This is a very early draft and the book doesn’t have a title.

Most writers don’t share first drafts at all, but I’m happy to share it with members of the site, and that means you’ll need to register or sign in.

In case you missed it, the snippet I shared earlier is here: Snippet 1

Prologue

The Reverend Gregory Southgate stood alone in the Parish Church of St Raphael, the sole place of worship in Embervale. This parish is only one of the four that he serves as vicar, but he often lingers here when his regular duties are done for the day. Of course, all of God’s houses are equally splendid, but there’s something about this small but elegantly proportioned church that speaks to his heart.

Outside, the sun had set at last, the pale light of the evening finally fading. The days were growing longer as spring tightened its grip on the landscape, but the day had been a cold one. There’d been talk of a storm, and though the ancient stone walls had stood firm against the elements for centuries, the roof was a different matter, and the wind was already whistling and whining through the rafters high above him.

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The problem lay somewhere in the roof’s complex framework of struts and joists, so he’d been told. The oak timbers were strong, but they were not immune to the passage of time, nor the increasingly wet winters. A tiny gap here, a drip or two there, and the seeds of destruction and decay had been sown. Birds and beetles had been quick to make the most of every new niche, and earlier that day, the vicar’s service had been accompanied by the chatter of starlings, the birds squabbling as they made their nests and pecked at the masonry to enlarge their homes.

The vicar walked slowly to the front of the church and perched on a pew, but he fought off the urge to kneel and pray. It wasn’t right to ask the Almighty for the money to fix the roof. Prayer, as he’d often told his parishioners, wasn’t like a slot machine where one pressed a button and hoped that the whirring wheels would align in a favourable way. Prayer, true prayer, was so much more difficult. He could ask for guidance, but there was little purpose in that; he already knew what he must do.

Another round of fundraising, he thought with a heavy heart, and as if to reflect his mood, a sudden outburst of rain pelted against the stained glass windows. The staccato sound reverberated through the empty church, rising to a crescendo like the rapid beat of a snare drum heralding the charge of an unseen army.

Buffeted by the wind, the heavy church door shook back and forth, rattling the  venerable cast-iron knocker. The door had been growing troublesome of late, sometimes sticking in its frame, so perhaps he hadn’t closed it properly. He’d have to get a carpenter to look at the door, but at least that repair shouldn’t be too expensive.

The storm outside became stronger, the gale forcing its way in through the myriad holes in the roof with a low moan.

“Time to head home,” the vicar murmured. Clapping his hands against his thighs, he stood, and in that moment, the wind’s plaintive cries seemed to take on a different form, becoming more human. It was as if the stones themselves were letting go of a long pent sob of despair.

He froze, transfixed, his gaze turned upward, his hand going to his chest.

Again, the sob rang out, a heartrending wail of anguish.

“No,” the vicar muttered. “This isn’t…”

He turned on his heel and started toward the door, but suddenly, without warning, the lights went out. The vicar stood still, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. It’s wasn’t quite dark outside, and stray beams of dull evening light filtered through the stained glass windows. Ahead of him, the dark wooden door was barely visible among the shadows. But there’s no mistaking what happened next. Slowly, inexorably, the door swung open.

That’s the end of the snippet. I hope it has whetted your appetite.