QSFer Rylan John Cavell has a new gay spooky/magical realism book out: Pity the Dead.
Peter Prett, orphaned as a baby, finds he has inherited a grand old castle. The corridors twist and turn, someone is scuttling about in secret passages, and a terrible family feud begins to reveal itself.
Then Peter dies.
Forced from their crypt by land development, can Peter’s extended family of undead relatives survive in the modern world? And more importantly, can the modern world survive them?
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Excerpt
Peter started off very much alive, as most of us tend to. And he ended up dead, as all of us will. But there was something different about the death of Peter Pretty, which confounded his understanding of the world. For when Peter died, he found there was much more living to be done.
His coffin lid was pulled away, eradicating the endless darkness in which he had laid for an unknowable number of days. He blinked. He lifted his arms, all pins and needles, to rub the sleep from his eyes. Something was amiss. Something was awry. There was a space where something should be, but he couldn’t quite identify what was missing.
“Good morning. Peter, isn’t it?” Said a skull, as it leaned into the open coffin to get a better look at him.
“Y-yes.” Peter’s lips were unwieldy and sluggish, his tongue, fat and lazy.
The skull smiled, “Welcome to the After Life.”
Following much groping and flailing of numb arms and unsteady legs, Peter pulled himself out of his coffin.
“Did I die?” He asked, slowly grasping the obvious. The thing that was missing, he realised, was his heartbeat, and the rhythm of breath in his lungs.
The skull nodded, “Yup.”
Below the skull, the long and pale bones that made up the rest of the skeleton poked out from beneath a pink Hawaiian shirt printed with palm leaves, and green knee-length cargo shorts. It wore a baseball cap, the wrong way round, and a pair of Nike trainers.
“Fancy a pint?” it asked.
“Do I ever!” Peter’s throat was dry, and the idea of a cold refreshing pint was his idea of Heaven. So was this Hell? Some kind of sideways step into Purgatory?
A can of lager hissed as its metal top was cracked open. The Red Stripe met Peter’s lips like water to a man lost in the Sahara. He took two big gulps, belched, and apologised.
The skeleton laughed at him, cracking open a can for itself, “I like you. You’re going to fit right in.”
Peter wandered how the skeleton planned to drink his can of lager, without lips or stomach. The gappy teeth met the can with a soft clink, and he poured the piss-coloured liquid down his non-existent gullet. It cascaded over his ribs and splashed over his pelvis, dripping into a puddle on the floor. It soaked his clothes, and, looking down at himself, he sighed.
“Sometimes I forget I’m bugger-all but bones.” Peter took another gulp of his lager, “Yeah?” “Yeah. So, how did you die?”
Peter screwed up his face, trying to remember, “I’m not sure. I think I fell.”
“Sorry for your loss,” The skeleton held out a hand, “I’m Aelnod. Your great grandfather, several times over. Let me introduce you to the others.”
His flabber thoroughly ghasted, Peter allowed himself to be led away. His distant, skeletal relative put an arm over his shoulders, “They’re all so excited to meet you.”
Author Bio
Rylan has written for the stage and the page, loves spooky tales, dinosaurs, and has a mighty fine teapot collection. He is a tattoo artist, and lives in Manchester with his husband-to-be Johnny and their dog-baby Cheeto.
| Author Website | https://www.rylanjohncavell.com |
| Author Facebook | https://www.facebook.com/Rylan-John-Cavell-Author |
| Author Twitter | https://twitter.com/therylancavell |