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    A Family Loss: A Crime Horror Novel
    A Family Loss: A Crime Horror Novel
    A Family Loss: A Crime Horror Novel
    Ebook160 pages2 hours

    A Family Loss: A Crime Horror Novel

    By Anthony North

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    About this ebook

    It was John Ferguson's worst nightmare. His mother-in-law came to live with the family. And she just wouldn't go away - even after he'd killed her. But what reality does she now inhabit? Is she merely an expression of the sorrow his wife feels? Or maybe she's just the guilt and paranoia building in his own mind. Or maybe ...?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAnthony North
    Release dateApr 27, 2020
    ISBN9780463560815
    A Family Loss: A Crime Horror Novel
    Author

    Anthony North

    Thinker & Storyteller****7,453 Words to Save the UK and I,Writer are now FREE. Scroll down to find them.*****1955 (Yorkshire, England) – I am born (Damn! Already been done). ‘Twas the best of times ... (Oh well).I was actually born in the year of Einstein's death, close to Scrooge's Counting House. It doesn't mean anything but it sounds good. As for my education, I left school at 15 and have had no formal education since. Hence, I'm self-taught.****From a family of newsagents, at 18 I did a Dick Whittington and went off to London, only to return to pretend to be Charlie and work in a chocolate factory.When I was ten I was asked what I wanted to be. I said soldier, writer and Dad. I never thought of it for years – having too much fun, such as a time as lead guitarist in a local rock band – but I served nine years in the RAF, got married and had seven kids. I realized my words had been precognitive when, at age 27, I came down with M.E. – a condition I’ve suffered ever since – and turned my attention to writing.Indeed, as I realized that no expert could tell me what was wrong with me, I began my quest to find out why. Little did I realize it would last decades and take me through the entire history of knowledge, leaving me with the certainty that our knowledge systems are inadequate.****My non-fiction is based on P-ology, a thought process I devised to work with patterns of knowledge, and designed to be a bedfellow to specialization. A form of Rational Holism, it seeks out areas the specialist may have missed. I work from encyclopaedias and introductory volumes in order to gain a grasp of many subjects and am not an expert in anything, but those patterns keep forming. Hence, I do not deal in truth, but ideas, and cover everything from politics to the paranormal.When reading my work I ask only: do I make sense? Of course, an expert would say: a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. I agree. And an expert has so little knowledge of everything.I also write novels and Flash Fiction in all genres.

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      Book preview

      A Family Loss - Anthony North

      A Family Loss:

      A Horror Novel

      By Anthony North

      Copyright: Anthony North 2020

      Cover image copyright: Yvonne North, 2020

      Smashwords Edition

      No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission

      Other books by Anthony North

      In 2019 I began a 3 year publishing program that will result in 14 volumes of my fiction, inc 7 novels in most genres, & 21 works of non-fiction covering cults, politics, conspiracies, religion, disasters, science, philosophy, warfare, crime, psychology, new age, green issues & all areas of the unexplained, inc ufology, lost worlds and the paranormal. Hopefully appearing at the rate of one a month, check out the latest launch at my bookstore at http://anthonynorth.com or buy direct from Smashwords for all devices at: https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/anthonynorth

      In addition to the above, you may like my ‘I’ Series – 8 volumes of flash fiction (horror, sci fi, romance, adventure, crime), 4 volumes of poetry & 5 volumes of short essays from politics to the unexplained. Available from same links as above. Also check out my bookstore for news of my books out in paperback.

      CONTENTS

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Chapter Twenty One

      Chapter Twenty Two

      Chapter Twenty Three

      Chapter Twenty Four

      Chapter Twenty Five

      Chapter Twenty Six

      Chapter Twenty Seven

      Chapter Twenty Eight

      Chapter Twenty Nine

      About the Author

      Connect With Anthony

      Chapter One

      John Ferguson raced from the traffic lights in his customary manner. Brenda, as always, objected.

      'You drive too fast,' she said, seeking comfort from the door handle.

      'Why isn't there a motorway to the south?' said John as he turned the wheel. 'That's what I want to know.'

      'Stop complaining and slow down!'

      'There are plenty of motorways to the north. They're ALL to the bloody north. You'd think they'd realize. But no ...'

      'Stop swearing,' said Brenda, knowing the day would end in argument.

      In the back, Robin had his nose pressed to the window, watching the city rush by. He enjoyed the city; the excitement, the activity - the people, the noise, the buildings. To him it was like a big adventure and so different from the boring green and boring shops and boring people tottering on sticks in THEIR town. He hated that - except the football club, of course.

      He was centre forward in the under elevens was Robin. He lived for his football - and his granny, too. They were going to see granny now.

      In the front, John ran his fingers through his hair and said: 'I wonder what the old battle axe will find to complain about today?'

      'Put your hand back on that wheel! You'll get us all killed … and SLOW DOWN!'

      'Brenda, dear,' said John, 'you don't have to have both hands on the wheel all the time, you know. How am I supposed to change bloody gear with both bloody hands on the wheel?'

      'Stop swearing.'

      They were leaving the city now. Buildings gave way to wide open spaces. John pumped the throttle and Brenda sat rigid, images of burst tyres and raw, red guts hanging limp from overturned wrecks filling her mind.

      'Look Robin. Mommy's got her eyes closed again.'

      Robin was at Wembley, the last second of injury time and he kicks and he scores and the crowd goes wild ...

      One mile to go.

      Look for the turn-off - time to slow down. Ease off the throttle. Indicate.

      'You can open your eyes now.'

      Brenda opened her eyes; offered a sigh of relief. She was alive.

      John cursed as he pulled in, just off the neat village green. Coming to a halt, he looked at the ramshackle bungalow inhabited by his mother-in-law. He looked at the flaking paint, the shutter rocking in the wind; the uncut grass, unkempt hedge.

      Suddenly he winced as a curtain moved, a wrinkled nose pressing against the window pane.

      Brenda saw it, too. She smiled, opened the door and alighted from the car. Then she pulled the seat forward for Robin to scramble out.

      'Can I go and play in the garden?' he asked.

      Brenda said: 'After you've seen granny.'

      Robin pouted. But as the front door opened he went running through the gate. 'Hello, granny,' he said.

      Granny stood at the doorway holding out her arms, an old, ruffled shawl falling from her back.

      Brenda walked up the path next, folding her arms to keep the cool breeze from her body, giving a slight shiver as it caught her dress, her long, blonde hair blowing in her eyes.

      Once by the door she bent down and kissed her mother on the cheek.

      'Good journey?'

      Brenda gave a dubious reply.

      Following this, the old woman said: ‘Come in out of the cold,' cocking her head slightly to say, 'are you coming, Jonathon,' hostility in her voice.

      John was still in the driving seat, savouring the peace.

      Eventually, he gave a sigh and climbed out of the car, banging and locking the door, muttering under his breath as he negotiated the path, dragging his foot behind him with a distinct limp.

      Half way down the path he stopped, taking a deep breath, preparing himself for the barrage of insults which were bound to come. Then, shoulders drooped, he walked in.

      Hilda Myers was seventy and a stubborn old stick, already outliving two of her seven children. Ted - her deceased husband - had left her more than comfortable. He had been a careful man, making a will in early age. Which was fortunate, as he died early in life. John was sure she had nagged him to death.

      She was sat in her old moth-eaten chair; part of her old moth-eaten suite on an old moth-eaten carpet.

      Brenda sat on the settee, Robin already having disappeared outside. She motioned John to sit next to her, but this was not part of John's plan at all.

      Rather, he was looking at the vacant armchair, slightly less old looking and moth-eaten than the rest. It had been Ted's, and was now his shrine.

      He sat, revelling in the grimace on Hilda's wrinkled, sallow face.

      'It's lovely to see you again, dear,' said Hilda to Brenda following a suitable pause to intensify the disgust.

      John picked up the paper and pretended to read.

      'Oh, mother,' said Brenda, 'it's only been five weeks, you know.'

      'Has it.'

      'And how have you been feeling?'

      Hilda had already feigned a deteriorating posture, and with those words it deteriorated more. 'Oh … I manage dear,' she said, with an intensity of melancholy. She continued: 'Well, I have to, don't I? There's no one here to help me.'

      'Don't say it like that mother. You know we'd live closer if we could.'

      Brenda felt guilty. John, on the other hand, grunted.

      'And how is Robin doing?' asked Hilda, following a theatrical pause to allow the message to get home.

      'He's doing very well at school. Especially English - oh, and football. He might be captain next term. That's what John wants.'

      Hilda replied with gusto. 'It's about time your husband realized there was more to education than kicking a ball around,' she said. Then she looked at John's deformed foot; the result of an old injury in early life. 'But of course, he could never play, could he.'

      John's mouth formed an obscenity behind the paper.

      'And when he leaves school John says he can get him a job in the company.'

      'The boy should go to university.'

      Brenda sensed an argument growing, so changed the subject. 'Have you seen Mrs Mills lately?' she asked, crossing her legs.

      'New shoes?' commented Hilda, observing the brown leather high heels.

      'What? Oh yes, John picked them.'

      'Don't like 'em.'

      Paper lowered. Husband rising. Temper boiling ... 'John!'

      Half up, half down, John seemed to hover in mid air. He thought a moment and reluctantly sat back, muttering away as he retrieved the paper from the old moth-eaten rug.

      'Typical,' said Hilda, tutting away as she held out her chin defiantly. 'Always did have a nasty temper.'

      'Oh, don't mother. Please stop it.'

      'I warned you not to marry him. You needn't have married. You could have got rid of it. But no, you had to make two mistakes; get pregnant and marry a brute.'

      Brenda banged her arm on the settee, disappearing in a cloud of dust. 'Stop it,' she said, 'stop it, stop it, stop it!'

      'Now look what you've done,' said Hilda to John.

      'Me? Now just a minute you old hag. You started it.' In desperation, John continued: 'I don't know, every time we come; every bloody time. Do you enjoy it? Just look what you're doing to her. She loves you; do you know that? Don't ask me why. Any affection she gives, you just throw back in her face.'

      'Rubbish,' said Hilda.

      'And you've always got to bring Robin into it haven't you? Okay, we decided to get married because of him. But even with your infernal trouble making we're still happy. Yes, you old battle axe, STILL happy.'

      'Don't, John,' said Brenda. 'I'm alright. Let's just leave it.'

      She sniffed back a tear and turned to her mother, attempting to bring some semblance of normality to the afternoon. 'Can I help you with tea?' she asked.

      Hilda stood up and tottered out of the room. 'I see. Hints now. Go and do tea, Hilda.'

      Brenda caught John on the second bound.

      Chapter Two

      Tea was a sombre affair.

      All four sat round a table barely big enough for two. By devious planning, John ended up the only person with table leg between limbs. It always happened that way. Then there was the silent oneupmanship for Robin's favour - a gesture of a bigger slice of cake from Hilda; a promise to play football later from John.

      Real conversation was non-existent. And when tea was over, and the table cleared, John and Hilda moved back to their respective corners.

      A battle of nerves commenced.

      John sat there, watching

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