 As a kid I was afraid of quite a lot of things. I had a very vivid imagination and it was all too easy for me to imagine the witches face grinning at me over the edge of my bed. Or the skeleton head with a black cloak and bony hand in the crack between the door and the door frame, watching me as I brushed my teeth. It honestly felt like if I looked in the mirror over the bathroom sink, there he’d be watching me. Luckily he never was. The skeleton was not the only cause I had to be anxious of the bathroom. I hated the sound of the toilet flushing, as the system roared I’d run from the bathroom to my little bedroom as if a monster was chasing me. Having an imagination so inclined to imagine monsters, I was naturally afraid of the dark. I remember switching the light off and running to my bed and diving under the covers. I’d lay there, not daring to uncover my face for fear of what might be out there. I used to believe that nothing could get me in my bed if I stayed under the covers. There was also one major cause of disgust in my childhood. This is going to sound really odd but I really hated fingernails. Even as an adult I don’t like to write, speak or think the word because it makes me cringe. As a kid I used to think that if I could change one thing about myself, it would be to not have fingernails. I’d struggle to look at peoples hands, long fingernails were the worst. I used to consider them the most repulsive thing in the world. As an adult, as long as they are clean, I don’t mind them but not wanting to look at certain hands followed me to my late teens. The Haunting of Hacket House is available to pre order now at https://amzn.to/35S1k1I  Astrid Addams is a horror writer, horror fan and animal lover from the North of England. So far she has self published three novella’s, The Haunting of Hope House, The Man and The Haunting of Hacket House. Her short story Abducted was published in the anthology A is for Aliens and she is normally working on some story or other. She lives with her long suffering partner and their ever expanding mischief.  Some places don’t let go….
Offered a lucrative job at the mysterious Hacket House, Jane agrees to travel across country to live at the mansion. After all, a fresh start is just what she needs. Besides, the remote house is a long way from the past she is still running from. Arriving at her new home, she finds a strange red house set in a wood of red, gnarled trees. The same trees used to build the house and the grandfather clocks that haunt every room and dark corridor. Jane quickly realises that there is something very wrong at Hacket House and the village of Bramley. Why is there a graveyard in the garden of Hacket House? Who are the people in hoods who haunt the house at night? What are they doing with the old man in the bed? Why is somebody moving the grandfather clocks? Who is the strange woman no one will admit exists? What are the shadows that scoot across the walls like cockroaches? Who is Erazmus Nark whose grave nothing will touch? As the sinister behaviour of the village escalates and her own past closes in around her, Jane learns that just because something is dead, doesn’t mean that it’s gone. Comments are closed.
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