To those who are new to my blog, occasionally I post an extract from my work-in-progress. I welcome all feedback, however good or bad it may be (however, if it's really bad I'd welcome an email instead!!). These are just draft extracts and haven't been through the editing process as yet. The book is fiction, a story about a medium, her life, loves and work.It was 11.30. The night was drawing to a close as I continued to contemplate my life. I could feel no spirit presence, just a hole in the fabric of life. I was lonely. Once more alone with my thoughts. I was not sure this was a place I wanted to be. Yet I had been here so many times before, so desperately trying to ignore the sadness that I always felt when I sat alone late at night. A part of me hated it. Another part of me knew no different. I had spent nearly twenty years living alone, almost thirteen of them wondering about my mother, about her discovery into another world. She had so seldom visited me. To be here, in this place with only myself to think about was proving difficult since I had met Marcus. Spending nights with him had given my life a new perspective. When I was once more alone I felt abandoned. The way I felt when my mother passed over.
I knew she loved me; I was a child adored by many, my mother being the love of my life. It wasn’t as if I needed her now, but I needed to remember her. Photographs were all I had, memories were beginning to fade.
I decided to sit in the reading room, not because I wanted spirit to join me, but because it was such a tranquil place, a place where dawn did not break and night did not end. A place of peace when I was feeling melancholy. A place of explanation when my mind raced with thoughts. I opened the door, the hinges creaked. The dim light from the hallway guided me into the room leaving me standing by the small table and chairs. The velvet curtains were closed; I had made a point of closing them earlier in the evening. I went over to the arm chair opposite the book shelf, a chair which had been left in the house by whoever lived there before me. Resting myself upon its leather cushion, I sighed. Comfort overwhelmed me, I so loved being in that room. The sorrow I had felt earlier in the day at Lucia’s funeral seemed to lift, a light entered my heart, flooding all images of sadness away to a forgotten dimension. I wanted to remember my past. I ached to learn more about myself, about my reasons for living at Rosehill. How, at aged 43, had I become so lonely? Why had I never accepted a marriage proposal, loved the way I so wished to, had a child even? Did I regret my life so far? Did I feel so sad towards my own self that I wanted to go back and change what I had already experienced? But it was too late. Surely, I couldn’t revisit my past without feeling regret. When I had found Rosehill I thought I had found my life. I thought I was complete. The jigsaw I had been trying to accomplish was within my reach and surely I was able to tidy it up, put it away and start living the life I had always wanted to live.
The only problem was someone had taken away my hopes and dreams. Someone I could no longer connect with. Yet someone I loved. And the most important aspect of it all was I did not know who that person was. I stared through the darkness. Shadows ached for my attention, searching for a place to rest. I could feel my body seizing, my limbs rigid, my mind knowing that another soul now stood within my space. The room remained in darkness, a glimmer of light trying obligingly to filter in. The spirit which now hovered before me was male. My first suspicion of it being Lucia was dashed when I realised the aroma of aftershave invading my senses. The smell was familiar, not one I had experienced often but one I had only recently discovered. Thoughts were being impressed upon me, the name of Harold was strong. The shadows I had witnessed a few minutes before had faded yet I could sense the manifestation of a spirit, a man presenting before me. I could not see his face but I felt love; an overpowering sense of adoration pouring from the mysterious soul. I called out, requesting that spirit moved an object, knocked on the table, touched me. Somehow, I knew I was safe. I knew this was a visiting soul, yet one that seemed familiar with the surroundings of Rosehill. Being in the reading room with this spirit was a comforting feeling, as though we were meant to be there. There was a bond between us; not just a feeling of being together but something stronger, like the feeling between brother and sister, parents and offspring. Spirit moved passed me, making its way to the opposite side of the room, the wall where my book shelf stood, hiding the secret that Jane had tried to unveil.
The manifested soul faced the wall. Within seconds it turned around to face me and for a very brief moment I saw a face; that of Harold Sharpe. Somewhat taken aback, I stood from my chair, asking spirit to communicate with me, tell me why it surrounded me with love. But no sooner had the words left my mouth, spirit began to fade into the wall, as though walking through to the space of which I had recently learnt existed behind the reading room. My mind was overwhelmed with racing thoughts; had this indeed been Harold Sharpe telling me he was buried behind the bricks of the reading room; had this been what the spirit of Jane was so keen to have me understand. And was William Sharpe a murderer.
