work – The Girl Who Whispered

Fundraising to reduce landmines!

Update 12/08/2020: Please note this fundraiser has now ended, please don’t try send me funds. Thank you. 🙂

On the 25th of May, myself and a friend will be walking 35km through Salisbury Plain Training Area for the charity, The HALO Trust.

The HALO Trust support several projects, including landmine clearance, which will be the project we will be supporting.

As we both work/study on the UK’s Defence Academy, we are both invested in such a project, and are both excited to raise awareness and funds for such a great cause!

Our target is £500 for the two of us. However, we’d like to smash this target and raise as much as possible for all the good work The HALO Trust do around the world.

If you’re interested in helping this cause, please check out here:

[link removed, fundraising has ended! Thank you to those who have donated! 🙂 ]

Protected: Summer work in Portree, Isle of Skye!

Character names – there are certain names I won’t use…

Any fellow authors/writers here have to sit and ponder over names for a while just to get that perfect name for their character?

I did a blog post a while ago about how I come up with names. I have a few names that I love and I have used already (Jason and Alex are two examples that I like – well, I’m not having children, so might as well have fictional characters! I also use names from friends, inspirational people, or use names from authors I like).

Anyway, this last story idea I came up with (I fell in Love with a Psychopath), I started to sit there thinking about what name to use next. I found myself coming up with names off the top of my head that I really shouldn’t use, for one reason…

Someone I don’t like in real life, or doesn’t like me, has that name. Having a name like Sarah in a book might seem like a brilliant name to use, simple and easy to remember, but what happens if you know a Sarah and you two hate each other (I don’t, by the way, I was using it as an example. I won’t spell out real names as examples). It can be awkward sometimes.

It doesn’t mean that I think of that person (whether friend or not) and use them in my stories – name and all. I try to avoid people like that in my stories. I don’t want it getting back to me and getting bad press from them. I might use a situation or a quirk, but I’d never write them in completely.

Friends, I might do, to an extent. Maybe just borrowing their name, and maybe a quirk they have somewhere else. But then I’m worried about using a friend’s name who has a common name, and they share the same name with someone else I know that doesn’t like me from my past. I used to know four people with the same common name, three of which are friends, one no longer is. Because one of those friends is a very good friend of mine (he’d always come straight round to my house when we were teenagers and I was having a bad day and go to tescos to get junk food and swap ghost stories in our local park), I have used his name in one of my stories, but with crossed fingers!

It’s the same with last names too. I have big trouble with last names. Again, I have used last names from inspirational people, or otherwise. But not really friends though as last names are a bit more obvious, so again I try to avoid last names from people I know.

I guess this is where a name generator comes in handy!

Rose Garden Sanatorium – Chapter 1

If you’re new to the story, please read the prologue here!

Chapter 1

Parliamentary Private Secretary Martha Dunn

The doors swung open suddenly making Martha jump. Her cup of tea splashed all over her white blouse and dull grey skirt. She was standing in a room off the White Drawing Room, one of the nineteen State Rooms in the building, when he bounded in; a tall, dark-haired and magnificently handsome man.

She had never seen such confidence in anyone before. The man strode in with such authority that she wasn’t sure if he had more right to be there than the man she worked for; the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. Accompanied with his confidence came a sense of power and intrigue that sent shivers down Martha’s spine.

She realised that she had never seen this man before, normally she was good at recognising people who came through Number Ten. He wore a black peacoat with the collar up, a simple grey scarf tucked underneath to hide his neck from a cold that Martha wasn’t sure currently existed this time of year, supplemented with a pair of simple dark blue jeans and black shoes to match his look. Although, Martha wasn’t sure what look he was going for, if he was indeed going for a look. People who walked through the office usually had either the; I’m an important person you must respect me or the I’m a rich person with a large bank balance look. The newcomer was hard to read.

Aside from his attire, he appeared younger than most of the people that walked through the hall. He had short black stubble framing his sharp masculine facial-features handsomely, his dark short hair looked windswept and interesting. Martha certainly thought he was interesting, but she also had a horrible feeling he was trouble. How did he even get in?

“David in?” he asked, as he waltzed passed her.

“Y-y-you can’t go in there!” she stuttered, her confidence gone. She held onto her now empty cup of tea in one hand and her work phone in the other, both currently forgotten about as she watched in shock.

He stopped, turned, and gave her a smile, finding her reaction amusing. The double doors were only a foot behind him. “No?” he tested. He raised an eyebrow at her, holding his handsome yet devilish smile.

She suddenly looked around for the security guards and started to visibly shake at the sudden realisation of potential ill-intentions. Where are they? she thought, ignoring the wetness on her chest as the tea soaked through her clothes.

“No,” she said with a little more confidence, but then added; “un–unless you h–have an appointment?” She doubted he did, it was late at night. The only reason she was there was because a meeting was overrunning.

The man sauntered up to Martha and stared into her brown tired eyes. She felt suddenly inferior to him, he was much taller than she was and towered above her.

“And what if I don’t have an appointment?” he breathed.

The woman wobbled on her feet and silently wished there were more seats at Number Ten. She swallowed nervously and stared back into his piercing blue eyes. “Then I w–will have t–to call security.”

“You could try, but they’re all unconscious.” He smirked, then walked away. Without another moment’s hesitation he bounded through the big double doors to where the Prime Minister was holding a private meeting.

The secretary stood wordlessly, her mouth slightly agape in awe. After a few seconds, she rushed out of the room towards the main staircase and peered over the ornate black and dark wooden banister to see one of the security team was led face down next to the large world globe at the bottom and gasped in horror.

***

Belphegor

“David!” Belphegor bellowed, his arms wide open as he bounded into the extravagant White Drawing Room.

The room was too elaborate for his taste; white walls with gold decorations, gold trims on the high ceiling, gold frames around the paintings, even the sofas near the fireplace and the pointless chandeliers hanging heavily from the ceiling had some unnecessary gold. The only thing not gold was the large rug in the middle of the floor which was red with a few splashes of blue in the fleur de-lis. There was probably more money in this building than there had gone into running the whole of London.

The Prime Minister, who was standing in the middle of the room, talking to a balding man in a chair opposite him, span round to see Belphegor stride into the room. Belphegor even heard the Parliamentary Private Secretary, Martha, rush in behind him.

David Stewart was a young Prime Minister, taking up the position confidently only last year—much to the dismay of many of the Members of Parliament in the opposing parties who disagreed that Stewart was fit for the position. Stewart was in his late thirties, described to be a ‘young, hip Prime Minister’ by a local newspaper recently, a short man with a square face, although attractive in a boyish way. He was in the process of holding a private meeting with his Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs; MP John Didcot.

John Didcot was a balding middle-aged man, with a heart-shaped face. He had little bags under his grey-blue eyes, which sat underneath a mess of unruly eyebrows that were currently furrowed into a frown. Unlike the Prime Minister, who was wearing a sharp black suit, Didcot was wearing a navy-blue suit which looked a size too big for him and a rather long red tie that appeared to curl slightly at the end.

“Who are you?” the Prime Minister asked, his face visibly falling and shifting into an unfamiliar nervous stare. “And how did you get in?”

Belphegor wasn’t surprised that the guy didn’t know him, they hadn’t formally met. But Belphegor had suspected Stewart had been given at least one file about him when he first made it to office, there were bound to be pictures of him in there over the years. Of course, humans were terrible at remembering faces from pictures, and some pictures were probably very old, even though he hadn’t changed much in decades.

Didcot moved slowly to perch on the edge of his seat as if waiting to get up at an opportune moment if he needed to run for the exit. Belphegor walked further into the room, grabbed an apple from a fruit bowl on top of a rather elaborate oak dresser and leaned against it.

“I’m sure you’re aware of who I am,” Belphegor replied finally, as he carefully inspected the apple with deliberate drama before looking up at Stewart. “My friends call me Bel.”

He was teasing them slightly; he doubted anyone in the room would recognise the name ‘Bel’, even if it was an unusual name. It was just a nickname. One of his more favourable nicknames. But he wanted to drag out this situation as long as possible.

He also ignored the last question about how he got in. Although, he could have told the truth, he didn’t do anything too out of the ordinary. He easily yet inelegantly jumped over the security gate facing the Horse Guards Parade and disarmed the two armed police officers before they had chance to call for backup. He had already caused a scene outside the gate on Parliament Street by unfortunately inflicting someone with a peanut allergy to go into anaphylactic shock. The trained guards not only would go to his aid but would then be on high-alert. He knew they would be on the lookout at the other gates, thinking it would be a deliberate ruse, but he had paid a group of youths to make a scene outside the gate facing Horse Guards Road, making them think they were the ones trying to get in by climbing onto the wall. And thus, thinning out the security so he could slip in easier. Once at the door to Number 10, the security practically let him in after he yelled for help, asking for epinephrine. Humans were easily distracted and confused in heightened emergencies, especially when other lives were at risk. Not that the man was at risk, as Belphegor made sure he had epinephrine already on him. He didn’t think that would go down well if the man died. No real harm was done, maybe a few scratches and a concussion here or there. But it was all necessary.

He had thought of other ways to get in too. He could have climbed or jumped up onto Dover House, walked along the roof and jumped down onto K Quinn Street before they realised. It was a bit riskier, however, having a figure climb up the side of the building, let alone walk along a roof, he would have been a bit of a sore thumb. Then there were the multitude of windows in the joining buildings, he could have easily found a window unsupervised and prized his way in. Hell, he could have done it without damaging the glass and steel bars, but the cameras would have picked him up. Sometimes the simplest was always best.

Sure, there were other ways to have this emergency meeting, rather than forcing his way in. He suspected they’d allow him a very supervised meeting with the Prime Minister. Probably not inside Number 10. He could have easily picked up a phone and called, he had the number. But he wasn’t explicitly told he wasn’t allowed in, so was a minor loophole he decided to exploit. And all within reason. Although, he expected repercussions after attacking the armed police officers, but he also expected them to overlook this after the news he was about to bestow.

This was also the wrong question Stewart needed to ask, so he wasn’t going to answer.

“Bel?” the balding man spoke nervously. “What do you want? Are you… going to kill us?”

Belphegor looked at Didcot and smiled at him. “Don’t be silly, John. If I wanted to kill you, I would have done so years ago!”

Belphegor had walked past Didcot once as he made his way to his apartment. He knew Didcot, he made sure he knew all the Members of Parliament. He knew all the world leaders and important figures. In fact, he kept up to date with the news all around the world. He recognised Didcot easily when he passed him. He even made sure Didcot saw him as he walked deliberately close by and smiled playfully at him. Didcot wasn’t too pleased with this, giving him a rather rude comment and mentioned ‘the youth of today’. Belphegor thought it was highly amusing since there was a large age gap, but not the way Didcot had thought.

But Didcot not only wouldn’t know who Belphegor was by meeting him on the street, he would never remember as well as Belphegor that they had actually met briefly. His memory was naturally less superior than Belphegor’s.

Didcot suddenly stood up and made a run for the door, nearly tripping over his own feet before disappearing noisily out the doors towards the staircase. Belphegor just watched him and lazily took a bite from the apple in his hand. He had no intention of running after him. He wasn’t there to speak to Didcot. It was, in fact, better Didcot wasn’t in the room.

The Prime Minister stood staring at Belphegor for a few seconds before he looked over at his Parliamentary Private Secretary, Martha, who had now broken into a nervous sweat. She must have seen the body of the security guard currently lying unconscious on the floor downstairs. He was alive, but Martha didn’t know that. She looked at the Prime Minister and then down at the mobile phone in her hand, and then back up at the Prime Minister.

“Shall I call the police?” she whispered slightly, trying to talk only to Stewart, but Belphegor could hear her, he had better hearing than both of them combined.

“The police?” Belphegor snorted, his mouth full of apple. “Feel free.” He looked from Martha to Stewart, enjoying their discomfort.

“Are you going to explain who you are and what you want?” The Prime Minister tore his face away from his personal secretary and looked back at the strange man interrupting his meeting. His voice had risen angrily and authoritatively, although his face painted a different picture.

Belphegor looked at the Prime Minister, his smile faded and was now looking serious. “My name is Belphegor and it might be in your best interest to listen to me.” He then calmly and deliberately took another bite from the apple.

At this the Prime Minister’s face fell. Belphegor knew he would at least recognise his birth name; he would have been undoubtedly told about him the day he became Prime Minister. It was all in that file; the file the government had on him. He’d seen it before; it was pretty big. Stewart probably even had a debriefing with Duncan Ryan himself, the Director General of the most secret government service there was. Belphegor wondered if he would have taken up the position if he knew about him before running for Prime Minister. His whole world would have been turned upside down upon learning about the secret world that had been hidden for decades. And one of the most fearful beings from that secret world was currently standing right in the middle of Ten Downing Street, right in front of him.

More coming soon…

Rose Garden Sanataorium – Prologue

No part of this book; Rose Garden Sanatorium, or other works associated written or created by Alex may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the author.

Alex Damion has asserted her right under Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

***

!! Please read this story with caution! It may contain strong language, scenes of a sexual nature, violence, discrimmination, abuse including alcohol and drug abuse. !!

Prologue

Sam Chaudhary

A large swarm of pigeons suddenly flew up in a panic, disturbing the long since settled dust. Their wings echoed as they clapped in the vastness, as if they were applauding the perpetrator that spooked them. Most vanished out through the large hole in the roof, a few others nestled atop of an old door or the other side of the room, bobbing along the floor in fear.

They were originally hiding safely in a derelict building. A building that many years ago held many people; doctors once walked around in white coats, holding patient records while stethoscopes hung from their necks, looking important. Nurses rushed around with bed pans and other equally rudimentary items, wearing aprons with large red crosses on them and their hair pinned back into tight buns. Patients in straitjackets screaming at the top of their lungs when they were due for more sedatives.

The building now, however, was eerily silent—yet if you listened close enough you would swear you could hear a distant ghostly scream. There were scattered red bricks from the broken walls, broken windows boarded up from the outside and graffiti clinging helplessly to the peeling walls. It was obvious the building was no longer in use. At least not for the criminally insane.

The pigeons made the boy jump as he walked into the what was once a hall. He had accidentally spooked them while he side stepped past a prickly weed; a bit of nature that had decided to reclaim the building. His foot knocked a loose brick which had caused a loud noise to echo. He stopped to regain his breath and slow his beating heart.

The boy was young, his round slightly tanned face still had a hint of baby fat lingering in his cheeks and his short dark hair complimented his dark brown eyes. He stood holding the zipper on his jacket, close to where his beating heart sat pounding in his chest. His jacket was slightly dirty from months of use and not seeing the inside of a washing machine. It was his favourite and deemed lucky jacket. It was dark red with black trim around the collar and cuffs, contrasting with the blue in his jeans. His jeans were slightly too long for his legs, evident from the fraying at the bottom, where his brand-new Nike trainers would catch them when he walked.

It’s just an old building, he thought to himself, hoping to calm his painfully beating heart as he looked nervously around himself. There are no monsters! he added, sighing deeply.

He remembered what his mother would say to him every night when she would tuck him into bed. That was when he was younger, of course, he was far too big now to be tucked in at night. He was twelve and a half, thank you very much. But his mother’s sweet voice automatically filled his head; ‘Monsters aren’t real, beta,’ she would say. ‘Beta’ being the Hindi word for ‘son’. She would do that occasionally, adding in Hindi words into sentences. She didn’t want him to lose his Indian roots.

After composing himself a little, feeling a little more confident no monsters were going to jump out and eat him, he decided to continue moving onwards and through the vastness of the open hall.

The quicker I get it, the quicker I can get out, he thought to himself as he climbed over a fallen wall, the broken red bricks threatening to pierce the skin on his legs.

He walked as quietly and quickly as possible to the other side of the hall to another corridor, the smell of urine potent in this part of the building, making him a little queasy. As he neared a door separating the hall from the corridor ahead, he also noticed another smell lingering in the air, yet he didn’t think much of it; he had a job to do.

The door, mould beginning to consume it from the bottom upwards, was leaning awkwardly against the corridor wall, only one hinge still attached. He was sure his friend told him he’d have to open a door at the other end of the hall. Maybe it just fell since his friend had been there?

The boy looked down the corridor to another door at the far end. The streetlight that was originally illuminating his way wasn’t reaching this far, but he could see the last door he needed to go through… he was nearly there. He walked slowly, side-stepping past an old chair left discarded and lonely in the corridor, while feeling proud of himself for getting this far.

But something made him stop. He could hear someone muttering, and it was coming from that room beyond the door. He realised that strange smell was stronger here too. He certainly wasn’t imagining it. He couldn’t place what the smell was, but it reminded him of his Aunt Mysha.

He stood still for a few seconds in panic. He knew if he ran away now, he’d have his friend telling him he was a wimp for not getting the item he was supposed to get; that damn brick. But if he stayed where he was, and whoever was on the other side of the door was a murderer, he’d be dead.

The muttering started to get louder as he stood there. By now the boy realised it was a woman’s voice. His panic subsided slightly and was instead replaced with curiosity. He couldn’t help but walk towards the door slowly and quietly. Maybe, if he got close enough, he could hear what she was saying.

The closer he got, the louder the voice got, but not just because he was getting nearer, she was getting louder. Now able to hear her, he started to pick out words. Although, he could not work out what she was saying, as she was speaking a foreign language. He was able to pick out a words like ‘mors’ ‘initio’, ‘hominem’, and ‘mammon’.

What is she doing? he thought. And what language is that?

He crept closer, his curiosity getting the better of him. He was now right by the door. If he just peaked through the gap, he’d be able to see into the room. He could already see shadows dancing across the walls and floor. There was a flickering light and a waft of that strange incense smell too.

The boy shifted his weight slightly on one leg, so that he could peer around the corner of the door, and the room slowly came into focus. There was indeed a woman; she was dressed in all black standing right in the middle.

As soon as the boy’s eyes fell upon the back of the woman’s head, she had stopped talking. For a moment, he thought he had been caught and was expecting her to spin round to challenge him. But she didn’t. She instead seemed to bow slightly as if investigating the strange markings on the floor.

His eyes fell on a brick laying in the middle of the room, it had a very prominent carving of a strange symbol on its side. It was the brick he was tasked to get. But it was right next to a strange criss-cross of white lines and circle markings on the floor directly in front of the woman. He knew there was no chance he was going to be able to get it without being noticed.

But before he could turn around and leave the building empty-handed, the woman raised her arm suddenly. That was when he noticed the cause of the smell; a clump of something like twigs was burning. The smoke from the strange collection of twigs, however, suddenly started behaving unlike he had ever seen. It moulded into a strange cloud in front of the woman, as if it was trapped in an invisible sphere.

Transfixed on the sight, he watched as it swirled and swirled, getting bigger and bigger, until suddenly it somehow imploded and vanished. But it didn’t vanish into thin air, it vanished into a crack. A crack that had formed in thin air. The boy found himself going rigid, not just out of terror, but worried about making a sound.

Suddenly, the crack started to open, ripping like fabric, it was as if something was trying to come through. But he could see the room around the woman, there was no one or nothing there. The crack started to get wider before suddenly a terrifying clawed, red hand reached through. The boy’s eyes went wide. He held his breath instinctively as he watched the red hand tear the crack open in one swift movement. He watched in horror as a red body attached to the hand climbed through, horns, tail and black leathery wings included.

The boy accidentally let out a squeak of terror and covered his mouth with his hand. But it was too late, the monster and the woman turned round, both staring right at the boy. Both with the same horrifying pitch-black eyes.

Monsters were real.

My Normal – A Short Story

“What’s your name?” said a voice, slightly distant. I wasn’t even sure if I could see the speaker’s mouth move, but I knew that’s what he said.

“Um-, Lucy,” I replied confidently. It didn’t matter what the intentions of the speaker were, he couldn’t hurt me even if he tried.

“Why Lucy?” he asked, as if knowing that wasn’t my real name. Of course it wasn’t, but here I could be anyone I wanted.

“Because-, it’s a name that reminds me of something,” I smiled, just about making out the shape of this person in front of me now. He was coming into view a bit. He was tall and dark. Not dark as in dark hair or dark skin colour. He was dark, like a silhouette. I still couldn’t make out his features. No matter how hard I tried to focus on them. In fact, the more I focused, the more distorted he became.

It didn’t bother me though, it didn’t matter what he looked like. He wasn’t important. Nothing was really important here.

“Come with me, Lucy,” the figure said and a long arm shot out from no-where to try to grab me. I dodged it quickly, avoiding the contact. I didn’t like to be touched. It felt- like I wasn’t in control if I let this person touch me.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I said, my voice changing slightly. I sounded more menacing.

The figure of a man in front of me didn’t say anything, he just frowned, or at least I think he frowned. I could sense he wasn’t happy. I knew I had to get away.

I turned around and came face-to-face with a wall. Normal people probably would have panicked if they saw a wall. Not me, I love them. And there is a reason for that, which I am about to show.

I smiled, gave the man-figure a quick glance as he looked confused and I just stepped back towards the wall. And suddenly, as if by magic I just- slipped right through it. As if the wall wasn’t there.

The only thing that I regret was not knowing what happened to that man-figure, but I felt happy knowing he was probably standing the other side of that wall and wondering what on earth was going on. Or, he might not be there anymore, no longer existing. It was hard to tell in this world.

I suddenly found myself walking down a corridor. It was light and airy. It reminded me of somewhere I used to work. It was on a second floor. A metal banister on either side, stopping me from falling to the second floor. It was high. It made me feel a little weak. I don’t like heights. Even here, where things were- different.

I saw someone walk towards me from the other side of the corridor, the person came into view. A woman I used to work with. I do work with. I think I work with. She had her hair tied back like she normally does into a tight ponytail. I’ve forgotten her name. How can I forget her name?

“Morning,” she said.

What was her name?

“Morning… Alice,” I said. Making up a name.

“How are you today?” she said, apparently I got her name right?

“I’m fine,” I said. Short and sweet. That’s how I kept the conversation as I dodged around the woman whose name was apparently Alice. She wasn’t important, I had somewhere to be. I felt a sense of urgency. Maybe that man was still after me, I wasn’t sure.

I got to the end of the corridor and got to another door. I could open it, but I instead I smiled and just walked through it. This was fun!

The other side of the room, it suddenly changed. I was outside. I felt the need to run, to get away from the building behind me. Although I had somehow gone from a second story in a building to somewhere outside.

I ran. I wasn’t sure what I was running from, but I ran. Until, I couldn’t. Suddenly somehow I wasn’t able to run. My legs were moving but I wasn’t getting anywhere!

I turned around and saw the man-figure walking towards me, he had found me. I let out a scream. No sound came out. I tried to move away, I couldn’t.

The man-figure got closer, except it was no longer a man-figure, it was a large dark wolf. Its teeth were bared and drool was hanging from the side of his mouth. I felt panicky again. There were no walls to go through.

No, but maybe I could do something else!

I crouched to the floor, my hand only a mere millimetre away from the floor and I sprang up and into the air. But I didn’t come back down again. I just hovered there. I was in the air, but I was only two feet above the ground.

It wasn’t high enough to get away from the wolf. I willed myself up, I went up higher. But only by another foot.

It still wasn’t high enough.

So I decided to move away instead, before the wolf got me. Gliding away, in mid-air, three feet off the ground. I managed to avoid the wolf.

But it was still coming for me, I moved faster, so did the wolf. I tried to climb higher, only getting so far and not any further.

I got as far as the sea. Somehow I had managed to get far away from where I originally was, where ever that was, and got to the coast.

But I had a fear of open water. The deep dark murky unknown scared me, even here. Even though I was three feet above the ground, hovering unnaturally. With the ability to pass through solid walls. And probably other superpowers here in the world. Yet, water still scared me.

I got over the water, but I didn’t go far. Hovering there and watching the wolf, which had turned into my childhood dog.

I watched as his fluffy tail just swung left and right, panting as if he had been running to keep up with me. But looking happy to see me.

I smiled and glided back over to the side where dry land luckily was. And I set my feet back on the earth.

“Hello boy,” I greeted my dog and I bent down to stroke him.

But just before my hand touched the soft and warm coat of my childhood dog, he lunged for me.

The jolt woke me up.

I stared up at the ceiling and blinked into the darkness. And then sighed.

“What a strange dream,” I muttered to myself and rolled over.

I had another lucid dream.