By Gary McMahon
Chilling Contempoary Horror set within the English suburbs.
Ben arrives within the Concrete Grove to analyze a booklet concerning the Northumbrian Poltergeist, an notorious paranormal incident from the early Seventies. a suite of twins have been haunted by means of a spirit they nicknamed Captain Clickety, and the media of the time have been break up among derision and hysteria.
As Ben teases out the supressed info of the tale, he unearths himself interested in an emotionally broken lady whose younger daughter went lacking years in the past in the course of a interval of comparable baby abductions.
Then the scarecrows seem, their heads plastered with photos of the lacking and the useless. apartment pets are chanced on slaughtered, their our bodies equipped into bloody totems. Hummingbirds flock to definite parts of the property, as though anticipating the arriving of something…
A door has been opened and a presence is set to step via. The Hummingbird Twins, beset by way of unusual visions, may well understand the key, yet they aren’t speaking. it truly is as much as Ben to place the ghosts to leisure and resolve truth from fiction. he's approximately to find that the tale he seeks is in reality his personal tale, and purely he can plot the finishing.
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Extra resources for Beyond Here Lies Nothing (Concrete Grove, Book 3)
Sample text
Watched intently by the other two, Beard was staring at the centrepiece, a thick column containing a mess of lines and cutaways that resolved at last into a quadruple helix making one complete turn, and at the base, in less detail, a boxy representation of a generator. One of the doodles showed a roofline, with a TV aerial and the helix set on a short vertical pole strapped to the side of a chimney – not a good mounting at all. For two minutes he stared in silence. ’ Braby said. ‘Well,’ Beard muttered.
Reflecting on the night before, he found it extraordinary that after a lifetime of infidelities, a night with an imaginary friend was no less exciting. For the first time in weeks he felt faintly cheerful, even whistled a show tune as he microwaved his supper, and when he saw himself in the gold-leaf sunking mirror in the cloakroom downstairs, thought his face had lost some fat and looked purposeful, with a shadow of cheekbone visible, and was, by the light of the thirty-watt bulb, somewhat noble, a possible effect of the sugary cholesterol-lowering yoghurt drink he was forcing himself to swallow each morning.
He kept this going for five minutes, his voice, then the woman’s, sometimes artfully overlapping the two. The house was silent, listening, of course. He went into the bathroom, ran a tap, flushed the lavatory and laughed out loud. Patrice should know that his lover was a wit. Then he gave out a muted kind of whoop. Patrice should know he was having fun. He did not sleep much that night. At four, after a long silence suggestive of tranquil intimacy, he opened his bedroom door while keeping up an insistent murmur, and went down the stairs backwards, bending forward to beat out on the treads with his palms the sound of his companion’s footfall, syncopated with his own.