By Andrea Dean Van Scoyoc
CHAPTER ONE
They were at it again. The noise started the same way as it always did, as a dull drone that escalated into a deafening roar of high-pitched squeals, giggles and all manner of clatter. Pressley threw down his pen and stood up quickly, his chair crashing to the floor behind him. He covered his ears. Yet another noise he didn’t need. His head was already splitting. It was only seven in the morning and the damned neighbor’s kids were already up screaming and beating on the walls of their flat. Their walls, of course, were right next to his.
How could he be expected to write if he couldn’t concentrate? This novel gave him fits as it was and he needed no further distractions. This was to be his greatest accomplishment yet, the one that would catapult him to the top of the best seller’s lists all over the world. But it also was trying his resolve as no other novel had. He’d been plagued with writer’s block. If it wasn’t changes in storyline, it was changes in character and direction–you name it. He had changed it all and was still not happy with it! This was supposed to be his great masterpiece, the awaited sequel to his highly acclaimed bestselling macabre novel As Fades the Day.
However, here he was with his blood pressure up, head pounding and skin breaking out from stress. He couldn’t even get past the storyline itself to edit what he’d written so far. There was no way he could consider giving it to his publisher.
Pressley Barclay was an author, and quite successful with a large, cult following. He’d started his newest novel, The Timing of the Tale, but had recently been plagued with a host of problems. He knew he needed to get away. He’d longed to move for quite some time, but money had never allowed it. He had struggled for years, until his big break came and then he’d become wealthy
almost overnight. He still wasn’t used to all the attention. Now he had the money to do what he wished, get out of London and that was exactly what he would do. He couldn’t concentrate in London. A trip to the country was what he needed. He wanted to find some little manor house or cottage, one that was in the middle of nowhere, where he could write day and night and not be plagued by bratty kids, neighbors or noise.
Pressley looked over at his computer and wiped his hand down his face in sheer disgust. Why is this novel so difficult for me to write? Am I trying too hard? Is this my punishment for the others coming to me so easily?
He’d never run out of ideas for horrific stories, until now. Oftentimes he would sit down and write out the premise for a new novel in one night and then fill in the blanks later. His characters were well developed and his plots gripping. His books had been called “the type of stories that couldn’t be put down,” yet this novel was driving him insane! Many other writers envied him. Had they cursed him and his success in their envy?
He laughed aloud. God that sounded stupid. Lack of sleep, stress and hunger were getting to him. He had barely eaten while working on this novel and he couldn’t sleep either. Maybe it was time he put it down for a while before it snatched away what little sanity he had left. This manuscript was a chore, something he was not used to.
The storyline was jumbled and not easily discernable. The more he read the more confused he became. So many things were unclear to him. He was having trouble linking timetables smoothly, and he couldn’t keep the ages of his lead characters straight. The final straw was when he forgot the name of one of the characters and was halfway through with the last chapter before he realized he’d changed the poor guy’s name! Nothing was going right for him now.
The damned neighbor’s kids made his life no easier.
God he really needed to get away. He hated kids, he hated people, and with each passing day he hated the townsfolk that made his life so miserable. He’d very nicely asked the neighbor woman if she would keep her kids quiet until around nine or so. He’d explained he was an author and usually sat up late writing and needed the morning to sleep. Why would any kid be up at seven and running around screaming anyway? What the hell could they have to scream about? Little bastards…all of them. They were killing him.
He honestly didn’t think that keeping them quiet was too much to ask. Yet all his neighbor did was give him a smart-alec, “Well, no one makes you stay up so late, so that is your problem! If you want my kids to be quiet, you come and watch them. I am busy, and if you had a life, you would know what it means to be busy!”
With that, she slammed the door in his face.
For a long time, he’d been looking for a place outside the city, but had yet to find anything he liked. There was simply nothing out there. People were smart. Those that had country manors and estates were holding on to them.
Pressley swore to himself that if he ever got an estate, he would never let it go. Even if he had to rent it out when he was on tours and book signings so he could afford to keep it, he’d do whatever he had to. He looked at his computer. What used to be his friend and companion was now the bane of his existence. It was so much more of a chore to write than it should be. He had languished through writer’s block before; he’d botched storylines before–why was this time so different? All great writers had problems occasionally, but this time, with this project it was bad…all of it was bad. Pressley’s chest felt tight. Fear crept over him like the fog that enshrouded the river on cold nights and began its chilling descent over him. The fear that he kept locked away in the back of his mind reared its ugly
head. Would failure of this novel interfere with his future publications? Everything he had depended on this book and it looked as if it would break him.
He stopped glaring at his computer and looked over at his desk. Cluttered as usual, it seemed to hold everything he needed inside the small area. What he would give for a nice office, a real office. One that would hold everything he needed in an organized fashion. All he had now was an inept, littered, junked up and disastrous looking workspace. But at least he knew where everything was. He needed his phone book. He would try again to find a realtor. He had to do something. He was at the breaking point and if he didn’t do something, he would snap.
He picked up the overturned chair from the floor and set it under the desk. His flat was small, too small, and in just a couple of long strides he was at the other end of it. He looked around as the thought really hit him. Why should I stay in such a small place? I have money now! He wasn’t filthy rich, but he had more money than he knew what to do with. No, that wasn’t true, he knew exactly what he could do with it. He knelt and fumbled through the junk on the desk until he found his phone book. It was hiding on the back of the desk with many papers, pens and note pads stacked on top of it. He pulled it out promptly dumping everything onto the floor.
“Fuck!” Pressley huffed and threw his hand at the mess he made, as if not wishing to deal with it at that moment. He didn’t wish to deal with anything except find a place to where he could retreat and write.
Pressley flipped through the pages until he found what he was looking for. He had called every realtor in the book…except one. The one realtor that he hadn’t called had the smallest advertisement in the phone book. It was rather blurred and not well done. He also didn’t care about the name of the company, Got It for Less Real Estate.
He wasn’t sure if a name like that was supposed to be a compliment to the company. But he was desperate now so it didn’t really matter anymore. Before now, the kids next door were simply an annoyance. Now it was to the point that Pressley wanted to either call the authorities on their mother for poor parenting or kill the kids. His mind briefly flashed a picture of him dropping screaming children from the fifth floor of the crowded flat complex and he laughed.
“Yeah, definitely time to call this last agent,” he murmured.
He prayed this time that he would find what he needed. There was only one way to get out of London. He dialed the number not holding out much hope of finding anything, but it was worth a shot. Just about anythingwas better than what he had now. He had to get out of London, plain and simple.
The phone rang once and was picked up right before the second ring. Pressley was surprised. He wasn’t used to such quick service.
“Got It for Less Real Estate…Barker Tanner speaking. How may I help you?”
“Hello, my name is Pressley Barclay and I am in the market for a home. I need something away from Greater London, secluded, with no,” Pressley wondered if he had stressed the word no, enough, “neighbors and especially no children. I would prefer something out in the country if you have it and the price is open, depending on what you have and how much I am willing to pay for it.”
There was silence at the other end of the phone for a moment. Pressley didn’t know if that was a good or bad sign. Was the man looking through his list of available property or was he hesitating because he had nothing at the moment to offer him?
“Well Mr. Barclay, I see that you know exactly what you want. Most people who call me aren’t so prepared. I do have one piece of property that I can show you…however it is in East Dean.”
Pressley hadn’t been in England long enough for that to mean anything to him. Was East Dean far away or something? He’d just ask. Unless it was at the other end of the country it would get him out of London and it might be worth it.
“Mr. Tanner, I’m sure you can tell by my accent that I am not from England. I have only been in London a few years and I’m still not familiar with the geography. I have no idea where East Dean is so oblige me please.”
The man cleared his throat nervously.
“I apologize, Mr. Barclay. East Dean is in East Sussex which is…it is a good drive from here…um at least two hours and roughly one hundred and twenty-five point four kilometers…um…nearly seventy eight miles.”
Barker Tanner had quoted the mileage to rich Americans who’d wanted their own little country manor so many times that he knew, without even having to think, how far the house he had in mind was from Greater London. The very uncomfortable real estate agent waited for the phone to be slammed down in his ear.
Pressley nodded to himself. “Is this town secluded?”
The realtor brightened. The phone hadn’t been slammed in his ear! He could hardly believe it! This was the first person he’d spoken to in over a year that had not hung up on him when he gave them the mileage and driving time. Most people preferred the convenience of the smaller towns outside of London, but still close enough to London itself. Obviously, this man was serious about getting out of the city!
“Oh yes, I don’t think you can get much more secluded than this town, nor the home that I would like to show you.”
Two hours was a long drive and Pressley hated driving. However, this place was out of London and the property was secluded, according to the realtor. He had stressed, he assumed adequately enough; that he wished to get out of London. What could it hurt to see it? If nothing else it would get him away from the obnoxious little demons that lived in the flats above, on each side of, and below him and give him a break for a while.
“Wonderful. When can we meet?”
Barker Tanner felt his throat seize. This man wanted to meet him. He nearly jumped up and down for joy, but his weight would not allow it.
“Is tomorrow good for you, Mr. Barclay?”
Currently available in paperback, kindle and audible soon to be available in hardback
Midnight Publishing 