In the Midst of the Sea

Sean Mccarthy

Description

Trapped in an isolated old house on Martha’s Vineyard in winter, Diana Barlow is either seeing ghosts or losing her mind … After an estrangement from her parents, Diana came to Martha’s Vineyard to start a new life with her husband Ford and young daughter Samantha. The beautiful Victorian house that Ford inherited seemed the perfect home for a fresh beginning. But in the winter, when the tourists go home and the island is deserted, Diana is afraid she’s going crazy. Specters of people long dead flicker in and out of her vision. The antique dolls in her house never stay where they’re put. Samantha suddenly has a whole group of imaginary friends who live in the house and tell her terrible things. And Ford is becoming increasingly moody, unpredictable, and violent. While Diana investigates the horrifying history of the house, the past, the present, the living and the dead fatally intertwine, and Diana realizes she and her daughter must escape ― if Ford and the house will let her.

Informations

• Publié par: Linden Publishing
• Date de parution: 01 mai 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781610353496
• Langue: English

Extrait

ADVANCE PRAISE FOR
I N THE MIDST OF THE S EA
Dark, emotional, and incredibly creepy In the Midst of the Sea is a haunting debut from a talented new voice.
-Foreword Reviews
Strong characterizations and startling imagery give powerful dimensions to this riveting novel. A very compelling read.
-James Hanna , author of Call Me Pomeroy, The Siege , and A Second, Less Capable Head: and Other Rogue Stories
A pitch-perfect blend of psychological realism and horror that will appease fans of literary fiction and horror alike. Trust me, this novel will haunt you long after you put it down.
-duncan b. barlow , author of Of Flesh and Fur, The City, Awake , and A Dog Between Us
Sean Padraic McCarthy s lyrical gift contributes substantially to this literally haunting tale. Long after the reader has turned the final page, McCarthy s portrayals of both heart and spirit will continue to make their presence felt.
-Toni Graham , author of The Suicide Club
A beautifully written and multifaceted novel a detailed exploration of the impact of isolation on the human psyche, reminiscent of Stephen King s novel The Shining , but with lively twists and unique notions that make McCarthy s characters and story stand on their own. It really is a book that you won t want to close until the story is over.
-Michael Hathaway , publisher, Chiron Review
Dysfunctional families, creepy dolls, dangerous ghosts, In the Midst of the Sea creates compelling characters whose tragic lives will haunt you.
-Alisha Costanzo , author and editor, Transmundane Press
I N THE M IDST OF THE S EA
Sean Padraic McCarthy

Pace Press Fresno, California
In the Midst of the Sea
Copyright 2019 by Sean Padraic McCarthy.
All rights reserved.
Published by Pace Press
An imprint of Linden Publishing
2006 South Mary Street, Fresno, California 93721
[phone] / [phone]
PacePress.com
Pace Press and Colophon are trademarks of Linden Publishing, Inc.
ISBN 978-1-61035-334-2
135798642
Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper.
This is a work of fiction. The names, places, characters, and incidents in this book are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental. Whenever real celebrities, places, or businesses have been mentioned or appear in this novel, they have been used fictitiously.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: McCarthy, Sean Padraic, author.
Title: In the midst of the sea / Sean Padraic McCarthy.
Description: Fresno, California : Pace Press, 2019.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019009350 | ISBN 9781610353342 (pbk. : alk. paper)
Subjects: | GSAFD: Ghost stories. | Horror fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3613.C34586 I58 2019 | DDC 813/.6--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019009350
I used to think that after we are gone
there s nothing, simply nothing at all.
Then who s that wandering by the porch
again and calling us by name?
Whose face is pressed against the frosted pane?
What hand out there is waving like a branch?
By way of reply, in that cobwebbed corner
a sunstruck tatter dances in the mirror.
-Anna Akhmatova, March Elegy
The trouble with our times is that
the future is not what it used to be.
-Paul Valery
This book is for my mother and father, Mary and Richard McCarthy, who introduced me to books, and told me my first stories.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Epilogue
About the Author
1
Oak Bluffs, Massachusetts
1994
Diana tucked her chin to her chest and cut down the alleyway that opened into Cottage City. She could hear music coming from the kitchen in the restaurant to her left, but it was still early morning, and the restaurant didn t open until noon. And sometimes, this time of year, it didn t open at all. If the owner wanted to take a day off there weren t many people banging at the door, looking to get in. There was an enormous steel pot lying on its side in the alleyway, steaming in the cold November air, and it looked as though it had just been dropped, left there to drain. Soup or broth of some sort. The door to the kitchen was open as Diana passed, just the wooden screen still in place, and Diana could see a squat, dark man cutting onions inside, the flat of his hand pressing down on the backside of the blade. A small transistor radio beside him. An old song from the seventies. Melissa Manchester, Midnight Blue.
The man didn t look her way, and Diana kept moving. A faded summer tourist map of Oak Bluffs blew by her in the breeze. She turned and watched as it caught on the steps to the kitchen, hung there for a moment tittering, and then moved on. Most of Circuit Avenue was closed for the winter and there were few people about. Even less in Cottage City. Trinity Park. You couldn t see Trinity Park from the street. Hidden behind the buildings and stores of Circuit Avenue and the hotels and homes across from the waterfront, it was its own enclosed little village with the open-air tabernacle at its center. The tabernacle was empty now, too, row upon row of benches vacant and cold, and the pulpit and lights long gone from the stage, the Revival at rest, merely the echoes of the voices and testimonies of summer s preachers and singers hanging in the wind. If Diana listened closely she sometimes felt as if she could still hear them, or glimmers of them. Even in the dead of winter. Nothing ever disappeared completely, not sights, sounds.
People?
There was an old man watching her from the veranda of one of the gingerbread houses. A white house with red-and-green jigsaw trim. The sight of him startled her; it was rare you saw anybody in these houses this time of year. The gingerbread houses formed a circle, lining the road that curved around the tabernacle, and they spread off into the distance, forming their own separate village. All small, looking like dollhouses, with carved wood doilies, and cantilevered balconies, pulpit porches, surmounting the front and side verandas. Double doors in front, matching windows to either side. It was a fairyland of sorts, and in the good weather there would be flowers in the window boxes of all the houses, and flowers smothering the gardens of the lawns, everything alive with color, the porches cluttered with furniture. Rockers and tables, and an occasional kerosene lamp, or paper lantern, for decoration. But not now. Now all the flowers were dead, the earth brown and gray, and all the porches were empty except for the house with the old man, and he wasn t supposed to be here. He looked angry, and he was speaking to her, pointing. Shouting. But Diana couldn t hear a word he was saying.
She stopped on the street, not twenty feet away. The man had a white beard and was bald on top. A high collar and bow tie, and long dated suit. A costume. It had to be a costume. He slapped his open palm against the rail. And then, before she had the chance to look away, he faded. Gone. The veranda empty, the rocking chair vanished, and only a rusted steel cowbell remaining. Clanging slowly in the early winter breeze.
Diana s heart stuttered. She looked at the porch a moment longer, half expecting him to reappear, wanting him to-so at least she would know she wasn t seeing things-and not wanting him to, all in the same breath. But there was nothing, the village silent, and then the cowbell came to a stop. But he had been there-she was sure of it. Diana turned and picked up her pace, now just wanting to get home and not wanting to look back. If she looked back and he was there again, she wasn t sure if she would be able to take this route from town anymore. And she might find herself one step closer to affirming the belief that had been hovering about her for most of the past year, ever since they had moved to the island. The belief that she was losing her mind.
It was better once she left the park, and she stopped to catch her breath. Now back in the open, beyond the oaks, and the wind moving in off the harbor and across Sunset Pond, a car roared past her as she reached the street, and blared its horn. She hadn t realized she was in the middle of the road.
Diana lived on the hill up beyond Trinity Park, above Sunset Pond, the road and sidewalk traversing the hill crumbling from salt and time. Her own home was on a dirt road, hidden by dense growth and trees in the summer, but now just appearing set back in the stark winter landscape. There were small communities like this all over the island, communities that would disappear once everything turned green and began to grow, and then reappear again in winter.
Ford was on the front porch, doing something with his telescope. He had a drink on the table beside him, whiskey and ice. Diana had thought he would be sleeping still, but if he was up now, it meant he would be up for the day. At