My second novel, a cat and mouse thriller titled ‘The Pursued’, will be released in early 2017!

Here’s a look at the artwork and a brief synopsis…

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‘In 1984, a young drifter named Ethan Tucker meets a mysterious stranger on the road across Midwest USA and the pair must band together against a common threat when a dangerous man begins to pursue them, seemingly wanting them both dead.’

Here’s the full prologue to the book… Check it out!

The houses that line the suburban street look exactly the same in almost every way.

Some of them have curved lawns, shaped like kidney beans from above, trimmed daily by bored housewives and lowly paid teenagers with uneven tans from the sun.

Other lawns are rectangular, surrounded by cream gravel and perfectly laid driveways.

Occasionally, amongst the lustre white and boisterous granites, a garage door has been painted algae green or an aquamarine blue, but for the most part, this neighbourhood appears as a hall of mirrors, each house appearing as if a direct replica of the last.

Tonight, these houses are dark and lifeless. The families inside them are sleeping soundly, dreaming of their days of garden parties, trips to the coast and ballet recitals.

The night is cold and quiet as a stiff yet silent breeze drifts on the air, swaying the leaves and branches of nearby trees.

If anybody were to be walking by at this precise moment, ambling alone down the pristine asphalt, a chill would surely run up their spine due to the uneasiness that is enhanced by the curious calm that surrounds them.

All that occupies the street at this moment is the ice of the midnight moonlight, cool and saturating, eliminating the weak yellow glow of the streetlamps. A full moon hangs in the clean black sky like a fluorescent bulb. Tiny stars buzz and flutter around its radiance.

There is a noise in the distance. It doesn’t tear through the silence like venom, just unnerves it, like an insect moving beneath human skin, burrowing into the flesh.

A deep rumble on the horizon that is too low to wake anybody in this sleepy street. It displaces the disguised serenity and enhances the shadows. Drags a cloak of dread across the homes and gardens, displacing routine and inviting in the bizarre.

There is a house, towards the end of the street, alone at a corner, amongst topiary plants and garden statuettes.

It shifts from blending in amongst the others to standing out in no time at all. This house is larger than the rest, the robust iron gate at the end of the long driveway suggests safety, but it isn’t this that is felt at all.

Inside, the rooms are dark except for red or yellow standby lights on electrical appliances. The living room is clean and flawless, like a show-house would be just before visitors. Enormous leather sofas, a glass topped coffee table, luxurious rugs, extravagant décor and an entertainment centre that wouldn’t be out of place in a millionaire’s home theatre.

Everything is bathed in the silver moonlight that bleeds in from a gap between heavy velvet curtains.

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The hallway is equally as silent - although it is so wide it could be seen as a living room in its own right. This area is completely out of reach of the moonlight - only brief shapes can be made out, with their outlines difficult to see.

This place is the source of the noise. There is an artificial light spilling from a crack in a door towards the back of the house. Beyond the empty dining room, unmoved chairs and a table without a speck of dust on its surface.

Beyond a study, filled with the dim hum of an air conditioning hub hidden in a low cupboard. Beyond utility rooms and two ground floor bathrooms.

A door that leads to a kitchen. A place where many a family meal has been prepared and many a morning conversation has taken place over hot coffee.

The door is open just enough for the yellow light to leak out across the ground, creating a strip that highlights flecks of blood on the soft carpet of the hall.

Through the door, following the red blemishes, an eye is wide in terror. The eye is a deep brown, yet is lighter in colour than the locks of chestnut hair that fall next to it, thick with filth.

The girl lies dead, her head twisted and her neck bent on a terrible angle. Gore covers almost every inch of her previously ice white skin, her mouth hangs open in a horrific gawp and her intestines are strewn around her body like streamers at a birthday party.

The night remains cold and quiet as the stiff yet silent breeze returns as a distant noise is heard again, a low rumble of throat-singing or desperate agony nearby.

Ben Errington

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