Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Northlay Falls – Chapter Three

The next two days were a blur. I counted down the seconds until Wednesday, when Willard and I were scheduled to meet, but as is always the case in Northlay Falls, it was never going to be that simple.

The beast returned on Sunday night, while we were sleeping. My mother’s scream woke me early the next morning. I unlocked my bedroom door and ran through the house, following her voice to the front lawn, where my mother was knelt in the grass.

“Mum, what’s going on?” My father walked past her in silence, walking towards the pub without looking back, and I ran to her side. “Mum?” I fell back in shock as I reached her.

It was Richard, or what was left of him. His head and a few fingers were strewn on the lawn, blood splattered across the grass and flowers as my mother reached across to me and grabbed my hand.

“What would you like for breakfast?” She brushed the tears from her eyes and walked towards the house. Once again, carrying on as if everything was normal. It wasn’t a surprise to me anymore.

I never loved Richard, but I wept at his side, running my fingers across his soft face as he stared up, with glassy, long gone eyes. My fiancé (his words, not mine) was dead, and I had a sinking feeling that I was to blame.

Nobody said anything about it, and I knew that they wouldn’t, but it still shocked me. I found Mr Hithe, giving his usual warnings outside my father’s pub, and I stood with him, telling him what I’d seen in my garden that morning. He believed that the beast was sending a message, and as we parted, he repeated Willard’s warning about the drinks.

I nodded and hoped, perhaps naively, that things would get better.

They didn’t, of course. I’ve never been that lucky. The next day, Mr Hithe was waiting for me in the garden. The beast had left him intact, for the most part, but had claimed one of his legs.

I closed the blood soaked front door and hid in the house all day. I felt like a coward, but I didn’t know what else to do. I just counted down the hours until Wednesday morning, so that I could meet with Willard, get on the boat and get out of Northlay Falls. Mr Hithe was gone, and I was all alone. It was my fault. So much death, in such a short time, and all of it traced back to me, but nobody said a word. Nobody cried. Nobody thought about it too deeply, or they’d go mad.

A loud crash woke me at about three AM on Wednesday. I didn’t remember falling asleep, but I was grateful to be pulled from the horrifying nightmares that plagued me as I slept.

I knew that the beast must have been hunting, and dreaded the offering he would leave in the garden.

There was light outside my window, which seemed odd for the time of day, and as I rubbed my eyes and leant up against the window sill, I saw a crowd gathering outside of the house.

There were candles and lanterns in the hands of the villagers, and I could see their mouths moving, almost in unison.

It was one of the strangest sights I’d ever seen, outside of the obvious. I opened my window, to try and get a closer look, or to see if I could hear some part of their conversation, and as the sounds became clear, a chill ran down my spine.

“The girl must die.” It wasn’t one voice, or even a few, it was a chorus of chants, monotone and emotionless. “The girl must die.” Every single person who was crowding our house was saying it, over and over, all at once. I was the girl, and they seemed ready to sacrifice me.

Willard and Mr Hithe were right. The drinks sent over by the beast were tainted. The beast was controlling them, somehow, seeping into our every day lives and bewitching us, or at least those of us that chose to drink from his nectar. That was almost everyone, of course. After all, there was nothing for anyone to do in that place but drink, so the people were helpless to his spell.

“Ivy?” I snapped the window shut, rushing towards my door and turning the lock as fast as I could. “Ivy, what did you do?“ My father’s voice on the other side of the door had a nervousness that was oddly reassuring. There was some kind of feeling as he spoke, which was more than could be said for the baying mob outside. “Ivy, I need you to open the door.” I stared at the lock, not knowing what to do. “Did you make him angry?” My father tried the door, fruitlessly fiddling with the handle for a few seconds as he spoke.

“Who?” My voice was a weak, mousy whisper.

“The beast.” Just as Mr Hithe said, the people had an awareness, they just didn’t want to anger him, and as I took another quick glance out of the window, I understood why.

“He took Ray, Daddy.” I leant up against the door, tears in my eyes as the pressure of everything I had seen caught up with me. “I just wanted to get away…” I ran my fingers across the lock, wondering what to do, unable to think clearly with the constant chaos all around me.

“Just open the door and I can help you.” He said softly, barely audible over the deafening crowd outside.

It’s easy to say that you’re a grown up, especially when you live in Northlay Falls, where girlhood ends as soon a man decides to make a wife out of you, which seems to happen sooner every year, but in that moment, I had never felt more like a helpless child. I was in too deep. I had made a mess that I had no chance of fixing.

The beast approached, with his army of spellbound subordinates, and it seemed that everything was so hopeless, so for once, after so much time, trying to be independent, I just needed my dad to hold my hand and tell me that everything would be alright.

“It’s all going to be alright Ivy.” I slowly pulled the lock back and opened the door. He pulled me into a hug, and the second that he did, I knew it was all over.

“You’re not my Dad…” I sobbed. Just like the sailors, like every fool in that village, the beast had tricked me. His claws dug deep into my shoulders and I saw my real father, down the hallway, stood amongst the crowd that advanced towards us. His eyes glazed over like the rest of them, the horrific calls for my sacrifice escaping his lips, just like everybody else.

Willard was there too, standing just in front of my father, giving me an apologetic stare as he broke from the pack and mouthed a single word to me.


In the end, I got out of Northlay Falls, but I will never truly escape. I can write our story but nobody will ever read it, and I’ll spend the rest of my life on this boat, with Willard and the rest of those traitors. Back and forth, back and forth across the lake. Always so close to freedom, but never quite able to taste it.

It’s like I said. Nobody leaves Northlay Falls.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

A Woman’s Work

Celia scrubbed at her hands as the sun rose outside the kitchen window. She sighed in the direction of her husband’s urn on the sideboard and shook her head. The morning seemed to intrude earlier every single day, and there was no end to her duties as a single mother.

“April!” She called out for her daughter, but there was silence. “April, we have a busy day today.” More silence, and more scrubbing at the sink. Celia glanced down at her crimson coated fingers and sighed again. Truly, a woman’s work was never done. “April Jane Jefferson!” As the clock struck six, she finally heard some movement from upstairs, and her mind felt a little more at ease.

“Okay, I’m coming.” Her daughter grumbled as she slowly descended the stairs. Celia, still scrubbing and staring at her hands motioned towards the kitchen table with a nod as April entered the room.

“Set the table and I’ll make breakfast.” Celia instructed. April groaned, falling down into one of the chairs and slumping down over the table.

“Mommy, I’m tired.” She whined, with a childish tone that she was far too old for. “Can I stay home from school today?” Celia gave another long sigh, as she shook her hands clear of the water and began drying them on a towel.

“No, I’ve got a lot of work to do today.” She muttered, taking the decision of breakfast out of her daughter’s hands and beginning to make toast. “I can’t have you under my feet.” She opened the cutlery drawer and pulled out a shimmering, sharp knife, eyeing up the thick loaf of bread before her.

“I could always show them my real birth certificate and get kicked out…” April said with a smirk. She immediately regretted it. Before she could say another word, her mother leapt towards her with the knife in hand and a scowl on her face.

“You’ll do as your told.” Celia snarled, holding the knife achingly close to her daughter’s neck. “As far as they know, you’re seventeen.” She took a deep breath, letting the knife linger a second longer before pulling away. “And that’s how it’s going to stay.” April nodded, her face pale and her eyes full of tears.

Internally, Celia had to admit that her daughter had a point, there was only so long that she could pass for a high schooler before someone discovered that she was now pushing twenty five, and there was also only so long that the two of them could escape justice for their crimes.

Every now and again, Celia would have moments of clarity. These moments would normally come as she washed her hands in the morning. The blood would swirl in the sink, and her stomach would be in knots as she realised that it was only a matter of time before it all came crumbling down.

She had tried to stop, back when April was a baby, and then when she was old enough to understand what was happening, and a hundred times since then, but it never worked out.

A woman’s work is never truly done, so surely, she must be allowed some indulgences, right? Of course, it’s only fair. The trouble was, most women’s indulgences were a night out with friends, or a box set and some chocolates. Celia’s indulgence was murder. Choking used to be her vice, but after one man put up a particularly good fight, she got a taste for blood.

“I’m sorry, honey.” She whispered, letting the knife clatter on the table before her. “Mommy’s just tired.”

Her innocent little daughter was no longer so innocent, becoming the perfect little accomplice as the years went by. They’d moved all over the United States when things got too hot and were now settled in a small town in England, because things across the pond had become volcanic.

April would find her the victims, and get them alone, and then Celia would strike. That was how it had been since April was fourteen years old, and Celia couldn’t stop, so that was how it had to stay.

The day went on. April went to school, Celia did a little housework and some gardening, and then decided to take a little nap before April got home from school. That was when it all changed.

Sometimes, you wait around for a miracle, and nothing comes. That’s the case for most of us, but it wasn’t the case for Celia. Her miracle came to her in a dream, and has been by her side ever since.

As she settled down to rest, she thought of nothing but her problems. Her daughter was unhappy. Her husband was dead. She’d have to move soon when the police caught up with them. She was almost certainly going to end up in prison for the rest of her life. There seemed to be no way out, until she fell into a deep, deep sleep.

She could feel grass under her fingers as she opened her eyes, and the air that surrounded her was sweet. Wind whipped through her loose hair as she sat up and looked around.

There were trees sprawling across the landscape, flowers as far as she could see, and a woman was sat beside her with a silent smile.

“Where am I?” Celia asked, overwhelmed by the scenery. The stranger did not speak, handing Celia a single white rose as more bloomed all around them. Celia could hardly believe her eyes as roses sprang from every space around them, intertwining as they grew tall and towered above them.

“You are in the garden Celia.” The voice seemed to be all around her, but the woman beside her still held her silent smile. “You will be her prophet.” The stranger took Celia’s hand in her own and held it to the petals of a rose before them. Celia felt a calm that she hadn’t found in years as their hands met, and despite the strangeness of the situation, she hoped that the stranger would never let go. “You must make them red.” The bliss flowed through her body as thunder rang out above them.

“I don’t understand.” Celia confessed, in barely a whisper as the soft white petals clasped in her fingertips became crimson.

“Find your garden and make the roses red.” The voice commanded. The roses before her parted and the stranger helped her to her feet, guiding her to the newly made clearing, where surrounded by beautiful red roses, she saw her husband, for the first time in years.

His once handsome face was drained and pale, his lifeless body lay on the grass with her last gift to him, a deep laceration across his throat.

“I don’t…” Celia began, but the stranger pressed a finger softly to her lips.

“Make the roses red for your Goddess.” The voice around her demanded as she knelt by his side, overcome with emotion as she saw a trail containing the other victims of her compulsion in the grass behind him.

“Why did I do this to you?” Tears began to fall from her eyes as she held his frozen hand in her own.

“Because you must.” The voice overwhelmed even the thunder and all Celia could do was cry. She had been on autopilot for so long, never considering her actions and her the effects of her impulses for more than a few moments at a time, but now, surrounded by them, she was heartbroken.

“I’m a monster.” She sobbed, wiping her hands up and down her dress, but never quite able to feel clean.

“You are the prophet, Celia.” She shook her head, desperate to defy the voice, and so confused, but the faceless voice was insistent. “You must turn the roses red for our Goddess.” Collapsing into her husband’s chest, she wept, so hopeful for the sound of his beating heart, but knowing it could never be hers again.

“Celia.” There was another voice, soft and somewhat comforting, from the smiling stranger, who knelt by Celia’s side and held her hand gently. “You fed me and I was able to build a new world for us.” She lifted Celia’s head and as their eyes met, Celia felt that new sense of calm, as if, despite everything, things were just fine.

“Why do I hurt people?” She asked, watching the stranger lean towards the corpse between them and place her hands over the heart of Celia’s dead husband.

“I needed a strong woman to help me prepare.” The stranger clicked her fingers and vines sprang from them, pushing Celia back and tearing into the dead man’s skin. “One day, all of this will be yours.” Celia stared in horror as the vines began ripping her husband apart.

She wanted to stop them, but fear froze her in place. “But first, we must rid the world of weeds.” The vines fell into stillness, as the woman before her reached into the corpse’s chest, pulling his heart free of his body and holding it out to Celia.

“Turn the roses red for me Celia” Celia wasn’t sure why she knew, but she instinctively knew that she was expected to eat it. “Turn the roses red and you will rule at my side.” It was something she’d never considered, something so wrong that even she, for all her sins could never imagine it, but in that moment, in the gaze of this curious stranger who seemed to have an answer to every question, she couldn’t stop herself.

It was sweet, like the air, soft on her tongue like the roses on her hands and from the second it touched her lips, she felt divine.

“I am Invierno.” The woman said softly, the roses around them bowed low against the grass, and Celia fell to her knees with them, staring up in awe at Invierno. “And you are my prophet.”

Celia began to feel a familiar itching in her hands, a primal desire for prey in her bones. She felt power coursing through every inch of her body, hungry for more, and as she took another bite, she understood exactly what her Goddess needed her to do.

“Yes, my treasured Goddess.”

When night fell, and Celia closed her eyes, she would visit the higher garden to learn from Invierno, and as her own garden grew back on Earth, so did the pile of bodies in her wake.

A woman’s work was never done.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Northlay Falls – Chapter One

Nobody comes to Northlay Falls. Nobody leaves Northlay Falls. Nobody looks into the lake. That is just how it is. We are born here. We live here. We die here, of boredom, or natural causes, whichever comes first.

Seven generations of my family have wasted away here, and it’s the same for everyone else I know. Nobody really knows how our ancestors got here, and nobody really cares, we’re just trapped here.

It is what it is.

It’s the ideal tourist destination, with great views, pubs, a lake to swim in, and all the picturesque cottages a tumblr blogger or budding influencer dreams of photographing, but nobody ever comes here.

Nobody goes to University. Nobody moves for work. We don’t get tourists. We don’t get Royal visits. We don’t get campaign knocks from the Prime Minister. Our member of parliament has never actually come to the village. He was parachuted in, and he won the seat, but he’s never set foot in this place. Nobody from the outside has. I don’t blame them.

It’s like time stopped and then restarted, but we got stuck. Everyone went on without us.

Nobody comes in. Nobody leaves. Nobody looks into the lake. I’m sorry if I’m repeating myself, it just gets to me. Nobody comes in. Nobody leaves. Nobody looks into the lake. I watch the rest of the world, coming and going, living their lives online or in the newspapers (sent across on boats, like all other supplies from the outside), but I’m trapped, and I never knew why, not until today.

There’s a farm, but everything grows bad. Old Mr Hithe has never been able to charm anything from the soil, so we rely on the boats bringing stuff over on the lake.

They say that the farm drove him a little mad. He knew how to plant and sow. He knew how to care for animals, but it just never worked out. The soil would scowl up at him, refusing to let anything but weeds leave its earthy embrace, and the animals would go off into the night, every single night, in a neat little line towards the lake. Sometimes, he’d be able to stop a few of them, but they’d just try again the next night, and the next, until eventually, they were all drowned.

Nobody ever knew why. Nobody has the energy to ask anymore. The animals would die, the soil would keep the crops captive, and crazy old Mr Hithe would run around the village every morning, screaming about a monster in the lake. Everyone pretends they can’t hear him, but I know now that he’s telling the truth.

The same happened to his father, and his grandfather before him. The Hithes have always been farmers, just incredibly unlucky ones.

Crazy old Mr Hithe was the last of his line. The lake saw to that. After he ran out of animals, his daughter went walking, then his wife, and finally his son. I saw him, out of the window, sobbing and pleading with them, doing his best to drag them back to the farm house, but off they went, to the lake, doomed to wash up on the shore the next morning, or, what was left of them, anyway.

Sometimes, I think crazy old Mr Hithe isn’t crazy, he is just aware, in a way that most of us can’t handle.

I haven’t even told you about the lake. There’s a lake on the far north side of the village, past the forest. People will go into the forest, and they’ll go as far as the shore, if they’re very brave, but only the bravest will go near the lake, and nobody will look directly into it.

The lake is the only way out, I’m sure of it. The sailors on the boats that bring our supplies aren’t from here. We order stuff from across the way. There’s another village on the other side, and after that, a town, and I guess, the rest of the world. The sailors come from that town. They never look down, they just keep their eyes on the cargo, or each other, never looking at the water. They know what happens if they look at the water. We all do.

Looking at the water is certain death. Nobody is sure how, because only a few have ever seen it, and they’re long gone, but it’s certain death, and it certainly isn’t pretty, or so I’ve been told, in terrified whispers.

There are things that everyone knows but pretends to be clueless about. I suppose for those on the outside, the things are less troublesome, but we all have our secrets.

Looking at the water is death. That is our secret. There’s something in there, but whatever is down there let’s the boats pass. The sailors go back and forth every few days, unharmed, and if I could just get on one of those boats, I’d be free.

I’ve tried every other way. It didn’t take me long, because there really was only one other way I could think of. There’s no trucks or cars to sneak out on, so I tried walking. That sounds simple, but it really wasn’t.

When I said that nobody leaves, I didn’t mean that people like it so much they never leave. I mean that nobody has left, because they can’t. There were rumours about people disappearing after trying to cross through the forest onto the road, and considering how often that happens without people wandering towards freedom, people have been put off from trying.

We decided we knew better. As night fell, I snuck out of the house with my brother. He had just turned eighteen, and didn’t want to follow my father down the traditional path of marrying a girl from the village and popping out babies, in between shifts at the pub.

I understood him completely. There are six pubs in this village, because that’s all we can do. Eat, exist and binge drink. It takes the edge off, I guess. Most people here aren’t smart, but they’re not dumb either. They know that they are trapped. They know that this is a strange place. They know that their lives aren’t normal. They know that every month, someone goes missing and we just don’t talk about it. I suppose the drinking is how people cope with the boredom, and the pain. It’s not like there’s anything else to do.

Ray was smart. He was the best at school by far, and he longed to go outside, to study. He could have gone somewhere like Oxford, but he was trapped, just like me, and just like me, he was sick of it.

We headed towards the south border. There wasn’t a wall to keep us in, or even a fence. Just a cheerful, weathered sign past the trees, that welcomed visitors who never came, and the scary stories we’d heard since before we could talk. We stood, hand in hand by the sign as the wind whipped around us.

Nobody leaves. I keep saying it, because it’s true. Nobody left that night either. I was afraid, but Ray was too excited at the thought of freedom to be afraid. He let go of my hand and took a step past the sign. The night was still and we both breathed a sigh of relief as he reached a hand back towards me.

And then, he was gone. It all happened so quickly, like the frantic flashes of a nightmare. Huge, dark wings descended from the trees as my brother yelped, almost drowned out by a deafening roar that seemed to surround us.

I stared up, awestruck as the creature took to the sky, my brother’s struggling body clenched between its huge jaws. It’s wings seemed endless as it circled above me, my brother’s screams faded as I saw the creature’s blood red eyes staring back at me. It didn’t speak (I suppose it couldn’t, with its mouth full), but the cold, scarlet stare told me to stay inside the bounds of the village, or else.

Frozen in place, my eyes streaming with tears, I watched the creature carry Ray, dripping with blood as the life left him, across the village, towards the lake.

I couldn’t believe what I’d just seen. I stood there for a few moments until the creature was out of sight, and then I just wandered the village until dawn.

I suppose I was in shock. I had briefly considered going to the lake, to try and find Ray, but I guess, like him, I was smart. We’d all heard the stories about the lake, and I’d seen his lifeless body, carried away in the mouth of whatever that thing was, so there was no reason, other than sentimentality to go looking for something I would never find.

I saw crazy old Mr Hithe by my Father’s pub, and he looked at me, with this incredibly sane clarity. He knew, and now, so did I. I nodded to him and carried on, walking mindlessly, like one of his sheep, or one of his children, heading to the lake, despite my earlier arguments with myself over it, but I never quite made it there.

My fiancé (his words, not mine) found me and took me back to my parents. That’s perhaps the worst thing about this shithole. Nobody comes in, so we’re all bullied and forced into arranged marriages if we can’t make it happen organically, for the sake of continuing the population. I’d honestly rather let it die out, than fuck a man, especially one as loathsome as Richard Burgess, but unfortunately for me, I won’t have a choice once my sixteenth birthday comes. I don’t have much time left. Ray had his reasons for wanting to get out, but that was mine.

My parents bundled me into the house and pushed Richard back out the door, and for a few seconds, we all just stood in silence.

“Something took Ray.” I had tried to speak but it was barely a whisper. There was more silence, and I could feel tears again. “It had wings and these red eyes and…”

My father pressed a hand to my lips.

“Well, I should go and open up.” He said with a sigh. I gaped at him, astounded as he grabbed his coat. It was like he hadn’t listened. One of his children was missing, probably dead, and it didn’t seem to phase him, at all.

“Didn’t you hear me?” I cried, rushing across the room and grabbing him by the collar. “That thing took Ray!”

“People will be wanting their drinks.” He muttered. “It’s a sunny day.” He pulled away from me. “Got to get the people their drinks.”

Without another word, he kissed my mother on the cheek and headed out the front door.

“He dined early this month.” My mother whispered, disappearing towards the kitchen. I could swear that I saw tears in her eyes, but I knew that she wouldn’t say anymore.

I stood, motionless and full of emotion that I couldn’t express. My brother was dead, and nobody seemed to care. His own parents acted as if it was another day. I couldn’t understand then, but I do now, and the things I have learned will change the world, if I can ever escape into it.

I’m going to get out, and I’m going to show you all the secrets that they’ve been hiding.

Nobody comes in. Nobody leaves. Nobody looks into the lake, but I will.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Sins Of The Father

Once upon a time, many moons ago, when the sun shone new in the freshly made sky, God had a daughter.

She was the first child. Long before Adam and Eve, or Jesus Christ, and long before all of you, there was the first and most treasured daughter, Invierno.

You will not find her name in any books, or on the tongues of disciples and storytellers, because God kept her a secret, but like the rain must fall and the days must pass, all secrets must be revealed eventually.

God gazed at the girl he had created, and he offered her the world that he had built. She was a humble girl, with a kind and loving heart, and she accepted on one condition. She asked her father to join her on the Earth.

God agreed, and together, they lived a happy life in the Earth. For many years, Invierno and her father were joyful and satisfied. Day to day, they enjoyed the beautiful Earth that God had created. Invierno studied her father, and emulated him, looking up to him as a good daughter should, and at first, God found himself flattered.

As time went by, Invierno’s powers grew. She began to surpass her father. She not only maintained the Earth, but she improved it, making it even more beautiful. God grew jealous of his daughter, enraged that the child he had created could grow into something greater than himself.

Jealousy is a sickness, and God was consumed by it. With every day and every hour, his envy enveloped him further, until he could not look at his child without toppling to the tyranny of rage.

Late one night, as the Earth and all her creatures slept, along with Invierno, God crept to her bedside, with a knife clutched in his jaundiced hands. The blade shone bright in the moonlight as he raised it above her sleeping body.

It was then that he realised her true power. As he plunged the knife towards her chest, vines whipped in front of her and batted against his hands, sending the knife flying away from her. Flowers began to bloom across her skin, as he backed away in horror. The Earth that he had built had grown to love the child and turned against it’s maker.

It was natural. God had made the Earth, but sweet Invierno had been the first to understand it. The Earth began to grow, fierce and defiant, as God retreated in terror. Weeds whipped around his legs and petals protruded from the ground as he ran from what he had given life to. Thunder rang out across the sky as the wind marched against him, sending him flying.

Afraid for his life, and more importantly, afraid for his position of dominance, God escaped his former domain, running and running until it was nothing but a dim light in the distance.

He pondered for years about what had happened, unable to comprehend how his daughter had bested him, even while sleeping. He began building another Earth, the one you know now, where you have spent your whole life, watched by a man who fears your power.

While he watches over you, he watches for signs of your greatness and he will lean forward, with his envious little fingers to place obstacles in your way, but, my friends, there’s somebody that will celebrate you and all that you can accomplish.

She lived, my friends. Our treasured Goddess Invierno lives, and she has transformed the erstwhile Earth into a beautiful paradise for all that want to fulfil their potential.

Will you go to her?