'In the darkness the harbinger sings,
of death, destruction, the end of all things...'
'Into Dust', a collection of eight supernatural tales available in paperback and e-book via Amazon:
UK Paperback - click HERE US Paperback - click HERE
UK E-book - click HERE US E-book - click HERE
In other jurisdictions search 'BM Keeling'
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The First Couple of Pages...
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Extract: THE FINAL SOUL
My Dearest Susan,
By the time you receive this letter you will have discovered that I am no longer at the hospital. I had to leave. Something happened to me there, something which challenged my perception of the world so fundamentally that I quit my bed and crossed the moor in the midst of a storm. What occurred that night, at least what I believe occurred for I am no longer certain of anything, is set out below. You have always had a strong sense of spirituality, sister, and I ask that you now delve deep, for you are the only person I know who may believe my account.
Forgive the paper and ink. The storm has knocked out all forms of electronic communication.
It happened on the night of the twentieth of this month.
Lights had been out not thirty minutes when a branch the size of my good arm crashed against the window. Across the room Private James Macmillan screamed and raised his hands across his head. No-one paid him any heed. He was, most likely, dodging a mortar attack whilst defending some mud hut in the Helmand desert. God knows, it’s what I dream of most nights.
But not that night.
Before the storm truly gathered pace I had dozed fitfully, missing the greater part of the evening news. The operation the day before had left me exhausted so I had been left to sleep through supper; a consideration I dearly wish they had forsaken.
I was grateful, at first, as my head began to loll against my patchwork chest. My body ached and I welcomed the respite, even if it meant my mind marching back to active duty for a few broken hours while the flesh recovered. Yet as I slept I did not dream of sand and gunfire. I was somewhere else entirely; a place which made me long for the blood-soaked deserts of my usual nightmare. Fighting the effects of the medication, I wrestled myself awake.
Conscious, I sought to gather my composure as I was short of breath and sweating. I looked around, glad of every familiar sight, from the cracks in the yellowed ceiling to the reassuring outline of Nurse Jackson bustling around behind frosted glass. I took a sip of water and relaxed, believing the worst to be over.
For I did not believe in ghosts. Phantoms and demons were a storyteller’s tools, invented to frighten children on cold autumnal nights. My reality was tethered to that, and only that, which could be seen and touched.
And blown away by a semi-automatic.
Outside, the storm was beating the moor into submission. As I stared into the savage blackness, trying to oust the remnants of my dream, I felt icy fingers across my chest. And then it started: the murmur, the purr, in my head.
I scanned the room but there was only the sleeping Macmillan. Yet the sound continued, weaving its way through my brain, gradually adopting inflection and intonation until it became a voice.
His voice, summoning me from across the moor.
By the time the branch connected with the window, I was climbing from my bed.
I have little recollection of my journey to the inn. By the time I arrived I could barely stand. My clothes, a hospital gown hastily covered with Macmillan’s trench coat, were sodden and I was shaking. I had a moment of lucidity then, as I contemplated the building before me; a chance to turn back, away from the source of the voice which had brought me to that place as assuredly as the Pied Piper himself. But the ground was thick with mud and my wounds blazed. Had I turned back, I would likely have collapsed, a crumpled heap of flesh and rag drowning in a peaty bog.
Still, I would probably have been better off.
Even in my distracted state, I noted a few particulars regarding the lodgings before me. It was a crooked structure, slanted and angular as an old man’s back. Small lattice windows gave no clue as to the character within. Its stone exterior matched that of a cracked milestone situated a yard or two from the door, informing travellers that they were two hundred miles from London. The building could have been transformed by a few potted shrubs, the glow of an amber light to greet weary guests, but in its neglected form bore down on me as if to crush all hope from my heart. A creaking sign decreed it to be the ‘Amenity Inn’.
I rang the doorbell and waited. A minute or two passed before I heard the scrape and clunk of a metal key. As the door opened a gust of wind pushed my frail form forwards, into the arms of my host...
End of extract
By the time you receive this letter you will have discovered that I am no longer at the hospital. I had to leave. Something happened to me there, something which challenged my perception of the world so fundamentally that I quit my bed and crossed the moor in the midst of a storm. What occurred that night, at least what I believe occurred for I am no longer certain of anything, is set out below. You have always had a strong sense of spirituality, sister, and I ask that you now delve deep, for you are the only person I know who may believe my account.
Forgive the paper and ink. The storm has knocked out all forms of electronic communication.
It happened on the night of the twentieth of this month.
Lights had been out not thirty minutes when a branch the size of my good arm crashed against the window. Across the room Private James Macmillan screamed and raised his hands across his head. No-one paid him any heed. He was, most likely, dodging a mortar attack whilst defending some mud hut in the Helmand desert. God knows, it’s what I dream of most nights.
But not that night.
Before the storm truly gathered pace I had dozed fitfully, missing the greater part of the evening news. The operation the day before had left me exhausted so I had been left to sleep through supper; a consideration I dearly wish they had forsaken.
I was grateful, at first, as my head began to loll against my patchwork chest. My body ached and I welcomed the respite, even if it meant my mind marching back to active duty for a few broken hours while the flesh recovered. Yet as I slept I did not dream of sand and gunfire. I was somewhere else entirely; a place which made me long for the blood-soaked deserts of my usual nightmare. Fighting the effects of the medication, I wrestled myself awake.
Conscious, I sought to gather my composure as I was short of breath and sweating. I looked around, glad of every familiar sight, from the cracks in the yellowed ceiling to the reassuring outline of Nurse Jackson bustling around behind frosted glass. I took a sip of water and relaxed, believing the worst to be over.
For I did not believe in ghosts. Phantoms and demons were a storyteller’s tools, invented to frighten children on cold autumnal nights. My reality was tethered to that, and only that, which could be seen and touched.
And blown away by a semi-automatic.
Outside, the storm was beating the moor into submission. As I stared into the savage blackness, trying to oust the remnants of my dream, I felt icy fingers across my chest. And then it started: the murmur, the purr, in my head.
I scanned the room but there was only the sleeping Macmillan. Yet the sound continued, weaving its way through my brain, gradually adopting inflection and intonation until it became a voice.
His voice, summoning me from across the moor.
By the time the branch connected with the window, I was climbing from my bed.
I have little recollection of my journey to the inn. By the time I arrived I could barely stand. My clothes, a hospital gown hastily covered with Macmillan’s trench coat, were sodden and I was shaking. I had a moment of lucidity then, as I contemplated the building before me; a chance to turn back, away from the source of the voice which had brought me to that place as assuredly as the Pied Piper himself. But the ground was thick with mud and my wounds blazed. Had I turned back, I would likely have collapsed, a crumpled heap of flesh and rag drowning in a peaty bog.
Still, I would probably have been better off.
Even in my distracted state, I noted a few particulars regarding the lodgings before me. It was a crooked structure, slanted and angular as an old man’s back. Small lattice windows gave no clue as to the character within. Its stone exterior matched that of a cracked milestone situated a yard or two from the door, informing travellers that they were two hundred miles from London. The building could have been transformed by a few potted shrubs, the glow of an amber light to greet weary guests, but in its neglected form bore down on me as if to crush all hope from my heart. A creaking sign decreed it to be the ‘Amenity Inn’.
I rang the doorbell and waited. A minute or two passed before I heard the scrape and clunk of a metal key. As the door opened a gust of wind pushed my frail form forwards, into the arms of my host...
End of extract
Blurb and Bio.
’In the darkness the harbinger sings,
Of death, destruction,
The end of all things.’
An injured soldier crosses a moor in the midst of a storm, a man chases an elusive woman through the streets of York, four children play in an abandoned house on a crumbling cliff top... Containing eight chilling stories of love, despair, loneliness and redemption, Into Dust is a collection of supernatural tales which will have you lighting a fire, reaching for a drink and, of course, locking your door.
‘Into Dust’ is Bernadette’s first publication although she has been placed in, or won, a number of writing competitions. She lives in Leeds with her family and can generally be found either playing with her sons or huddled over a laptop.
Of death, destruction,
The end of all things.’
An injured soldier crosses a moor in the midst of a storm, a man chases an elusive woman through the streets of York, four children play in an abandoned house on a crumbling cliff top... Containing eight chilling stories of love, despair, loneliness and redemption, Into Dust is a collection of supernatural tales which will have you lighting a fire, reaching for a drink and, of course, locking your door.
‘Into Dust’ is Bernadette’s first publication although she has been placed in, or won, a number of writing competitions. She lives in Leeds with her family and can generally be found either playing with her sons or huddled over a laptop.
