Souls by the Sea: Souls by the Sea, #1

By Cerine Talbot

(She's not saving the day for herself.) Burlie McLauren is on meds and, frankly, doesn't see the point of her own survival but her family's? Oh, you don't mess with her family. Still, one dark Halloween night, a powerful witch sets out to tempt hell when he kidnaps the McLaurens for ransom. Burlie, without the slightest spark of power, must fight her way through a dreamland gauntlet of movie monsters (what?!) to save them.

And she will save them, and maybe even herself, because the greatest power on Earth is knowledge.What she knows will tear that witch's mirror world apart. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cerine Talbot
• Release date: Dec 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386163305

Book preview

Souls by the Sea

Cerine Talbot

About This Book

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the author is illegal and punishable by law. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

SOULS BY THE SEA (Book One)

Copyright © 2018 Cerine Talbot. All rights reserved.

Formerly published under the pen name of Jessie G. Talbot

Kidnapped and held for ransom in a dream-town by a powerful witch,

Burlie McLauren must rely on her wits alone to fight her way back to reality.

Acknowledgements

Thank you to my front-line team of editors and beta readers, especially Jean Anderson, T.L. Martin, Samantha Armstrong, the Hippoplotamus, and Sherry Soule. Most importantly, I appreciate the encouragement and support of my friends and family. Ya'll rock.

Cover art elements courtesy of Freepik.

Follow me on Twitter @author_talbot

Chapter intros are taken, gladly, from the following works and artists: Who has Seen the Wind? by Christina Rossetti,  Antigonish aka The Man Who Wasn't There by Hughes Mearns, Frankenstein or the Modern Prometheus by Mary Shelley, The Vagabond, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and Autumn by Robert Louis Stevenson, Asleep in the Deep by Arthur J. Lamb, The Small Hours by Dorothy Parker, Autumn Sonnet by William Shakespeare, O Autumn by William Blake, The Monster Mash by Bobby 'Boris' Pickett, The Pirates of Penzance by Gilbert and Sullivan, Dracula by Bram Stoker, The Canterville Ghost by Oscar Wilde, The War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells,  Apocalypse by Emily Dickinson, Hope by Ambrose Bierce, and Queen Nefertiti by an unknown poet.

Dedicated to my own big sister, Billie Nell. I love you, pardner!

Table of Contents

Chapter One - Autumn Fires

Chapter Two - Skeletal Hands

Chapter Three - The Wind

Chapter Four - A Dream Within a Dream

Chapter Five - The Girl's Life

Chapter Six - Go Away

Chapter Seven - All Fall Down

Chapter Eight - Bare Ruined Choirs

Chapter Nine - Consolation

Chapter Ten - The Thunder Child

Chapter Eleven - All the Daughters

Chapter Twelve - Who Sleep Unwisely

Chapter Thirteen - Injected Eyes

Chapter Fourteen - Asleep in the Deep

Chapter Fifteen - Another Dawn

Author Info

CHAPTER ONE

Hope: A form of despair disguised as a virtue.

She had to leave a note. Burlie McLauren pulled her ragged notepad and one of several pens out of her back pocket.

I can't be here anymore, she began and lost interest. No more. No more notes. Her arms dropped to her side and the notepad and pen clattered to the brick floor of St Barnabas’s tallest bell tower. The night breeze, unseasonably warm and sticky for March, even for North Carolina, fluttered the pages and she could read a few by the red glare of an overhead safety light.

The practical: Hello, where is the bathroom? Flip. The defensive: I don't answer questions in class because I have no voice. My vocal cords are injured. Flip. The personal: Where's Mama? Daddy needs his dressings changed.  Flip. Practicality again: Get eggs, garlic, ginger, salad, and pie from the farmer's market. Not the store.

Flip. And a great big lie: Don't worry, I'm fine.

I'm just fine, she tried to say and triggered a cough attack. A nasty, metallic taste was in her mouth and pain pulsed through her throat.

Yuck.

The bell tower had an iron railing decorated with rusty grape vines running up and down every bar. It was tall, cold, and sharp but Burlie climbed it easily. At the top she didn't look up at the sky or down at the far, hard ground as she threw both legs over. She did pause to tear her long hair free of a jutting bolt.

And then she let go.

She felt a rush of wind and felt nothing but finality. There. It's over.

A cold hand closed around her wrist.

Her plunge stopped with a jerk. Her body whipped and her shoes popped off. They tumbled end over end to make a pok pok! sound on the paving. Her feet dangled and her shoulder, wrenched almost out of its socket, throbbed. The vice grip around her wrist made her hand go numb.

Burlie slowly looked up her stretched arm into the eyes of the man that held her dangling in thin air. A man. Who was there. A man was there. Crouching, floating in the air. With her. He was standing on air holding her as easily as she'd handle a fish on a hook.

His hair was curly and his skin was pale, flawless.

Nice try, he said and smiled. His canines were sharp.

Burlie felt an emotion pulling free from the black tar of her mind. It was surprise. Drop me, bloodsucker, she croaked.

Now, now, now, that's rude. We prefer Smith. It's friendlier. What's in a name after all? Plenty, it turns out...

He nattered on soothingly as they drifted down to the ground where he let her go. Pins and needles assaulted her hand as the blood rushed back. She shook it. Her socks caught on the rough paving stones.

Another emotion slowly bubbled up from her depths. Disappointment.

She was back.

Her savior stepped closer to gaze up into her eyes. Up. He was half a head shorter than she was. Burlie didn't move and he seemed pleased. No fear, he said. Right. He looked closer and Burlie could actually feel him traipsing through her mind, the asshole. Right, he said again. "It's not as if I'm a witch after all?"

Witches... She stepped back to have a coughing fit into the crook of her arm as her hands balled into fists. Her croak died.

He patted her on the back. No need to thank me.

Don't worry, Burlie mouthed at him. I won't.

IN THE OTHER GARDENS

And all up the vale,

From the Autumn bonfires

See the smoke trail.

Sing a song of seasons,

Something bright in all.

Flowers in the summer,

fires in the fall!

I HATE SUMMER. BURLIE sank onto the nearest gravestone for a rest, plopping a plastic garbage bag full of leaves down on the dry ground. The bag was white and decorated with a grinning ghost's face. I especially hate it on Halloween.

Her voice broke and she coughed to clear it. The short, sharp HACK! that made people turn and stare. But at least she had a voice now, such as it was. And a prescription. A decent night's sleep remained elusive, though. Burlie yawned.

I'm hot, too, her little sister echoed. Lydia had her own leaves stuffed into an orange jack 'o lantern sack. Monkey see - monkey do, she also dropped them and sat on her own stone.

I'm melltiiing, melting! Burlie whispered and slid off the marker to crumple to the dusty ground. It's too hot.

Lydia swatted at the gnats buzzing around her head. Fisk says he loves the heat. He says Britain is always cloudy and cold so he 'preciates his new country. He says...

Burlie rolled her eyes. Don't go talking to any witches, Lydia, even if he is our neighbor.

Well, I like him, Lydia huffed.

I don't!

Not so loud, Lydia whispered. She glared at the neat paths, brown shrubbery, and grey stones of the Well Deserved Rest cemetery. Do you hear something?

Burlie listened. What?

Anything. Lydia picked up her orange bag and hugged it tight. Are you sure there's nothing sneaking up on us in here?

Burlie stood. She was tall for sixteen and could see a large field of urns, faded silk flower arrangements, and grey headstones. Nothing moving, though. The cemetery was empty.

Empty of people inclined to talk anyway. No one here but the two of us, Burlie's voice choked off again. She swallowed. You're not spooked, are you? It's broad daylight. She wiped what her grandmother would call the 'dew' from her forehead. Broad, muggy, buggy daylight, she went on. Ugh. This was all supposed to be over with by September. She threw back her dark hair, shaking the dust out. The hot breeze blew it back into her eyes. Burlie pulled at a stray lock that was bent at a ninety degree angle. Her hair did not curl, it crooked, one of several heartbreaking burdens she had to bear in life.

Uuuugh, Lydia agreed and tossed what was left of her own hair. Burlie was weighted down by heavy sympathy. Poor Lydia was only six, too young to defend herself from their mother's cost-saving home cuts. Her blonde waves had been hacked into some sort of uneven bob. Burlie wanted to spit into her hands and smooth down those awkward cowlicks but Lydia would never forgive her. She held off.

Leaves crunched as Lydia held her bag tighter and her heels drummed on the granite stone. Burlie noticed. What's wrong?

Let's go home!

Go home?

You don't know we're the only people here! A worry-line popped down the middle of Lydia's forehead. "There could be hidden dogmen, she warned. They like the wide open spaces so they can hunt in packs and chase their tails and bite peoples' heads off and stuff. They could be behind the bushes right now. Watching with big, yellow eyes, Lydia panted a moment and then threw her sister a bone. Witches, too, I guess."

She jumped up and started down the hill. Burlie didn't move. She knew Lydia didn't dare go anywhere in this place alone. Sure enough, Lydia soon came pelting back. Will you come on?!

Burlie gently pulled Lydia closer. No dogmen are hiding in the bushes, Lyddie. They're working jobs and going to school and not bothering us in any way. She'd said it before. Often. She'd probably say it again. "There's no witches here either.  And it's daytime so no Smiths to butt in where they're not wanted, too. There's no Dissimilar at all."

Pleeease? Lydia still wasn't happy.

No, Burlie insisted. You aren't going to turn into that weird boy in your class. The one that won't go outside.

Lydia stepped back. He's afraid of bugs laying eggs in his ears.

He's afraid of everything. Do you want to be like that? Do you want to be miserable and fearful all the time?

No.

Damn right, no. I don't want to be like that either. The hard gravestone was starting to cramp her legs. We have to get over what happened, Lydia, she said.

How?

Gahd, who knows, Burlie admitted and yawned again as she got up. But as soon as I figure it out I'll let you know. Anyway, Burlie started walking again. I love graveyards.

Lydia followed. Ewww, why?

"Don't ew me, turd, Burlie took a swing at her with her ghost bag but Lydia was too quick. There's history in here. All sorts of good stories written on these stones."

What stories? They're all dead.

End of story, Burlie said. No, there's more than 'So and So was Born on this Day and Died on this Other Day.'

Tell me!

Oookay. Burlie did her best as they traveled inward and upward to the older parts of Well Deserved Rest. They wandered past the Vietnam, then the Korean, then the very large WWII memorial, and on past the WWI Remembrance garden which should have been so beautiful, even this late in the season, but wasn't.

Burlie gave small history lessons for each stop and bored Lydia stupid. Burlie actually rubbed her hands together with satisfaction. Boredom was better than fear.

But Lydia did get sniffly at the sight of a marble angel collapsed in wretched grief on top of a long, low mound. Closer inspection revealed it to be a mass grave from the flu epidemic of 1918. Even Burlie rushed past that one.

They rested at the great Grecian mausoleum of the illustrious Batt family then traveled through a scattering of graves from the mid 1700s which featured a statue of a handsome Minute Man set up by the Daughters of the American Revolution. Down with Mad King George! Burlie declared. And anyone else that's British!

What?

Nothing.

They reached the top, the oldest part of the cemetery, the oldest part of Souls by the Sea, and Lydia had had enough. History's nothing but sad yuck and dead people!

Burlie nodded. Pretty much.

She gave her lecture a rest as she admired the leaning, jagged slates of the European settlers. They were carved with grim designs that were still crystal clear after three hundred years. These markers lacked bullshit. There were no sweet little lambs, maudlin poetry, or wreaths of roses here. These were the hard remnants of a hard people, colonists and outcasts, who clawed new lives out of a strange, hostile land and felt the need to pass on moral lessons even in death.

Beware, some slates