Guy N. Smith
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t's 1746 and the Laird of Ulver maroons his wife and four daughters on remote Ulver Island after she fails to give him a male heir on the fifth attempt. On the island, the youngest girl turns murderess, after meeting Satan himself in a cave. Modern day, and no one has lived on Ulver since a couple threw themseles onto the rocks in 1948. Frank Ingram is too busy mourning his wife, and moves in anyway. Life is hunky dory until a woman with her four daughters mysteriously arrive out of nowhere.
tender arm, her wrist jarred by the impact as the blade sank through the velvet of his waistcoat, sliced through flesh and jarred on bone. Twisting viciously, it brought the sweat to her fair features, his screams sweet music in her ears. Following him down to the flagstones, she gouged and disembowelled like John, the stalker, when he gralloched a stag on the hill. The body beneath her twitched and jerked, but it was only the nerves; it was dead. Even now she was not content, hacking the
it was their destination, their ultimate fate, which they feared. Drowning would have been blessed relief by comparison. The half-moon no longer showed through the heavy clouds – as though it feared to manifest itself and knew that these events should be cloaked in darkness. Driving rain mingled with the spray, and even Zoke was now hidden from the watchers’ view. A night of torment where hell was not unceasing fires but unending angry seas, and perhaps the boatman was destined to row them up
corner, uncleaned from this morning, the half-full box of cartridges on the mantelshelf. He picked up the weapon, opened the breech and fumbled in the carton for cartridges. Two Maximums. He snapped the breech shut, and thought better of cocking the hammers. A cocked shotgun was no way to welcome visitors. ‘Be quiet, Jake.’ He moved towards the door and lingered with his fingers on the bolt, undecided still. But he knew he’d open up in the end. He was trembling, his voice sounded distant,
back again without so much as a crackling. In a wave of panic, he pulled at the rear panel, clicking it off. At least the batteries were there; he unclipped one and took it out. He shook it in his frustration, knew that it was dead, that to go out to the workshop and check it would just be a waste of time. A fortnight old, no more, and it was a dud. Furthermore, he did not have any spares. He found himself glancing at the telephone, a squat leering monster mocking him. Looking at the light bulb,
rain-lashed cabin window. ‘Why did they leave then?’ It wasn’t just because of the raging sea that Frank Ingram yelled. The hand in his pocket clutched the estate agent’s key until the rough metal dug sharply into his flesh. ‘They didna leave.’ A pause, the words scarcely audible. ‘They died!’ The goose pimpling came back again, this time travelling right the way up Frank’s spine and into the nape of his neck, causing the hairs to stiffen. ‘They were old, I suppose.’ For Christ’s sake, he