hi there," I respond, unable to ignore how solid and real her body feels so close to mine, compared to earlier.

"My name is Frances Potter," she grabs my hand and shakes it vigorously, "but everybody calls me Fanny. Do you want to come to my party?"

"Of course," I nod and let her lead me into the same drawing room that I spent most of my evening in. The guests at Fanny's party appear at once to be more diverse in nature than those of the Bedfords, and by that I mean only half them are wearing clothes from this century. A Victorian dandy tips his hat and waggles his dress cane at me in a most suggestive manner, and Fanny laughs.

"Don't mind him. We don't get a lot of living guests, if you catch my drift sir."

"Everyone here is a ghost?"

"All bar you, yes. We're spending the holidays at Bedford Manor, as is the fashion."

A slender lady dressed entirely in white dances alone in the middle of the room, spinning and swaying like a marionette. Her pale blonde hair stands on end and she puts me in mind of Hans Christian Anderson's Snow Queen. From this distance, I find it hard to tell where her glittering dress ends and her bare alabaster skin begins.

"That's Estelle," Fanny whispers in my ear. "Would you like to meet her?"

I try to speak, but I can't. Fanny takes my silence as a yes, and takes me by the hand once more. As we reach Estelle, a rose-red blotch appears on her white, white chest. It grows and spreads, and the ghost's pale blue eyes open wider than I ever would have thought possible, and she screams.

I'm awake in an instant and I know straight away that the screaming is real. I leap out of bed, still in my clothes from last night, my head pounding, and run into the hallway. Sylvie stands frozen outside the doorway to Baxter and Bess's bedroom, tears streaming from her usually heavy-lidded eyes. I walk past her into the room, where Warwick the butler stands over my friend and his wife, taking the pulse of Bess and then of Baxter, before looking to me and slowly, sadly shaking his head. Their eyes are closed, and if it weren't for the bruises on both their necks, I'd swear they were sleeping.

"No..." The word turns to bile in my throat and I think I'm going to be sick. More guests appear in the hallway, Alice among them, and I stumble back to my room, eyes stinging. Alice follows me, grabbing my arm before I can collapse back onto the bed and try to end this bad dream.

"Who could have done this?"

"I don't know..." I struggle to focus on her, my vision blurry and my head spinning.

"Marcus!" She puts a hand on either side of my face to steady me, and the contact brings me round a little. "Marcus, what do we do?" I see her now. Without the usual make-up, with her hair loose and tangled, with shock and grief and fear in her eyes, she is still beautiful.

"We call the police."

"I tried already, it's no use." She points to the window and I see what she means; the view is pure white. "Some kind of freak blizzard, all the cars are snowed in and I can't get a signal on my mobile or the landline."

"That's not possible..." I reach for the phone on my night stand and Alice rolls her eyes.

"Trust me, Marcus, I've tried. We're unreachable."

The full impact of what she is trying to say takes a while to dawn on me, to dawn on all of us. All of the guests go down, one by one, to the kitchen where Warwick has started a fire to dispel the bitter morning cold. By the time lunchtime comes around, it has been decided among us all that Warwick will brave the storm on foot to go and get help. I offer, but Warwick insists that he go alone, showing the dedication of one born into service.

And so the Bedfords' bedroom door is closed and locked, and Warwick sets off wrapped up from head to toe like a belated present, and the rest of us stay in the manor, uncomfortably avoiding the subject that is on all of our minds... There is a killer in our midst.

Boxing Day fades like the drying salt of tears. Before we know it, we're waking up the next morning on the various sofas and chairs in the vast kitchen, aching for hot showers and clean clothes. Danielle looks particularly worse for wear, this being no doubt the longest time she has gone without applying foundation or changing her underwear.

Sylvie has barely said a word since yesterday morning, has barely even made eye contact with any of us. The steely flower has wilted before my very eyes, and my heart goes out to her. I know what a cruel thing it is, to be completely alone in the world. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy, let alone a girl who has faced so much loss already.

Ameera hasn't left Hector's side since the bodies were discovered. I still find it bewildering, but I finally believe that it is real love between them. The trust she shows, the complete devotion in her eyes, it warms my cynical heart.

I guiltily realise what I have been doing; observing the other guests, looking for signs of culpability. Penny, the authoress, has been making cups of coffee for everybody non-stop, turning hers Irish on the sly; the actor, Ben, wouldn't stop talking at first about the inhumanity of it all, but he soon stopped when he realised that, trapped as we are, he still didn't have a captive audience. Sleazy Greyson has wasted no time in sidling up to Danielle, who in turn has ignored him and sought comfort from Kit.

Now Kit, he truly baffles me. He doesn't seem as shaken as the others, there is a stillness to him that I saw in Sylvie on Christmas Night, but... I don't know, I sense that he is quietly grieving, 'behind blue eyes' as it were.

Conversation is stilted all day. Nobody dares speak too loudly, or heaven forbid, smile. The blizzard rages on outside, and the ground floor windows are half obscured by the snow. At any other time, this kind of weather would set the stage for all sorts of festive fun; snowball fights and snow angels... But none of us can tear our thoughts for long from the two cold bodies lying in bed upstairs.

Despite the vast amounts of coffee drunk by us all, we are all exhausted. After one night of sleeping downstairs, the other guests seem keen to get back to their own rooms, even if it means splitting up and going upstairs. Before going up myself, I slip away to Baxter's office and retrieve from his desk one of the many duplicate letters he received. In the privacy of my quarters I pore over it, trying to identify the handwriting as that of anybody I knew Baxter to run with back in the old days. Failing miserably, I put the letter in my dresser drawer and get ready for bed.

Lying on my back, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts return to Boxing Day morning, to Warwick shaking his head, to the bruises on their necks... My chest tightens and I feel tears sliding down my temples from the corners of my eyes. I can't remember the last time I cried, not really. Not a gentlemanly quality, to blub at the drop of a hat. But two of my oldest friends have been murdered and I haven't the foggiest idea who killed them – I cry as much out of frustration as I do from their deaths.

Exhausted, I start to see the ghosts before I even fully close my eyes. They come in through the walls, wispy and transparent, reaching out to me...

… And they become more and more solid until they are jostling next to me, dragging me into the centre of a dance.

"Don't be sad, Marcus," Fanny sings, "it's not so bad, you know, being like us."

"Perhaps not," I say, "but a crime has still been committed."

"And there'll be more of that before the year is through," the Victorian dandy adds. "Dark times have befallen Bedford Manor."

"You don't say." My voice is full of acid as I say this, although obviously it isn't this ghost's fault.

"I've seen to it that they're taken care of, if it's any consolation," Fanny tells me, still dancing around me with the others; I make myself dizzy just following her.

"They're here?"

"Yes."

"Can I see them?"

"Afraid not, duck. They're beginners, can't do no haunting just yet."

"I see." Another thought strikes me. "Do they know who killed them?"

"They barely know their own names, love. As clueless as newborns. Don't you worry about them, though – you just leave their wellbeing to me." She slows down, takes a deep mock breath, then pulls me out of the circle dance. "Now. What are we going to do with you? You were much better company last time."

"Sorry. I just have a lot on my mind. Murder doesn't sit well with me."

"Hmm..." Fanny thinks for a moment, then snaps her fingers. "I can see you're not going to be satisfied until we sort that out. Tell you what. Delilah!" This last exclamation is a summons, barked across the room to a formidably built woman dressed from head to toe in tweed.

"Coming, old girl," the woman wheezes, wobbling across the room.

"Marcus Swift, this is Delilah Bedford."

"Bedford?"

"Baxter's maternal grandmother," the tweed lady says, extending a disproportionately dainty hand. I shake it and give it back, rather numb to what is happening.

"Have you... seen them?" I ask. "Since they... I mean..."

"Oh, yes. Awful business. Needless to say, I want you to catch the fiend who did this to them. And when you do..." She leans forward at this point, "I want you to send them our way."

Before I can respond, an ice-cold hand touches my shoulder and I turn to see Estelle, the snowy lady, tears frozen in rivulets down her face.

"Born in a manger,” she whispers. Then, louder: “It's not too late. You can still save him!”

I am about to ask her who she is talking about when Fanny snaps her fingers and the dream ends.

~

The Boxing Day Murders - Chapter One

"Anybody would think you'd never seen a ghost before," Alice says to me as we walk down the drive to Bedford Manor. "They're harmless, you needn't be afraid."

She is referring, of course, to the transparent woman that we encountered a moment ago upon entering the grounds. Dressed in a Victorian style, with more than a little of the Moll Flanders about her, she had passed like smoke through me and I was left chilled to the bone. I'd then turned around to catch another glimpse; with a bawdy wink and suggestive curtsy she had promptly vanished into thin air.

Now I'm no fool, I know that Bedford Manor is famous for its spirits. And ghosts at Christmas are a fact of life, the same as turkey and drunk uncles. But before today I'd always acknowledged the existence of spectres as a nothing more than a vague fact, formless as an idea in very much the same way as gravity; we know it is there, but it is out of sight and therefore need not be questioned.

"I'm not afraid," I say, more to myself than in response to Alice's statement. The ghostly chill that came over me a moment ago is rapidly fading, only to be replaced by the more earthly cold of a Cheshire winter. It had been at my own suggestion that we'd chosen to take our leave of the car that had picked me up from the station; I'd fancied some fresh air and perhaps a moment or two alone with the delightful Alice. Longtime secretery, valet and practical lifeline to my old friend Baxter Bedford, it was the thought of time spent in her ever genial company that made me accept his rather out-of-the-blue Christmas invitation. For years Baxter and I had exchanged greetings cards from afar – I struggle to actually remember the last time we saw each other face to face. I would imagine that to place it within a decade would be a stretch.

When the front doors of the manor open and Baxter emerges, arms open wide to greet me, it takes me a moment to recognise him; his hair has gone from black to almost entirely grey and his eyes appear sunken in his face. I've always remembered Bax as he was when we were at Cambridge together; it is like a slap in the face to suddenly see him now as a man old before his time, looking like the grandfather of the friend I keep in my mind's eye.

Bess appears at her husband's side, as glamorous and effervescent as ever, every bit the successful QC's wife, not to suggest that her own charitable achievements are to be scoffed at. Bess Bedford is something of a powerhouse in the humanitarian world; an ambassador for UNICEF, advocate for battered women and patron of nearly every children’s charity going. All that, and she throws the best parties. In the case of the Bedfords, it is definitely true what they say; behind every great man is one hell of a woman.

"Marcus," she purrs, "Merry Christmas, I'm so glad you could join us!"

"Bess, a pleasure as always," I reply, wondering how many times I've uttered those words and pleased that on this occasion they are sincere.

"You're the last to arrive," Bess says, ushering Alice and I in from the cold, "Warwick has already brought the car back and taken your bags to your room, come on in and meet everyone."

Warwick, the Baxters' butler, brings me a glass of the same single malt that I'd enthused over on my last visit twelve years or so previously, and I am led into the drawing room.

"You remember Hector, the neurosurgeon?" I find myself shaking hands with a portly, ruddy-faced gentleman that I have never met. "And his fiancée, Ameera." The stunning Indian woman on Hector's arm is old enough to be his daughter, there's no doubt about it. If Bess hadn't introduced Ameera as his fiancée I would have pegged her as an incredibly high class escort. I kiss her hand and move on.

Bess takes me around the room, introducing me in turn to Penny, a famous writer of children's books; Ben, a once-famous actor; and Greyson, a businessman who exudes sleaze, before reaching an individual I remember very well.

"And of course you know my cousin, Danielle," Bess says, slightly less enthusiastic than with her other introductions. This is an understatement; you'd struggle to find a newspaper reader in the UK who hadn't heard of Danielle Harding or read one of her many kiss and tell exclusives. In fact, I'm surprised Bess has deigned to invite her to the manor for Christmas when there are so many respectable figures here. I can only deduce from the very large glass of wine in the statuesque blonde's hand that Danielle is still smarting from her latest amorous disaster, and Bess has taken pity on her. Suffice to say the incident involved a pair of handcuffs and your local MP.

Danielle is wearing appropriately festive attire, which for her means a short dress that sparkles with every slight movement. Panda eyes look me up and down in a way that is half suggestive and half, I hazard, just plain old habit.

"How are you, Danielle?"

"All the better for seeing you, Marcus," she clinks her wine against my scotch. "What brings you this way?"

"Baxter and Bess were good enough to invite me, and I was at something of a loose end."

"Likewise," Danielle says, no doubt assuming I know the most intimate details of her very short career in politics.

"Oh Marcus," Bess touches my elbow and guides me toward a pretty, slight-looking girl in the corner, "I don't believe you've met Baxter's niece."

"No, I don't think I've had the honour," I extend a hand and her grip is surprisingly firm.

"Sylvie Bedford-Jones," she whispers. "And you're Marcus Swift."

"That's right," I say. "I'm sorry, have we met?"

"No," she shakes her head. "But I knew you were coming.  I had a dream about you."

"She's had such a tragic life, the poor girl," Bess tells me later. "Her parents died in a car crash when she was at boarding school and she's been fragile as anything ever since. Baxter's her only family now."

I nod thoughtfully. Call me cynical, but "fragile" isn't the word I would choose to describe Sylvie. Something about her is delicate, yes, but I sense formidability in her too. She strikes me as a steely flower, guarded closely by her remaining family. Which reminds me, I’ve yet to catch up properly with Baxter.

"Excuse me, Bess, do you know where I'd be able to find that husband of yours?"

"Oh, he's here, there and everywhere, you know how Bax gets. Pretends he's above it all but if there's one thing he knows, it's how to work a room. How else do you think he has judges eating out of his hand?"

I laugh and leave her chatting with Ameera. When I eventually manage to track Baxter down, he is not flitting from guest to guest as Bess had assumed, but rather standing at the fireplace, nursing a glass, staring into the flames.

"Bax?" He jumps at the sound of his own name. "Can we talk?"

"Of course, let's use my study.”

Once we are alone, I voice what's been on my mind since I arrived.

"Baxter, please take no offense with what I'm about to say, but... you look awful. What on earth is going on?" My old friend looks almost relieved when I say this.

"Believe it or not, it's not news to me," he grimaces, gesturing at his own haggard appearance. "The last ten years haven't been kind, but more recently..." He sighs, finishes his drink, and continues; "Look, Marcus. I had an ulterior motive for inviting you to the manor this Christmas. Don't get me wrong, you were always a decent friend, to both Bess and myself, but... it's your skills I'm interested in."

"My skills?"

"I understand that you're a lawyer these days and that's all well and good, but I was under the impression that you still do a bit of the old sleuthing from time to time."

"Not for ages now, truth be told.  Less and less money in it.  But if there's anything I can help you with-"

"I'm being blackmailed."

"Oh. Bloody hell, Bax. Why?"

"Various... indiscretions. It's all such a mess, Marcus. Such a mess." He reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out a sheaf of letters.

"Here, read these."

I leaf through a few, and it becomes apparent that they are the same letter, sent over and over. Somebody who has signed the letters simply X claims to have knowledge of an affair of Baxter's some years ago, something that knocks me sick. He must see it in my eyes, and jumps to his own defence.

"It was years ago, back when Bess was doing her work in Peru. Lasted barely any time at all. Long forgotten, or so I'd thought..."

"What demands have been made?"

"Well there's the crux, Marcus. No demands, nothing. For the last six months I've been receiving this letter, the same bloody words, over and over. Someone out there is toying with me, and nobody toys with Baxter Bedford."

"Perhaps if that were true then you wouldn't be in this situation," I say before I can stop myself. "Sorry, Bax, you've just shocked me a little with this. Tell me exactly what it is you want me to do."

"I'm going to give you a list of names, people who were around at the time of the..."

"Affair?"

"Yes, yes, the goddamn affair, Marcus. I'm going to give you a list of names and when you get back to London I'd like you to do some digging."

"Shouldn't be a problem. Although I have to say, I think the other woman is a fair bet."

"Impossible. The girl in question is no longer with us.  She was taken ill the year after we parted ways."

"Maybe somebody thinks you wanted her kept quiet?"

"Nonsense!  On that count I can assure you, I am one hundred per cent innocent. I may have been a bit of a philanderer in my day, Marcus, but a killer I am not."

"I believe you."

"I'm glad."

"I suppose we'd best get back to the party."

"Absolutely. If anybody asks, I've been running some investments past you."

"Of course. Brandy?"

"You read my mind."

When we re-enter the drawing room, it is clear that we've not been missed. A handsome young man whose crow's nest hair seems at odds with his dapper suit is holding court, telling a story that has everybody in stitches.

"Who's that?" I ask from the corner of my mouth; I could probably have shouted the question to Baxter and everybody would still be in this newcomer's thrall.

Baxter pauses for a moment, grasping for a name.

"Foster... Yes, Christopher Foster. 'Call me Kit', I heard him say earlier, can you believe it? Bess invited him, he works for some charity or other."

"Seems popular," I comment.

"Trendy little pecker if you ask me. But, Bess seems to think a lot of him," he nods at his wife, who stands rapt, clapping at some particularly hilarious part of his anecdote.

"And everybody else by the look of it." I say, and then an uncomfortable silence settles on the two of us like British snow – not thick, not oppressive, but every time one of us attempts to make a remark, the other begins at the same moment, and then we stutter off in different directions, lurching on the social black ice. I begin to fear that what I have just learned about my friend has changed the way I think of him. I try so hard to find something, anything to say to him, and fail, filling the long silences with Baxter's salubrious cognac.

I eventually take my leave of the party; exhausted, disturbed and more than a little drunk, I make my way up to the room that Bess has so kindly prepared for me. On the landing, I press myself against the wall and avert my eyes as further up the corridor, Danielle Harding leads Kit, the frightwigged charmer, to her own room.

"Merry Christmas," I murmur to nobody in particular, before turning in. As soon as my head hits the pillow, all of the unsettling thoughts about Baxter and blackmail leave my mind, allowing a much-needed, brandy-induced slumber to fall upon me.

~

Death and Breakfast, Prologue: The Lilly House (Text Version)

Earlier this week I posted a five minute recording of a short ghost story I wrote for Halloween.  "The Lilly House" is a prologue to a longer supernatural piece entitled Death and Breakfast.  Here is the text version:

The dead do not dream.  They do not sleep, or eat.  Nor can they speak.  So the late Edmund Lilly takes his entertainment where he can find it.  And most of the time, this consists of performing tiny, almost imperceptible tricks on his dear wife Aud, with the sole purpose of driving her slowly mad.

They had been married for nearly ten years when she killed him.  In her defence, Edmund acknowledges now that he probably deserved it.  One does not pluck a flower such as Audrey from a field, only to then dally with dandelions like Charlotte.  Odd, he had thought at the time, that Audrey did not kill her too.  But then he supposes Charlotte, a single woman, was not breaking any vows.  The betrayal was his, and his alone. 

But before all that mess, they had been happy.  When they had first bought this house as newlyweds, they had made love in every single room (even the bathroom, with Audrey agreeing to break her own rule just that once).  Edmund can’t quite remember the first time he looked at another woman.  He can’t imagine there was any one moment where his wife stopped being enough for him.  It’s easy enough now to admit to himself that he was a fool back then; perspective is one of the few gifts you can expect after twenty years of floating around the same house, like dust on the air.

Twenty years.  Long enough for every point on his driving license to vanish five times over.  Babies not even born at the time of his death are old enough to drink now.  No wonder Edmund has resorted to moving Audrey’s keys every time she puts them down, turning the lightest of her silk blouses inside out.  He hasn’t the physical power to lift a full cup of tea from its saucer, but he makes the most of what he does have.  Which is just enough to stave off boredom and needle his darling Aud.

Tonight, she sits drinking a gin and tonic at the kitchen table, a Marlboro light burning slowly down in her right hand.  It will be their thirtieth wedding anniversary next year.  Edmund  can tell Audrey has been thinking about it; a string of pearls adorns her slender neck.  The traditional gift for thirty years. 

"I know you're there," she whispers around her cigarette, voice even throatier than usual.  "I wish you could talk to me.  I don't half miss you, you know."

Edmund doesn't quite know how to feel about this.  Truth be told, he finds it difficult to remember how to feel sometimes.  Would his heart swell, if it weren’t buried along with the rest of him beneath Audrey’s rock garden?  He imagines it would, but who knows.

Of course, he is aware that life hasn’t been easy for Audrey either, in the years following his death.  The guilt of what she did haunts her as much as he does.  Everybody in Wren’s Nest, their little corner of the town, thinks she is a loon.  In the olden days she would have been branded a witch.  As it is, she scrapes a living reading tea leaves and cards for the more superstitious housewives in the area.

But the world outside this house is changing.  There is less and less room for superstition and wonder, which means less silver crossing Audrey’s palm.  These modern, cynical times have not passed by unnoticed: her hair, dark and wild like a gypsy’s, is laced with grey like a spider’s web.

And so a new rumour swept through Wren’s Nest earlier this week.  The madwoman is taking in a lodger.  The guest suite on the second floor has been cleaned out and spruced up, and the young woman arrives tomorrow.

Because this story is not just about Audrey Lilly and her unfaithful, ghostly husband.  It is also about something that so many stories have in common, be they fairy tales or urban legends.

A girl in trouble.

Death and Breakfast, Prologue: The Lilly House (Audio Version)

Inspired by all the Halloween weirdness of the last few days, I sat down and wrote "The Lilly House", a ghostly prologue to a longer story entitled Death and Breakfast.  This is my first attempt at uploading an audio version of my work.  (Duration: 5 minutes)

Something Wicked This Way Comes: An All Hallow's Eve Interview With Jemima Valentino

Jemima Valentino is the author of His Elle, an erotic novella, and Broken, a short story based on real life events.  I couldn't think of a better time than Halloween to talk to Jemima about her new supernatural release The House On Hundred Hill.

Your new paranormal novella, The House On Hundred Hill, explores the hidden world of the Nephilim.  Has this particular mythology always been of interest to you?  Did you have to do much research?

I absolutely love mythology and the supernatural, but to be honest I am probably a bit of a dunce when it comes to ancient legend - I do love to make it up though! I did do a little bit of research on the Nephilim, and discovered that they were supposed to be giants, so much larger than my characters Draven and Nate Black. I think the thing with mythology though, is that it’s open to interpretation as the whole point is, nobody really knows. So, I allowed the research and information I discovered from it to swirl around in my head for a while to come up with my own interpretation. ‘The House on Hundred Hill’ was my first real attempt at world building, and I totally loved it! It’s given me a new passion and a totally different direction to my current work in progress.

Your first novella, His Elle, was a piece of erotica set in the real world.  The House On Hundred Hill is a paranormal thriller with erotic elements.  Did your writing process differ at all the second time around?

Absolutely. I wrote His Elle very much from the heart, putting myself in the place of my central characters and basing their emotions on how I thought I would feel in that situation. His Elle is a story of emotional and psychology healing through BDSM and although I have never lived in this lifestyle, it’s always easier to write a character that you can relate to. I remember having a similar discussion with you before about how it is easier to write a character based on your own gender, age group, environment etc.

Whereas with The House on Hundred Hill, I have (obviously) never encountered a real-life Nephilim or their ancient enemies, the Gregori. Therefore, the short answer is definitely yes - my writing and thought process differed massively with second book, and I’m sure it will do so again with my third, fourth and fifth as you grow as a writer, and in the writing process, with each new idea.

Genre terms such as "urban fantasy" and "paranormal romance" have become ubiquitous in recent years due to the success of Stephenie Meyer and the more adult fare of Laurell K Hamilton and Sherrilyn Kenyon.  What do you think it is about these subgenres that makes them so popular?

I think people in general like to get lost in fantasy. The worlds that Laurell K Hamilton and Stephenie Meyer have created have massive appeal to readers that can use their imagination and lose themselves in an alternate reality for a period of time. It’s escapism in its simplest form. I read ‘Thinner’ by Stephen King when I was a child and was probably far too young to be let loose inside a book that dealt with an adult theme of gypsy curses, but that book has stayed with me to this day because I remember thinking what I would do if one of my family was cursed in such a way.

Escapism is what books are all about - every fiction book ever written and read has caused somebody somewhere to lose themselves, even if it’s just for a second. Urban Fantasy and Paranormal Romance are not new to our bookshelves, they’ve just been modernised with the times, and given updated ‘genre definition’ from the classics of Bram Stoker and JRR Tolkien.

Do you have a favourite novel from the fantasy or horror genre?

I actually watched the start of ‘Christine’ last night on the TV, before I fell asleep. I’d forgotten what an awesome story that is. Although it’s probably not amongst my favourites, I do enjoy most books by Stephen King.

This year I have also read quite a few books in the fantasy genre by indie authors, and the one that really stuck with me is Fierce Dawn by Amber Scott. It was really very well written and probably the only time I’ve given a 5 star review to a book that sits in the YA category. Then again, I also totally loved Hunger Games too, and can’t wait for the film release next year.   

What would you say separates The House On Hundred Hill from other works of fiction that explore paranormal romance?

Probably it’s erotic element. Angels and BDSM is not something that I’ve come across that much (if at all!), and some readers may find that a bit of a strange theme throughout the book. It was written intentionally though and I really think it adds that extra dimension to the normal ‘sexy angel’ books that you find floating around on the bookshelves of YA readers. The House on Hundred Hill is very adult, and I’m hoping it will appeal to readers who like to combine the paranormal and sex.

Can you choose one sentence from the book that encapsulates its style or theme?

He was Nephilim; the perfect impure balance between humanity and the sprawling darkness, the terrifying shadows that eclipse the soul of the pure-bred humans and lead to that desperate ache, that chill of bones, the screams of malevolence that beg and fight for release but are never heard or recognised until it’s simply far too late. 

Do you have a favourite character in this book?  Who was the easiest to write for?

Jessica was the easiest to write (going back to my earlier comment about relati

ng to characters), but the most fun and my favourite was actually Draven. I love that dark dangerous edge in an alpha male character and my favourite part of the book was when Jessica meets him for the first time.

The House On Hundred Hill is the first in a series. What can readers expect from future instalments?

I would love to tell you, but then I’d have to kill you. (That’s not a threat by the way, before I’m arrested for posting death threats to the internet….)

Seriously though, I have the plot semi formed in my mind at the moment but I’m taking a little break from writing the next one to concentrate on something else. But, what I can tell you is that there will be a surprise return of a character mentioned in The House on Hundred Hill, and Jessica and Nate’s relationship will be threatened as they venture into Gregori territory on the desperate hunt for Draven and Azrael.

Who are your writing influences and/or literary heroes?

I hate this question because there are so many literary heroes and I always struggle to name just a few. From the top of my head, I would have to Say Stephen King and Anais Nin. I always want to throw Sue Townsend in there as well, as the woman is a comedic literary genius and the Adrian Mole series will keep in entertained for the rest of my life as I never get tired of reading those books, time and time and time again.

As it's Halloween, I have to ask you - do you believe in ghosts?  Have you ever had a paranormal experience?

Oh for sure! I am a great believer in paranormal activity. I’ve never actually seen a ghost, although I think I’ve felt them on more than one occasion.

My parents live in an old converted barn / woodshed that dates back to the early 1800’s (just to clarify, it’s a house now, they don’t just live in a woodshed…), and they have a long sweeping gravel driveway that leads up to the house. My dad told me once that he looked out of his bedroom window one morning and there was a man with a horse and cart walking up the driveway. By the time my dad went out to greet him, the man and his horse had disappeared. When my dad asked in the local village if anyone knew him, the locals said his name was Ipikin and he was a rag and bone man at the time my parents’ house was built. The villagers even showed my dad some drawings of what the man looked like. Since then both of my parents have seen Ipikin a few times, mainly in the winter when the driveway is covered in snow. Spooky eh?

The House on Hundred Hill is out now on Amazon. Check out Jemima's website for more information, or follow her on Twitter: @JemimaValentino