By Phil Rickman
A supernatural thriller exploring the darker aspect of rural existence in a distant Welsh mountain village, the place primal fears and old longings hang-out the current day
Corpse-candles. Phantom funerals. The chook of dying. It was once insidious . . .
For Bethan, the schoolteacher, the outdated superstitions woven into the social cloth of her West Wales village are primitive and distasteful, that is why she's happy to welcome the subtle novices: London journalist Giles Freeman and his spouse Claire. definitely they're going to enable in a few clean air. however the Freemans are prepared to take in this various tradition, an entire new lifestyle, rejecting the recommendation of an previous colleague who warns them of a troublesome and sour land the place they have regularly danced at the fringe of the abyss. They quickly examine that this group hides an historic, bloody, and pagan secret—one that might hang-out them forever.
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Well, of course, I have nothing against the English, as a race . . Right, now, you get the other side and we'll . . " Both men stood back. Dai Death mopped his bald head with a handkerchief. "So, tell me, purely out of interest, like . . " "Houses, man! What would it cost for me to get a place here? " "I can't remember. " Dai was getting a bit exasperated. What Aled was supposed to say was, well, Dai, funny you should bring that up because there's this very interesting little place I know of, not on the market yet, but if they thought you were keen—you being a local boy, a Welsh- speaker and a respected professional man — I'm sure a nice quick deal could be arranged, no fuss, no estate agents.
And now he really did slap the effigy, full in its smug, smiling face. A certain coldness spread up his arm as the slap resounded from the rafters. Ingley stepped back, panting, shocked at himself. He felt silence swelling in the church. The knight's cold face flickered. The torch went out. Batteries. Couldn't say he hadn't been warned. Too absorbed in his work to notice it growing dim. He shook the torch; a mean amber glimmer, then it died. Mission accomplished, anyway. Retreating into the aisle, he glanced over his shoulder at the stone husk on the tomb, its dead lips luminously purpled by the colour of the night through the long windows.
Even here in England. " Giles took an angry gulp of his beer. "That is just incredibly simplistic. I mean, have you ever even been to Wales? Come on now. " Wrong question, Giles, thought Berry. You just walked into it. He leaned back and waited for Winstone Thorpe's story, knowing there had to be one. "Well, since you ask . " The venerable reporter unbuttoned his weighty tweed jacket and lifted his whisky glass onto his knee. "Matter of fact. " Berry said and then shut up because there were guys here who still had him down as a no-talent asshole on the run.