I wrote a book!

I wrote a book. I actually wrote a book! Is it perfect? No. Does it still need a lot of editing? Yes. But I did it. I wrote a book!

It feels unreal, honestly. I’ve been working on Hallowed Be Thy Name for so long, I never thought I would finish. I’m usually one to hyper-fixate on a single idea and never see it to completion. The fact that I’m one step closer to having my book finally out in the world is surreal! I’m thrilled, nervous, excited and scared! I’m currently in the editing process and will start querying very soon!

To celebrate and thank you all for my support, I’m going to share my prologue exclusively here on my substack! It’s not the FINAL edit, but I’m pretty happy with it so far.

Trigger Warnings before reading: Reference to murder (matricide), ghost/demon imagery.

Hallowed Be Thy Name Prologue:

I murdered my mother.

Her ghost now haunts the House on North Lane. It is called the House on North Lane because it is the only one — a tall, timbered structure hidden beneath an overgrowth of grass and vines, a single shattered window its only breath of life. 

Armed with bare, razor-edged branches, a tall skeletal tree guards the entrance, limbs outstretched as if to ward off intruders — or keep something in. 

A young boy, victim of neglect and the unforgiving passing of time, lay buried within the walls and has remained there ever since. Or so the story goes. That story, anyway.

The children in town speak of another, of a witch entangled with the devil, condemned to the House for all eternity, her thin, pale form standing by the window each and every night, begging for a salvation that would never come. My personal favourite? A clawed monster, imprisoned by God, powerless to leave due to its hunger for revenge.

There are many stories about the House on North Lane, but the one I am about to tell is not one children whisper around a campfire on a cold night. It is about Augustus Saint. And I am just a man. A man who murdered his mother — entrapped in the House on North Lane.

The first night of my imprisonment was quiet — a quiet so deafening I could hear each and every cell in my body marching to my heart’s pounding orders. And it was cold; so cold you could see the evidence of every exhaled breath, a white mist drifting through the darkness. Goosebumps gathered along my arms, hairs upright as if standing to attention like obedient soldiers preparing for battle.

An icy breath caressed the back of my neck, sending numbing shivers straight down my spine as I crouched to retrieve a long, blood-stained silver crucifix. I glanced over my shoulder and was met with only haunting shadows. 

The second night bore me no mercy. Nausea enveloped me in its arms, the air thinning to the point it was like breathing in through a crinkled straw. I struggled to remain upright as I scrubbed blood and ash off of the wooden floorboards, vision blurring and replaced with a static screen. Footsteps echoed on the floor above me, the only sound other than my laboured breathing and thundering heart. I ventured up the winding, narrow staircase, a flickering candle in my hand to fend off the darkness. The empty hallway glared back at me as a rat scurried from one crack in the wall to another. There was no one there. At least no one I could see. But I felt her. Taunting me. Waiting for the right moment to strike.

By the one hundredth night, I’d grown accustomed to the creaking floorboards and the whispering walls, the heavy breathing and the dancing shadows. The House and I were in an endless waltz. It despised me, and yet it had no intention of letting me leave, twirling me around and around with no respite. My sin entrapped me here, as did hers. 

I want nothing more than to leave this prison, to escape this wicked nightmare, but there are phantom hands wrapped around my throat, imprisoning me here among the many stories of the House on North Lane.

Thank you for reading!

Don’t forget to follow me on @b.rookishwinters for all writing and Hallowed Be Thy Name updates!