Powderfinger & Wyndwrayth by Keller Yeats Book Tour and Giveaway :)
Powderfinger
Nick
Swann Investigates Book 1
by
Keller Yeats
Genre:
Horror
"Powderfinger"
is a present-day scary horror story set mainly on the decrepit,
abandoned but soon to be redeveloped, bank of an old canal between
two towns. It centres on an old tar works known as Raven's Gate. Nick
Swann is a world weary mid-forties widower and Assistant Probation
Warden at St Joseph's Hostel for young male criminals, situated
overlooking the canal and Raven's Gate. A woman is brutally killed on
the bank opposite the Hostel on a night when Nick is on duty. Nick
believes his lads had nothing to do with it, though consequently Nick
is suspended for issuing too many late passes at once. Then another
woman is killed and Nick becomes drawn into discovering the culprit.
He works with DCI Findlay and DS Deacon as the murder toll rises.
Together with help from his old friends Alan and Hugo, Nick's
research uncovers a long series of similar murders in the same area,
stretching back through the centuries. "Powderfinger" as
the killer is dubbed, appears to be some kind of ancient mellifluous,
malevolent, murderous being that attacks anyone it considers to be
disturbing its peace and quiet. Eventually, as the story climaxes,
Findlay, Deacon, Nick and Alan set a trap to lure "Powderfinger"
to his doom and rid the area of this beast once and for all. Yet,
traps can swing both ways.
“Curious,”
he commented as a few of the unseen birds high above, started to get
agitated again. ‘Surely, something has found its way into this
place, before me?’ Alex began walking towards the regular sound of
the dripping water, insistently calling to him, from somewhere within
the darker shadows. “O.K,
let’s see what’s making that annoying sound,” he said out loud
as he approached the suspected water tank. His attention, was then
sharply caught by another noise, that seemed to be coming from
somewhere within the darkness beyond the glistening pool, with its
sound of rhythmic drops of liquid falling from above. This new tone,
was akin to something scraping on a hard surface. Alex stood rigid,
all his senses on alert, he got the distinct impression he was no
longer alone in the shattered darkness, his breathing became shallow
and quiet but his heart was pounding loudly, the hair on the back of
his neck stood erect. Alex went into fight mode, “Hello,
who’s there. Show yourself,” he demanded of the darkness, but
there was no response. “It’s no use hiding, I’m sure that we
can work this out,” he heard himself imploring but again his plea
got no reaction. He was beginning to get annoyed with this farce and
reaching into his top pocket, Alex, pulled out his badge and held it
up, in the beam that was being thrown by one of one of the shards of
splintered light, emanating from above. “I’m
a Police officer,” he said with the most authority that he could
muster, under the circumstances, “And I demand that you show
yourself.” Again, nothing moved to come forward. Alex, was starting
to question himself, had he imagined the scraping noise, or was it
real? ‘Probably just a rat or something’ his rational mind
asserted. He stood motionless for a few moments, just to be sure his
supposition was correct and the noise had simply been the everyday
sounds of yet unseen and trackless in-house wildlife. Satisfied, he
again checked behind him just to be sure that, ‘The Scraper,’ was
not sneaking out through the swinging door. Findlay
had barely turned his head when there was a sudden huge splash, as if
some giant piece of masonry had fallen from a great height into the
pool behind him. Taken by surprise, Alex spun round to see what had
created the loud noise. He stared into the fetid pool but to his
alarm there was nothing, no masonry, not even ripples disturbing its
oily, glistening surface. As he did so, the door slammed shut with a
deafening thud and the invisible birds started to shriek piercingly
again. Alex, felt the fear once more welling up in his soul, eyes
wide, the hair on the back of his neck stood up, his breathing became
as rapid as his pulse, sweat trickled down his neck and his mind
screamed ‘Get out, get out NOW!’ The
cacophony, from the unseen flock grew louder and louder, in his ears
and he was beginning to feel a twinge of confusion in his mind.
Quickly, he turned and looked for the door that he had come in
through but it was gone, lost in the darkness. The only remaining
light was being provided by the needles of scant illumination
piercing the shadowy gloom from high above. The panicked flapping of
the bird’s wings created a strobe effect and then the scraping
sounds returned, louder and closer than before. ‘GET
OUT!’ screamed in his head as he became more disorientated.
Desperately searching for his route out he had a stroke of luck, one
of the shards from on high, picked out a couple of his footprints on
the floor. Seeing this, his survival instincts clicked in and he
quickly lurched forward to follow his steps back towards the exit. At
first, there was no sign of any way out, so Alex, threw his head
back, as if he was looking to the heavens for some sort of divine
guidance. That’s
when he saw them, the mass of dark birds, clinging to the pylons that
supported the broken roof of the building. Their eyes glinted
menacingly as they stared at him down below, in the dark. “Shit,”
he said, more out of shock at the number of birds, than out of fear,
‘Look at them all. There must be hundreds of the fucker’s up
there’ and, trying not to panic, he redoubled his effort to locate
the way out. He dashed across the darkened floor, in the direction of
the footprints and almost ran straight into the door. He saw it at
the last moment and stopping himself just in time, tried to push the
entrance open, but it would not give. He felt the panic rising, he
was trapped in here with all those birds and whatever was making that
scraping noise and had thrown that huge slab into that fetid pool. He
felt the sweat beads, trickling down his neck, as he groped for the
fastening mechanism and his breath was becoming ragged. His mind
again screamed continuously now, ‘GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!.....’ His
fingers clawed and scraped on the rusting metal tearing his nails and
flesh as he grabbed for the latch, frantically trying to get out of
this all-encompassing, claustrophobic darkness. The screaming of the
large black birds grew louder and louder, the scraping sound was
almost upon him, his heart pounded and his temples throbbed. The
sweat was running freely down his face, trickling into his eyes
obscuring his vision. As his anxiety grew unbearable he felt
something like a sliding latch and grabbing it, yanked it back and at
last, the heavy metal door silently swung open again, with ease.
Alex, almost leapt through the opening and took several large loping
strides out into the light, to get away from the perceived dread
inside. Once
outside in the open air, he quickly glanced over his shoulder, was he
being pursued? Seeing nothing, he stopped and turned to face the door
swinging on its hinges. Slowly, his feelings of dread began to fade,
along with the deafening cries of the birds and he started to relax a
little in the gentle warmth of the pale, Autumn sunshine. He stood
staring at the door for several minutes, reluctant to turn his back
on it. Gradually his breathing calmed and the throbbing in his
temples eased, he took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the
sweat from his face and the blood from his hands. Having regained his
composure and assured himself nothing was going to jump him from
behind, Findlay walked purposefully away from the old building, back
through the works and over the bridge. Then, he couldn’t resist one
final glance over his shoulder, at the decaying looming edifice, that
was The Ravens Gate.
Wyndwrayth
Nick
Swann Investigates Book 2
This
is the second horror novel in the Nick Swann series. This scary story
finds Nick now living in an old stone farmhouse on the lonely and
mysterious shores of Llyn Isaf, in Wales. He becomes intrigued by its
mist-covered lake island, Ynys Y Niwl and its dark, ancient and long
deserted mansion, Wyndwrayth.
Its
moldering edifice holds many secrets and treasures, some of which
draw Nick and his old friend Alan, into dangerous realms. Death
stalks the island and as the dangerous spectral figures of The Millar
of Souls, The Paladin and Gideon reveal themselves, it becomes
increasingly difficult to discern between reality and dreams.
As
the death toll rises, Nick finds himself, along with his new partner,
Wendy and her Wolf, Mir embroiled in a struggle not just to maintain
sanity but to stay alive.
“I
really must go and give that place the once over,” he said, casting
his gaze towards the lonely island, which appeared to almost float on
the water. Its real name, was Ynys y Niwl. However, in Nick’s mind,
his anachronism fit perfectly well and ‘Fog Island,’ seemed to
suit it much better than the old Welsh name, which for him was a bit
of a mouthful. A constant mist seemed to float amongst the tree tops,
making the place seem ever so inscrutable. In company, if he was
trying to be politically correct, he would refer to the rock as
“Innis E. Newel,” disrespectfully pronouncing its ancient
moniker, as if it were a bloke’s name. However, it served its
purpose. The Welsh just wrote it off as, ‘another example of
English ignorance,’ laughing at ‘the incomers’ pronunciation.
Well it saved all that spitting and throat clearing, which made up
much of the Old Welsh language. Nick took one last toke on his joint,
then got back on his feet and stretched his back. “Ooof!”
He exclaimed as a couple of the vertebrae in his spine clicked back
into place. “Oh yeah, that’s the way you do it,” he sighed,
then chuckled as he broke wind. “Time to put Venezuela back in her
boat house.” When he’d originally discovered there was a
vessel in the boathouse, Nick could hardly believe it. At first, he
reckoned it was probably a derelict but on unlocking the access door,
there, sitting sedately on the water, was ‘June.’ She was a
beautiful old lady, once bedecked in polished wood from head to toe,
this Grande D’am, simply spoke to him. “Cooool,” he’d
remarked in amazement, as he gazed in wonder at her just floating
there in the dark water. She needed a great deal of repairs. Her
woodwork and the metal fitments, leather and enamel work, were all in
serious need of some renovation but during the two years since his
mothers’ death, ‘June,’ became the positive therapy he needed
as he brought her back to life. “You and me’s goin’
explorin’ tomorrah,” he informed the boat, as he lovingly stroked
her refurbished bodywork. Then, he slowly cast his eyes back towards
the letters on the stern of this gem and there it was, ‘Venezuela.’
He had changed her name, from ‘June,’ almost as a first act of
ownership. ‘June’ sounded like a name from the thirties,
authentic to her build but hardly inspiring. When he’d looked at
the lines of this elegant, yet exotic creation for the first time,
he’d simply commented, “No, you need something a little more
imaginative!” His mind had slipped into overdrive, looking for that
elusive, enigmatic, yet pleasingly suitable, alternative name. During
those next few days, the name of the motor launch had many
incarnations, none of them quite pictorial enough, until one day, he
heard a song on the radio, being performed by a woman from Canada
called Rita Connelly, whose song and title just felt
right. “Venezuela,” he’d said, “I like it!” It was a
quirky enough name, one which maintained Nick’s vision of himself
as an artistic man and it seemed to just trip off his tongue, as he’d
repeated it, over and over again. “Venezuela.” He’d said for
about the twentieth time. “Yeah, that’s it!” He’d
emphatically intoned, an air of finality in his voice and then, as if
to prove the point to himself. He’d said it
again, “Venezuela.” Even as the word was leaving
his lips, he’d seen images of a warm azure blue ocean and an
ice-cold beer, or two. “Venezuela! Yes, that suits you much better.
You may have been built in the Thirties but you’re here now. ‘June’
was just altogether too ‘Famous Fivey’ for my liking …..”
Smiling at these memories, the boat secured in her house, he casually
made his way back down the gravel path towards the kitchen door. It
was only a two-minute walk and to this day, he still couldn’t
believe his luck. He was now the owner of a fantastic cottage, with a
vintage motor launch thrown in to sweeten the deal.
Keller Yeats is a writer with a love of history and music. He has written several published articles about rock music and several unpublished short stories. He drew upon his years of experience working as a Probation Warden, for his first published novel, "Powderfinger." A horror story with a supernatural twist. "Wyndwrayth" is his second novel in this Nick Swann researches and investigates series, with more to come. In addition, he is a published graphic artist and a qualified, though no longer practicing, jewellery maker and designer. He now lives together with his wife, a Siberian Husky, a Welsh Collie and three cats, in a cottage by the sea in Anglesey.
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What
inspired you to write this series?
The
writing of the Nick Swann researches and investigates series:
“Powderfinger” and second book Wyndwrayth were inspired by the
appalling similarity and hackneyed use of vampires, zombies and
werewolves in both horror movies and books. I wanted to write
something fresh that I would want to read.
What
can we expect from you in the future?
Shacklady
Rest: the third Nick Swann novel.
How
did you come up with the concept and characters for the book?
The
concept for either story? They just arrive out of the blue, a kind of
dream coalescence. The characters often arise as required but are
usually based around my life experience and composites of observed
behaviour.
Where
did you come up with the names in the story?
The
characters named themselves.
What
did you enjoy most about writing these books?
When
I write horror, it is always the death or killing scenes I enjoy
writing the most. I like to find novel ways for my characters to die
and I guess it’s one way of venting my frustrations!
How
did you come up with the title of your first novel?
It’s
all Neil Young’s fault!
Who
designed your book covers?
A
lovely lady and graphic artist called Bluebird.
If
you had to do it all over again, would you change anything in your
latest book?
No.
Did
you learn anything during the writing of your recent book?
Yes,
whilst writing Wyndwrayth I learnt how to structure a complex story
on more than one timeline.
If
your book was made into a film, who would you like to play the lead?
From
the start, I have always seen Nick Swann as Kevin Bacon.
Anything
specific you want to tell your readers?
I
would advise anyone starting to read this series to begin at number
one, “Powderfinger” as this sets the background to the main
character and how he becomes a researcher and investigator.
How
did you come up with name of Wyndwrayth?
The
book named itself.
What
is your favourite part of each book and why?
I
like the ending of “Powderfinger” because it brings together the
cabal to hunt down “Powderfinger.” I think it’s exciting and
unexpected.
Wyndwrayth
has a part where Nick and Alan are in the cellar and begin to climb
the secret steps up the tower. I like the way the confusion between
reality and hallucination works.
If
you could spend time with a character from your book whom would it
be? And what would you do during that day?
Nick
Swann, no doubt. I would like to spend an evening with him at Bethyn
Bryan, having a meal, listening to music and sharing his lifestyle.
I’d probably need to stay overnight though.
Are
your characters based off real people or did they all come entirely
from your imagination?
My
characters are usually a combination of my imagination, observed
behaviour and elements of real people I have met.
Do
your characters seem to hijack the story or do you feel like you have
the reigns of the story?
He,he!
They always hijack the story but I try to weave it back around the
original theme.
Convince
us why you feel your book is a must read.
I
think my stories offer the reader a trip into an alternate reality;
one that has unusual characters, scary spooky adventures, history,
mystery and humour.
Have
you written any other books that are not published?
Yes,
I’m working on the second draft of one now.
If
your book had a candle, what scent would it be?
Putrid
flesh.
What
did you edit out of
each book?
In
“Powderfinger” there was a lot about the first victim that was
unnecessary and that was edited out.
In
Wyndwrayth I decided to edit a lot of the police procedural stuff as
I found it boring.
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