Hello, I need some Beta Readers for the second in the series book - The Keeper & Silvery Road. I have some chapters. It is about a boy, Raven, who can travel through mirrors and seek out other worlds. I haven't don't a blurb yet. It is getting done by professionals. Please see below the first chapters and if interested please email me, cmn.author@gmail.com.
1. RAVEN
There are many myths told about the Brown family. Everyone in this town has their version of what happened in this house. Some say it was the strange son that murdered his father as he slept. Others say the doctor got into a fit of rage and killed his son. Or my favourite: it was the Black Path Monster that came and took them both in the dead of night, dragging them into the coal mine pits.
Everyone has their own stories. Some embellished as time passed by. We are forever molded into the history of Black Path. We have become another part of the stories told. As people cross the Brown gates, they bless, pray and hope to guard their souls against the ghosts that don’t even exist.
In the next few days, it will be another year since my father and I disappeared. The townspeople are already stockpiling salt to place around their homes, hoping to keep our spirits away. The kids are making their masks at school, hoping to protect themselves and their innocent souls. It has become my favourite time of year. A night when roaming down the red lanes is considered safer than the Brown’s on the hill. That is why it is sad that this house is no longer what it was when my father was alive. The ivy vines on the walls are suffocating this house, squeezing it within an inch of its life. The floorboards are rotting away, as is the roof. The rain drips down onto the wallpaper giving the mold new life. I have done my best to keep this house together. But I cannot stop it from getting old. Or the moss forming in the corners, or the brittle bricks breaking apart. I cannot even stop the robbers from coming in and tearing down my door. Exposing my possessions to the thieves of this town, leaving nothing but my stolen memories behind. The hurt is still growing, as is the anger I have for the callous disregard for my family. I have changed more than I thought I could since the Makers’ Den. Since been giving back my curse to transform into the souls I take I’ve grown to want adventures with them. I’ve longed to feel the splendid touch of a mirror through my skin. I enjoy the chase of the Makers when they feel I owe them my souls. It is exciting knowing I can evade them once I transform into my Lurcher dog soul Rosie. There is something about the power I hold in my hand as my pocket mirror calls me. Yet, I feel lonely. I regret the death of my father. The man that choose to end his life for his son. My father wasn’t who I thought he was. He was someone who loved me deeply enough to know that he would one day have to die in order for me to live. I’ve missed him more than I thought was possible. That is why I long to get my stolen possessions returned. In the hopes that it will end my loneliness. Or give me closeness that I long for since I lost him.
Tonight, I take a stroll down to Black Path and into the red lanes. The night is calm. Grey clouds are forming over my head. People are already stumbling out of the Cove pub. I hear a woman shouting out for business.
“Fancy a quickie,” she calls out to the drunk men stumbling out of the pub.
She gives me a nod as I pass her. I nod back. I wipe the rain from my brow. I fix the back of my dress that is lodged in my hem, bringing a draught to my backside. I try not to draw too much attention as I enter the Cove.
"Ah, Rita, it’s about time you showed up,” says Myra, sitting by the door.
My eyes sting as the fire smoke drifts in my direction. I take my seat beside her, and beside the whiskey waiting for me on the table.
Since I have returned to Black Path after the Makers’ Den, I have taken many souls. They call me from the frame of my pocket mirror. Most I have given back to the Makers as I cross over to others’ mirrors. Others I have kept longer for my own needs. For the past few weeks, I have transformed into the soul of Rita Bowlon. A woman whose life work is only on the streets and to the men that come looking for her. As she passed through me, I saw her sad life. Her poor upbringing brought her to these streets. From the young age of nine, it was the beginning of her begging days, then her stealing days, and finally her selling her body years. The night I came to her, she was thirty-nine years old. The disease had already infused her body. She had nothing when she left this world, and there was only one person she truly cared for.
"So, Myra, any word on those Brown antiques?” I ask, feeling the twitch of my mirror inside my pocket.
Myra is a woman with many years of experience down these lanes. A woman I know I will be called too… soon. I guess old habits are hard to break.
“Most of the antiques you're talking about are sold off to secret buyers. The seller, however, is very well known. A regular customer of yours, Rita, his wife, works the stall.”
“Which stall?” I ask, my wonky eye unnerving her.
She stares at me with suspicion.
“The meat stall, you know that, Rita,” Myra says, “what is happening to your eye?"
“Oh that, too much of the old good stuff, Myra,” I say with a laugh, knocking back my whiskey.
Who would have known that the cost of having a soul for so long is that even a soul can rot away inside you? Deteriorate into dust and take part of my own with it. I will soon have to let her go. I will miss her. Her soul has come into good use. She seems to be quite good at talking her way out of all sorts of situations.
"Well, your eye is freaking me out," says Myra, "plus your clients have been asking me about you, wondering where you are? I’ve been wondering the same thing?"
"I told you, I got myself an old rich fella. He looks after me now. Gives me plenty of money for my time,”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Is he looking for another companion?”
“No,” I say sternly.
Myra slams her empty glass on the table.
"You've been very concerned about the Brown's unique antiques, Rita? A little too concerned. You’ll get yourself into trouble if you don’t hush it."
“Ah, don’t worry, Myra. I can handle myself."
“Uh,” she sniggers at me, “it seems you forgot that such things are not meant to be talked about. Even among the lanes.”
Myra slams the door behind her. The rain outside can no longer escape into the blood-stained carpet of the Cove pub. I sit closer to the fire to feel its heat burn my skin. I sit and think about the mysterious buyers. They are secretive when it comes to my stolen belongings and the brave buyers fascinated with the Brown's unique antiques. It has been a long wait, but thanks to Myra, I now know who I will be heading to next. The only pieces of my father and mother that I have left will soon be returned to me.
I finish the last sip of whiskey. I look out the window and at the rain. I wait to see her. I wait to see those cold-dead black eyes watching me from the window. The woman lathered in dark rag clothing and green scarf, drenched in the rain she stands in. Her umbrella not shielding her. Like the Makers, she no longer confines herself to my mirror. Now she appears in my dreams. I don’t know what she wants. Why, when she leaves, so does the rain. I watch her until she fades into the darkness. As if she never existed down the lanes with the street lamps fading in and out. It was like she was never there at all. But she was there, and she will return. She always does, the mysterious Lady in the Rain.
1. RAVEN
There are many myths told about the Brown family. Everyone in this town has their version of what happened in this house. Some say it was the strange son that murdered his father as he slept. Others say the doctor got into a fit of rage and killed his son. Or my favourite: it was the Black Path Monster that came and took them both in the dead of night, dragging them into the coal mine pits.
Everyone has their own stories. Some embellished as time passed by. We are forever molded into the history of Black Path. We have become another part of the stories told. As people cross the Brown gates, they bless, pray and hope to guard their souls against the ghosts that don’t even exist.
In the next few days, it will be another year since my father and I disappeared. The townspeople are already stockpiling salt to place around their homes, hoping to keep our spirits away. The kids are making their masks at school, hoping to protect themselves and their innocent souls. It has become my favourite time of year. A night when roaming down the red lanes is considered safer than the Brown’s on the hill. That is why it is sad that this house is no longer what it was when my father was alive. The ivy vines on the walls are suffocating this house, squeezing it within an inch of its life. The floorboards are rotting away, as is the roof. The rain drips down onto the wallpaper giving the mold new life. I have done my best to keep this house together. But I cannot stop it from getting old. Or the moss forming in the corners, or the brittle bricks breaking apart. I cannot even stop the robbers from coming in and tearing down my door. Exposing my possessions to the thieves of this town, leaving nothing but my stolen memories behind. The hurt is still growing, as is the anger I have for the callous disregard for my family. I have changed more than I thought I could since the Makers’ Den. Since been giving back my curse to transform into the souls I take I’ve grown to want adventures with them. I’ve longed to feel the splendid touch of a mirror through my skin. I enjoy the chase of the Makers when they feel I owe them my souls. It is exciting knowing I can evade them once I transform into my Lurcher dog soul Rosie. There is something about the power I hold in my hand as my pocket mirror calls me. Yet, I feel lonely. I regret the death of my father. The man that choose to end his life for his son. My father wasn’t who I thought he was. He was someone who loved me deeply enough to know that he would one day have to die in order for me to live. I’ve missed him more than I thought was possible. That is why I long to get my stolen possessions returned. In the hopes that it will end my loneliness. Or give me closeness that I long for since I lost him.
Tonight, I take a stroll down to Black Path and into the red lanes. The night is calm. Grey clouds are forming over my head. People are already stumbling out of the Cove pub. I hear a woman shouting out for business.
“Fancy a quickie,” she calls out to the drunk men stumbling out of the pub.
She gives me a nod as I pass her. I nod back. I wipe the rain from my brow. I fix the back of my dress that is lodged in my hem, bringing a draught to my backside. I try not to draw too much attention as I enter the Cove.
"Ah, Rita, it’s about time you showed up,” says Myra, sitting by the door.
My eyes sting as the fire smoke drifts in my direction. I take my seat beside her, and beside the whiskey waiting for me on the table.
Since I have returned to Black Path after the Makers’ Den, I have taken many souls. They call me from the frame of my pocket mirror. Most I have given back to the Makers as I cross over to others’ mirrors. Others I have kept longer for my own needs. For the past few weeks, I have transformed into the soul of Rita Bowlon. A woman whose life work is only on the streets and to the men that come looking for her. As she passed through me, I saw her sad life. Her poor upbringing brought her to these streets. From the young age of nine, it was the beginning of her begging days, then her stealing days, and finally her selling her body years. The night I came to her, she was thirty-nine years old. The disease had already infused her body. She had nothing when she left this world, and there was only one person she truly cared for.
"So, Myra, any word on those Brown antiques?” I ask, feeling the twitch of my mirror inside my pocket.
Myra is a woman with many years of experience down these lanes. A woman I know I will be called too… soon. I guess old habits are hard to break.
“Most of the antiques you're talking about are sold off to secret buyers. The seller, however, is very well known. A regular customer of yours, Rita, his wife, works the stall.”
“Which stall?” I ask, my wonky eye unnerving her.
She stares at me with suspicion.
“The meat stall, you know that, Rita,” Myra says, “what is happening to your eye?"
“Oh that, too much of the old good stuff, Myra,” I say with a laugh, knocking back my whiskey.
Who would have known that the cost of having a soul for so long is that even a soul can rot away inside you? Deteriorate into dust and take part of my own with it. I will soon have to let her go. I will miss her. Her soul has come into good use. She seems to be quite good at talking her way out of all sorts of situations.
"Well, your eye is freaking me out," says Myra, "plus your clients have been asking me about you, wondering where you are? I’ve been wondering the same thing?"
"I told you, I got myself an old rich fella. He looks after me now. Gives me plenty of money for my time,”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Is he looking for another companion?”
“No,” I say sternly.
Myra slams her empty glass on the table.
"You've been very concerned about the Brown's unique antiques, Rita? A little too concerned. You’ll get yourself into trouble if you don’t hush it."
“Ah, don’t worry, Myra. I can handle myself."
“Uh,” she sniggers at me, “it seems you forgot that such things are not meant to be talked about. Even among the lanes.”
Myra slams the door behind her. The rain outside can no longer escape into the blood-stained carpet of the Cove pub. I sit closer to the fire to feel its heat burn my skin. I sit and think about the mysterious buyers. They are secretive when it comes to my stolen belongings and the brave buyers fascinated with the Brown's unique antiques. It has been a long wait, but thanks to Myra, I now know who I will be heading to next. The only pieces of my father and mother that I have left will soon be returned to me.
I finish the last sip of whiskey. I look out the window and at the rain. I wait to see her. I wait to see those cold-dead black eyes watching me from the window. The woman lathered in dark rag clothing and green scarf, drenched in the rain she stands in. Her umbrella not shielding her. Like the Makers, she no longer confines herself to my mirror. Now she appears in my dreams. I don’t know what she wants. Why, when she leaves, so does the rain. I watch her until she fades into the darkness. As if she never existed down the lanes with the street lamps fading in and out. It was like she was never there at all. But she was there, and she will return. She always does, the mysterious Lady in the Rain.