I can totally relate.
I can totally relate.
Well I don’t know about you, but self isolation has certainly been very productive for me.
Today I am very excited to announce a BRAND NEW short story: Munchausen.
Munchausen is a prequel to my short story ‘The New Neighbors’. It follows Amy, a personal carer who begins a job at a remote lake house in Waterbury, Vermont. John Linden, the man of the house, needs help looking after his wife Lisa, who was mostly paralyzed by an apparent brain aneurysm. As the story unfolds, Amy becomes entangled in a mystery involving the residents, and she begins to realize the sinister motivations behind her employment.
You can read the story below, or download it as a PDF HERE: Munchausen by Kate Kelsen
Enjoy the read. This story is still a Work-In-Progress, so I would love to hear your feedback.
A Short Story by Kate Kelsen
Copyright © 2020. All Rights Reserved.
Elizabeth quietly observed Dan as he sat sobbing in the chair opposite her. He held his hand out to her, and she passed him a box of tissues.
“You’re giving me a referral?” he sniveled, touching a tissue to his eyes.
“You focus too much on your therapist, Dan, instead of your therapy.”
“Is this because of our chance encounter the other day?”
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow.
“It wasn’t altogether chance, was it, Dan?”
“Was that your husband?”
Elizabeth said nothing. Dan tilted his head, looking inquisitively at her.
“Do you always pretend to be that happy with him?”
He leaned forward, and Elizabeth stiffened where she sat.
“You would be loved, Elizabeth. And looked after.”
Elizabeth said nothing. Dan scoffed, nodding.
“I just hate that I have to pay to see you.”
“I’m your psychiatrist, Dan. It would be unethical to engage with you outside this office.”
Dan looked down at the crumpled tissue in his hands.
“The saddest thing I could think of is that I wouldn’t get to see you again.”
He shook his head, looking up at her with newly sharpened spite in his eyes.
“Can you even imagine what it is like to be completely dependent on another person
for your basic mental and emotional needs? Every single part of my identity has been taken from me, and now this. I’ve always dug deep to keep my hope alive in hard times. But you’ve just knocked the wind right out of my optimism, Doctor. My energy to survive is wavering. What will be the point if this is all that’s in store for me from now on?”
“I’m sorry, Dan, but I still think you should see another doctor.”
Dan sat upright, nodding stiffly as he picked up his jacket.
“Alright,” he said.
He stood up, shrugged on his jacket and left the office. Elizabeth stayed where she sat
for several minutes longer, lost in a thoughtful daze, before snapping out of it and collecting her notes, returning to her desk.
Switching out the light, Elizabeth closed and locked the door behind her. As she
stepped out into the street, she withdrew her gaze from the path and redirected it into her bag. Looking up suddenly, she was blinded by the headlights, and the next thing she knew she was laying on the road. Through the blur, she saw the driver step out of the car and approach her, before slipping silently into unconsciousness.
Amy found the lake house at the end of a private road half a mile long. She stepped out of her car, admiring the surrounding canopy of hardwood trees as she climbed the steps to the front porch.
“Hello?” She knocked on the door. “Hello?”
Her calls remained unanswered. She stepped inside, following the long hall all the way through the house to the back door. There, she observed a woman sitting in the garden in a wheelchair.
“You must be Amy.”
Amy turned to see a man step out onto the porch behind her.
“I’m sorry, the front door was open…”
“It’s okay,” the man smiled. “It’s a big house. I’m John Linden.”
“It’s a lovely place you’ve got here.”
They looked out at the woman in the wheelchair.
“What’s the nature of her condition?” Amy enquired.
“Brain aneurysm. She can’t speak, can barely move. Doctors figure a month, maybe.”
John cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, I’ve been having a rough time with it. She’s the love of my life, and she’s dying. John covered his mouth with his hand.
“You don’t need to apologize. Really.”
“We’ve been together forever, you know? I feel like I’m losing my soulmate…”
“And the thought of someone coming to live here…it’s just hard. It’s always been just us.”
“I understand. Really. So, she can’t speak at all?”
“No,” John said, composing himself again. “She’s pretty much paralyzed.”
John and Amy approached the woman.
“Lisa, this is Amy. She’s going to be taking care of you for a while. Amy, this is my
“Hello, Lisa,” Amy smiled.
John placed his hand on Lisa’s shoulder.
“You’re the fifth one I’ve interviewed. The last girl left, just up and quit. The job is yours if you want it. ”
Joy helped Amy carry her boxes and suitcases to her car parked across the street from
their apartment building.
“It’s less than an hour away,” Amy insisted. “I’ll be back all the time.”
“You better. Come here.” Joy hugged Amy. “I’m proud of you.”
Driving into Waterbury, Amy passed wood lots, post-and-beam barns, and rolling
stands of sugar maple. Pickups stacked with cordwood lined South Main Street, alongside
sport wagons crammed with kids, skis, and commuter bikes.
Amy turned off Route 2, arriving at the lake house two miles along. She pulled up in
front of the house, and started to unload her boxes and bags. John appeared and helped her bring them inside. He showed her to her room, placing the box in his arms down on the bed.
“You’re a photographer,” he commented, gesturing to the camera in the box, and picking up a small picture frame.
“Well, there will be plenty of photo opportunities around here for you, I’m sure. I’ll let
you get settled in. Let me know when you’re unpacked. I’ll show you around.”
Amy stepped outside her room, looking up and down the hallway.
“Mr. Linden?” She took a few steps along the hallway. “Mr. Linden?”
She reached a staircase, looking up to the attic door at the top. She turned, startled by John standing behind her.
“Oh, sorry,” she stammered. “I’m…I’m unpacked.”
“Great. I’ll give you a tour.”
Downstairs, the kitchen overlooked the dining area with a wall of windows to take in the views of the lake and the mountains. Adjacent to the kitchen and dining area was a fire-lit living room, with an adjoined sunroom.
“The house was built in 2000,” said John. “There’s seven acres, and a hundred feet of
sandy beach on the lakefront. There are three bedrooms and three bathrooms, and water
views from almost every room in the house.”
“Is there an attic?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I just noticed the door at the top of the stairs. Near my room.”
“There is, but you don’t need to go in there. All I keep in there is old paperwork, records,
that sort of thing.”
John turned to Amy.
“I’m sure you’d like to freshen up. It will be time for Lisa’s medicine soon. I’ll show you how to give it to her.”
In her private bathroom, Amy looked into the mirror hanging on the wall above the
sink. She pulled her hair into a ponytail and wrapped it around itself, securing the bun with a pin. She removed her top over her head, reaching into the shower and turning on the taps. Amy stepped into Lisa’s room, approaching the bed.
“Hi, Lisa,” she softly greeted. “Remember me? I’m Amy. I’ll be taking care of you.”
Amy switched on the bedside lamp. She pulled the sheet up around Lisa’s chest,
jumping when Lisa grabbed her arm.
“Let go, Lisa.” Amy attempted to pry Lisa’s fingers open. “Lisa, you’re hurting me!”
“There you are.”
Lisa let go, and Amy turned to see John enter the room.
“I thought you said she was paralyzed.”
“She has spasms sometimes. Don’t let it scare you. It’s time for her medicine. She
takes her pills in powder form.”
John held a glass to Lisa’s lips, and she drank the contents down.
“Amy, would you be so kind as to join me for dinner?”
“Wonderful. I’ve made a stew.”
Opera music played softly in the background as Amy sat with John at the dining table.
“So, tell me a bit more about yourself, Amy. You’re not from around here, are you?”
“I moved from Burlington.”
“But you weren’t raised in Vermont.”
“No. I was born in Los Angeles, actually. Raised in New Jersey. I worked in New Orleans for a while, too.”
“A lot of moving around.”
“I was living on the road with a traveling rock band.”
“I see. Quite a world away from hospice care.”
“My father died while I was on the road. He was alone, and I wasn’t aware of his
“I’m so sorry to hear it, Amy.”
“I felt so guilty about it that I wanted to devote myself to becoming a person who
makes a difference.”
“Well, you’re certainly making a difference by being here. How’s your stew?”
“Very nice, thank-you.”
In the kitchen, John stood at the stove, ladling stew into a bowl he had set aside. He took a small brown glass bottle and measuring cup, filling it and tipping the contents into the soup, stirring it in.
“What is that?” Lisa inquired.
“Oh, just a tonic. Lisa always believed in balancing medical and alternative
medicines. I’m just continuing to honor her wishes. Would you mind taking this up to
Amy took the tray with the bowl of stew and a spoon upstairs to Lisa’s room, placing
it down on the tray table next to the bed. She dipped the spoon into the bowl, holding it to Lisa’s lips.
“That’s a lovely husband you’ve got there, Lisa.”
Lisa pressed her lips closed, making grunting noises. Amy paused, lowering the spoon.
“Lisa, what’s wrong?”
Lisa flailed, knocking the bowl of stew onto the floor.
“Shit!” Amy exclaimed, scrambling after it.
John entered the room.
“What’s going on?”
“She was struggling.”
“It’s alright,” John soothed Lisa, approaching the bed and stroking her hair.
“Thank-you, Amy. I’ll take care of it.”
“Are you sure? I can go get a cloth…”
“It’s fine, thank-you.”
The following morning Amy lifted Lisa from her wheelchair into the bathtub, and as Lisa
relaxed into the hot water, Amy glimpsed what she thought was a smile. She picked up the sponge, and as she dipped it in the water, her gaze fell upon Lisa’s legs. Her toes stood like fat little sausages on the ends of her feet, which along with her legs had a blotchy red and purple discoloration.
After the bath, Amy dressed Lisa and placed a hat on her head, and then wheeled her
outside into the back garden, where John was re-potting plants.
“Do you need anything, John?”
“Not right now, thanks.”
Amy climbed the stairs to the second floor, pausing at the sitting space at the top,
looking up the next flight to the attic door. Glancing over her shoulder, she tentatively
climbed the first few steps, and then the rest until she reached the top. She placed her hand around the doorknob, finding it locked. She stepped back, regarding the door a moment longer, before turning and going back down the stairs.
That evening, Amy sat with John at the dinner table.
“John, can I ask you something?”
“When Lisa was in the bath, I noticed she had swelling and bruising around her feet and the lower part of her legs. It looks like she’d broken her legs at some stage.”
“She did when she had the aneurysm. She fell down the stairs.”
“Sorry to pry.”
“No, I’m sorry I didn’t mention it before. You’re her carer, after all. You need to
know these things.”
John paused, taking a sip of his wine.
“Amy, do you think you will be alright here by yourself with Lisa tomorrow?”
“I have to go up to upstate. My mother has passed away. I have to go and sort out
her affairs with her estate lawyer. I’ll be back late.”
Standing underneath the flow of hot water, Amy closed her eyes, exhaling slowly.
Rubbing a bar of soap over her arms, she glanced over her shoulder, pausing momentarily in search of the shadow that she had seen out of the corner of her eye. There was nothing. She continued to lather up her arms.
When Amy opened the door to Lisa’s bedroom first thing in the morning, the smell hit
her like a brick wall. She approached the bed, looking down at Lisa where she lay in her own feces, next to the word ‘HELP’ scrawled in excrement.
Amy helped Lisa into the bathtub, and while she soaked there Amy carried the sheets
from Lisa’s bed downstairs into the laundry room, dropping them into the washing machine.
She returned to the bathroom and helped Lisa into her chair, dressing her for the day.
Downstairs, she parked the wheelchair in the usual spot in the back garden. When the
washing cycle had finished, she carried the basket of clean sheets outside to the clothesline.
As she hung them, she caught Lisa watching her from her wheelchair, noting the look of
dismay in her drawn gaze.
That night, Lisa lay in the bathtub, and Amy wet the sponge and rubbed it across
Amy paused, meeting Lisa’s troubled gaze.
Lisa started thrashing violently, and Amy jumped back against the vanity mirror,
shattering it. She collapsed and hit her head on the sink, crumpling to the floor.
Lisa clasped her hands around the edge of the bathtub, pulling herself up and peering
over the side. Pulling herself out of the tub, she cried out as she fell hard on the tiles. Lying on her stomach, she used all her strength to push herself up. She looked over Amy’s body, seeing the antenna of the cordless phone protruding from underneath her. Her breath quivering, she reached over, pulling at it with all her might. Using her feet to push her along, she dragged herself across the bathroom floor into the bedroom. Next to the bed, she held the phone to her ear, whimpering at the sound of the dial tone.
Amy stirred awake, peeling her eyes open. Her head was pounding with pain, her
vision blurry. She reached out to her sides, bracing the door frame with her hands, pulling herself slowly to her feet. The bed was empty, as was Lisa’s wheelchair. She staggered toward the doorway, peering out into the hall. She stepped out of the room and crossed the way to the banister, seeing Lisa’s body lying at the bottom of the stairs.
Amy heard John’s car pulled up outside, and she met him at the front door.
“Lisa got out of the tub!” she exclaimed.
John looked past her to Lisa, his expression sharpened with alarm.
“I’m so sorry! I don’t know what happened!”
“Did you give her her medicine?”
“Did you make sure she drank it all down?”
John approached Lisa, turning her over. Lisa thrashed her arms at him, and he grabbed
at her wrists, forcing them down.
“Go get the chair!” he shouted at Amy.
“We should call the doctor!”
“In the morning! Just get the chair!”
With Lisa lying limp in her bed, John touched a glass of water to her lips, tipping the
water into her mouth.
“I’m so sorry John…”
“I’ll have to double her dose from now on,” John sighed. “That’s all I can think of.”
“Don’t you think we should call a doctor?”
“In the morning.”
“I’ll come and check on her later, then…”
“That won’t be necessary. That will be all for tonight, Amy. Goodnight.”
Amy left the room, hearing the door lock behind her.
Tossing and turning in her sheets, Amy sat bolt upright in her bed, sighing in
wakefulness and falling back onto her pillows. A shadow crossed the room, and the door
clicked shut. Amy gasped, looking through the darkness, but saw nothing.
The following morning, she found John in the kitchen cooking breakfast.
“Have you called the doctor?” she asked.
“Oh, there’ll be no need for that,” John insisted. “She seems to be doing much better
“John, I really think Lisa should see a doctor. She fell down the stairs, she could have
“Lisa is fine.”
Amy was silenced for a moment at the firmness of his tone.
“Well, I need to see a doctor. I hit my head hard last night.”
“If you want to see a doctor, fine. But no doctor is coming here.”
Amy jumped when John slammed his fist down on the bench.
“She is my wife, and I am her husband, and I say what happens to her!”
“Okay, okay. No doctor.”
Joy stood by the examination bed as Amy was examined by the doctor.
“Have you had any dizziness?” the doctor inquired.
“A little after I came to.”
“Confusion? Any concentration or memory problems?”
“How did you feel when you woke up this morning?”
“A bit sluggish. Foggy.”
“Sensitive to light or noise?”
The doctor stepped back.
“The most important thing you can do right now is rest, physically and mentally. You
should not do any heavy activity yet. You’ll need to come back and see me to get the all
Amy’s heart raced with hesitant anticipation as the examination drew to a close.
“Have you by any chance treated a woman named ‘Lisa Linden’?”
The doctor tensed his brow and shook his head.
“The name doesn’t ring a bell. Why?”
“She had a brain aneurysm about a month ago. She lives in a lake house outside
town with her husband. I’m caring for her at the moment.”
“No, I can’t say I know her. Now, you’ll need to take a few days off. Like I said, no
heavy lifting. I’ll see you in a few days.”
Joy peered out the windscreen at the hardwood canopy as she steered the car along
“Whoa,” she muttered as they approached the house.
She pulled the car up outside, and Amy unfastened her seat belt.
“You sure you’ll be alright?” Joy queried.
“Yes. It’s okay. Like I said, he’s just funny about strangers.”
“You’re practically a stranger.”
“Yeah, I know. I won’t be long.”
Amy stepped out of the car and went inside.
“John, I’m back.”
She found John by Lisa’s bedside. John stepped outside the room.
“The doctor says I have a mild concussion. I need a few days’ rest. I’m going to stay
with my old flatmate in Burlington.”
“Why can’t you stay here? I can give you a few days off.”
“You’ve got your hands full with Lisa. You don’t need to look after me too.”
“It won’t be a problem.”
“It’s okay, really. I’ll be closer to the doctor for my follow-up. I’ll only be gone a few
“Alright, well, let me know when you’re coming back.”
Amy packed her clothes into a bag, and as she passed through the hall on her way out, she caught a glimpse of Lisa, and the troubled gaze she had become so used to seeing.
Amy sighed, and after a few moments, turned back into the room, dropping her bag on the bed.
Amy stepped outside and approached the car, leaning in the window.
“Where’s your bag?” Joy asked.
“I’m staying here.”
“John has given me a few days off. I’m going to rest up here.”
“What about your follow-up?”
“I’ll get a cab if I need to.”
“This is crazy, Amy.”
“I just feel like I need to be here right now.”
“Alright, well, let me know if you need any help. Or a lift. This place is literally The Styx.”
“I will. I’ll be fine.”
“You better be.”
That evening as John dozed in front of the television, Amy climbed the stairs,
slipping into John’s room. She pulled open drawer after drawer, searching through the
contents. She searched the cupboard, reaching in and taking out a set of keys.
Glancing over her shoulder, Amy slipped the first key on the ring into the attic door.
The lock did not budge. She tried the next key, and the next, and the next. The lock finally
clicked. She pushed the door open, a cloud of dust blowing into her eyes. She blinked and
rubbed her eyes, stepping into the room. She reached around for a light switch, but found none. Venturing further in, she shone her flashlight around, observing a room full of antiques. She reached the other side of the room, finding a wall was covered in photographs and newspaper clippings. On the floor below stood a row of candles, their bases melted into the timber floorboards. Studying the photographs, Amy noticed that they were all of the same woman. She peered closer at one of the newspaper clippings. The headline read: Search for missing woman intensifies. Amy read on.
WATERBURY: The Sheriff’s Department has requested help with the ongoing search for
psychiatrist Elizabeth McDermott, who went missing from her practice in Burlington last
Amy hurried down the stairs and into Lisa’s bedroom, closing and locking the door behind her. She approached the bed, leaning over Lisa, taking her hand.
“Lisa, is this you?”
With her free hand she held up one of the photographs.
“Squeeze my hand if this is you.”
Amy’s stomach sank hard and fast when she felt Lisa’s fingers tighten around hers.
“Okay…” Her voice was trembling. “Okay. I’ll help you, I promise. Just…”
“Amy?” John called, rattling the doorknob from the other side.
“Amy? Open this door!” John burst into the room. “What are you doing? Get away from her!”
John hurried over to the bed, sitting beside Lisa and stroking her cheek.
“It’s alright,” he whispered. “That will be all, Amy.”
Amy turned to leave the room, hurrying back to her bedroom and closing the door.
With a quivering hand, she picked up her mobile phone and dialed 9-1-1.
“My name is Amy Bennett. I need police and paramedics. We’ve got people hurt here. Please hurry.”
She turned and gasped when she saw John standing behind her. He grabbed a fistful
of her hair and she struggled as he dragged her out into the hall, knocking over a lamp on a side table. He swung her around, throwing her over the banister. She landed halfway down
the staircase, tumbling the rest of the way to the bottom. John regarded her briefly over the banister before returning to Lisa’s bedroom.
“Time to go,” he said, approaching her wheelchair.
Step by step, he awkwardly pushed the chair down the steps. He pushed her out onto
the porch across the way to the car. There, he opened the passenger door, and Lisa groaned as he forced her into the passenger seat and closed the door. He jumped into the driver’s seat and sped off down the private road toward the highway.
Joy pulled her car up in front of the hospital, running inside and stopping at the desk.
Breathless, she asked for Amy’s room number. Amy was lying in her bed, being tended to by a nurse.
“Her legs are broken,” said the nurse. “She says she was pushed down the stairs.”
Joy shook her head. “This is all my fault.”
Lying on her back, Amy looked down at her legs, which were encased in plaster casts and propped up on frames. This would have been Lisa’s view, she thought, but not in a clean, crisp hospital room. In an upstairs bedroom in a lake house outside Waterbury.
The door opened, and in stepped a man in a suit, with brown collar-length shaggy
hair and a handlebar moustache. He showed her a badge.
“Lisa, my name is Detective Brendan Clements. Could we talk? In private, if you
Amy nodded. Joy left the room, and Clements took the seat that she had vacated.
“Is it okay if we talk about John Linden?”
“I understand you were employed by him at the lake house in Waterbury?”
“Yes. As a live-in carer for his wife.”
“Can I show you a few pictures?”
Amy nodded, and Clements held up the first photograph.
“Is this the woman you were caring for?”
He lowered the photograph and showed her another.
“And is this ‘John Linden’.”
“Okay.” Clements put the pictures away. “What did John tell you about Lisa?”
“That she had suffered a brain aneurysm, and only had a month to live.”
“Could she speak?”
“Not really. She did speak to me the first night I was in the house. I was checking up on her. She told me to get her out of there. I…I didn’t do anything. I didn’t even tell John
about it. I thought…I thought it was just ravings. The patients at the nursing home before used to rave all the time. Say the nurses were trying to kill them.”
“One night she lashed out while I was bathing her. Knocked me out. She managed to get out of the tub and crawl to the stairs. John got to her before she could get out of the house.”
Amy shook her head.
“He increased her medication…I thought they were just pills but, they were keeping
her sedated…he was keeping her drugged up. And he was giving her this tonic…it could
have been a drain cleaner, for all I know.”
“What happened last night? How did you come to be here?”
“I found this shrine in the attic. Photos and news clippings of her. I tried to call for help, but he caught me and threw me down the stairs.”
Amy looked at Clements with trouble in her gaze.
“Why did he hire me? Why would he risk exposure like that?”
“To taunt her,” Clements replied. “She was unable to speak, unable to alert you to the situation, unable to ask you for help.”
“Where are they now?”
“We don’t know.”
It was after dark when John pulled the car up in front of No.1 Maple Avenue. He stepped out of the car and approached the front door, unlocking it. He returned to the car and took the wheelchair out of the trunk, lifting Lisa out and sitting her in the chair. He pulled her backwards up the front steps and into the house, and once inside, he picked her up out of the chair and carried her up the stairs, lying her down on the bed.
“I’ll draw you a bath,” he said.
I am so very excited to have my dear friend and fellow writer Kellie M Cox as a guest here on my blog. I met Kellie in 2018 at a Gold Coast Writers Association meeting, and I have treasured her friendship and our shared love for writing ever since. Kellie has just published her debut novel, Murderous Intent, just in time for Christmas.
Kellie Cox is an Australian writer indulging her love of fiction and prose. With qualifications in psychology, she relishes writing about the human condition and the vulnerability of the psyche. A therapist, clinical trainer, creative coach and conservationist, she enjoys a dream life on the beautiful Gold Coast.
Most days Kellie can be found working with artists in the creative industries or writing her novels. When not writing, Kellie will most likely be saturating her social media with photos of her two adorable pups.
Books already released:
Where to find you:
What got you interested in writing?
I have always been an avid reader, so I guess the progression to writing came naturally. My first book, THE LIST started life as a therapeutic tool. I had for several nights had a dream that someone implanted a shark tracking device in my right shoulder. To get the dream out of my thoughts, I started writing it down and that turned into a 70,000 word fiction story.
How long have you been writing?
I started writing in 2015 when I wrote THE LIST which was followed by book 2 from that storyline, THE REEF.
Do you have any goals/projects in the pipeline?
I would love for MURDEROUS INTENT to be made into a movie. It was created with a screen adaptation in mind, a small interwoven cast of characters and gorgeous beachside locations.
In addition, three more fiction books are scheduled for publication in 2020. THE LIST and THE REEF, both romance suspense with a shark conservation twist to it and THE LAST FIRST KISS, a story about soulmates set across the globe. I love this one as I have included many of my favourite travel destinations in it.
What do you like most about writing?
So many things. It is the creation of the characters, their strengths, their flaws and the dynamics between them all. I am often inspired by a setting or location and then create a story to fit into a place in the world that has moved me.
What genre do you write?
I am a multi-genre author. I have written psychological thriller, romance, horror, suspense, poetry, prose, short stories, fantasy, travel blogs, Australiana and non-fiction.
What draws you to this genre?
I like to explore different story lines and challenge myself to see what I can produce. I can tell you what I probably have no skill in writing, that is Western. I can’t see myself writing western and I also think crime would be difficult, but let’s see what happens a few years down the track.
Where do you get your ideas?
Travelling and I am fortunate to meet so many people through my clinical and creative work who inspire me. My friends quite often want to be characters in my books so I sometimes put little bits of them in there.
Tell us about your process, how do you get into a writing mindset?
I honestly have no answer for you on process. I am not technically trained, so I don’t have a process. Maybe, that is something I should work on. At the moment, I open my laptop and type and I can honestly say I have no idea what line is coming next. The words are just created somewhere between my brain and the fingers that pound the keyboard. I wish I had a more technical answer for you.
What are you working on at the moment?
Well, my son has pitched me a horror story about a single middle aged woman, so socially awkward that she has grown emotionally dependent on her huge German Shepherd dog. As the story goes on, the dog begins to hunt at night and kill for her. Yes, he was inspired by my own life for his story, very tongue in cheek as he pitched it to me. Well, that story has just started and we will see if it goes anywhere.
Also just started a horror story called, THE BOWERBIRD. It is so incredibly scary it is actually fun to write. I was inspired to start this after a night in a beach shack on a dark and quiet island.
Which writers inspire/influence you?
I enjoy the emotional vulnerability of creative souls, so I enjoy reading Hemingway. A Moveable Feast is my favourite. I read it as I wander the streets of Paris, following his journey. I also love Elizabeth Gilbert for her depiction of raw human struggles. I read constantly and it helps with my own writing immensely.
What else about your writing journey should we know?
I am always open to collaborations, so get in touch if you have something in mind that you think we could work on together. Planning a writing retreat in Europe middle of 2020 and would enjoy connecting with writers and authors from around the world.
Excerpt from MURDEROUS INTENT:
I know he is going to kill me. It is three o’clock on a chilly spring morning. I could walk around the house checking the doors are locked to no avail. He will not be that obvious but he will find a way to enter. I can’t remember the exact details of the nightmare that woke me this day, although the words I heard in my dream tell me everything I need to know. He is close.
He may not be inside the house, he may be just metres away. He is nearby and he won’t stop until my eyes are closed, the last stains of my breath have touched my lips, and my body is limp and exhausted. He will marvel at his handiwork. The fact that he accomplished the unimaginable – that he finally ended my life.
He was close tonight, somehow confirming the exact location of my latest hideaway. He may have been just outside checking entry and exit points. Possibly even inside the house standing over me, watching me rest, his murderous intent the sole reason for my rude awakening from the latest instalment of visions of terror in my dreams.
He is nearby and narrowing in on his target.
I rise from my bed, and splash my face with water to freshen my red eyes, then crawl back onto the mattress, shaking. The warm covers do nothing to stop my body from convulsing as the tears roll down my face. No comfort will hinder the flow now as I realise the enormity of the message sent to me in my slumber.
He will find me. He will not give up. He needs to hurt me to feel complete. He will kill me. The last face I will ever see will be his, and there is no one in the world that can prevent this from happening.
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