Amanda Mason returns this month with The Dark, a spinetingling seaside folk horror novel, set against the blackouts of the 1970s. An unsettling tale on the North Yorkshire coast perfect for spooky season, take your first steps into the darkness with this exclusive extract.
She woke with a start. The fire in the grate was low, and she wondered what might have disturbed her.
Someone knocking.
They had come back, then, whoever they were.
The room was still; the radio had fallen silent. The oil lamps had dimmed and in the low light, unfamiliar shadows seemed to creep closer.
She went to the door and opened it. Fishing cobles bobbed gently on the tide, and the night sky was patched with cloud, obscuring the moon. There was a shuffling, just out of sight, and she was almost certain she could hear shallow breathing and stifled giggles.
Shush, she’ll hear you.
Mischief Night.
Bairns out bothering folk, chucking eggs at people’s windows, knocking on doors and running away when they should be at home, safe and sound.
Little devils.
She’d half a mind to step outside and find them, whoever they were, and give them what for.
But it was a cold night, and, shivering, she closed the door.
Without the comforting hum of the radio, she wasn’t sure of the hour. She picked it up and twisted the dial, but it was no use – she’d need to change the batteries.
The lamps in the living room were large, far too heavy to carry about, so she was in the habit of using candles instead, but as she looked about her, she realised there were none to hand. But she had put some out, ready. She was sure she had.
The wind sighed through the chimney, rattling the windows gently.
She could see herself doing it, setting the candles on the little table she kept by her chair; one in a brass holder, and its twin laid on its side next to her library book. She had moved her reading glasses to make room, laying them on top of the book for when they were needed. But now that she looked, they were gone too.
Someone was playing silly beggars.
There was a series of sharp raps at the door.
One, two, three.
She wouldn’t answer, no matter how much they knocked.
Children were too rough on Mischief Night these days. She waited for a moment, just to be sure, but they didn’t try again.
She would have to do without light for a little while, which wouldn’t be so very bad, as long as she was careful. She put the radio back on the mantelpiece. She would find the batteries and fresh candles and matches and her reading glasses too, and maybe next time Rob tried to talk to her about modernising the cottage, and allowing elec- tricity in, she might listen.
She stood on the threshold of the kitchen and tried to think; matches first. Where had she put the blasted things down? But even as she considered the question, she was distracted by the cold tap dripping over the sink. Irritated, she went to tighten it only to feel something buckle and splinter underfoot. She bent to retrieve her glasses, twisted out of shape now and smeared with wet sand, one lens cracked and an arm hanging askew. Behind her, just out of sight, someone laughed softly.
Shush. She’ll hear you.
