Also found at the scene were the remains of what appears to be a shredded passport from an Irish national. It is unclear who or what attacked the camp that night, but the area is now on red alert and all camping is prohibited until further notice.
– Gillian Robinson, Bizarre World, Vancouver.
Erin swallowed hard. What the hell? She lifted her glass of wine and emptied it in one go. Then she re-read the article numerous times while trying to make sense of it.
The stars were coming out, reflecting off the still lake—the hills behind blurring as darkness became their master. Now she couldn’t tell where the water ended and the sky began.
She walked to the water’s edge and stood beneath the beautiful night-time canopy. The article was in her hand, torn from the newspaper. She crumpled it up and clenched it in an angry fist. The cool breeze drifting across the lake brought goosebumps up all over her body. Or was it the breeze? She took a deep breath. Time to bring Toby in.
Before she turned, something on the far side of the lake caught her attention. In her mind’s eye, she knew it couldn’t be real—no way could she see such detail without light. The wolf—a dominant male—its grey fur shimmering at the water’s edge, helping her define the line between the reflective world and that above it.
The animal stood still and silent, staring back.
Her mind took her back to when she and Philip were on holiday in Portugal a couple of summers ago, and his speech one night over a candlelit dinner about how family was everything to him, and how he’d do anything for her. Was she to blame for not giving him the one thing he asked for? Was she really to blame? She’d produced a child, by herself, in dire conditions. She’d held up her side of the contract, if there’d ever been one. No, she wasn’t to blame. She’d been betrayed, and not just by her baby’s father.
She picked up a rock by her foot. It was cool to touch, and smooth. She wrapped it with the piece of newspaper, squeezed it hard with both hands, then drew back and threw it as hard as she could out into the mirrored world before her.
The splash was minimal, but the wolf flinched. The rest of the pack had joined him and they all looked at her, their eyes glowing gold in the darkness. Then they turned and disappeared into the night.
The rock took the article into the depths, and with it all her inner turmoil. She wiped a tear from her eye, smiled, then made her way back to the veranda—her mind finally clear.
She studied her father as he dozed in the chair—his snoring rumbling through her. I’ve killed one wolf before, Daddy, and he was trying to end me. How hard could it be to do it to one while he slept? I’m here to remind you, dear Father, that the next full moon is almost upon us, and you raised a princess who turned into a warrior, and sometimes in business hard decisions have to be made in order to progress.
Then she sat back into her chair and took in all the stars above—uncharted territory, like her darkest thoughts, scary but intriguing. Embracing death wasn’t the big fear everyone made it out to be. What terrified her more was the thought of his heart out there, in the big black nothing, no longer beating for her.
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The forces that come together to turn the hint of an idea into a debut novella are considerable, and something I marvel at every day. Here are a few of the many people that made this book possible:
First of all, I’d like to apologise to John Mulvaney for asking him to endure chapters from my first draft. They were so poorly written. Despite this, he offered a lot of advice and detailed notes, and without him, you would not be holding this book in your hand right now, so I am forever grateful. Thank you.
The Mongrel was born from an idea that came to me while out on a Sunday drive. The fuel gauge was broken in my car and I never noticed that the tank was empty – which almost left me stranded outside Drogheda. From this incident, I managed to put down the first draft of this story. Like all first drafts, the writing was rough and the plot was far from solid. I then got in touch with Eamon Ó Cléirigh at Clear-View Fiction Editing. Eamon is a damned good editor, who spent a lot of time on this book, but to me, he was so much more than that. Without his guidance, input, and attention to detail, I would have never reached the finish line.
Writing was something I always wanted to do, but never pursued seriously. So, when I received my first edits back, I needed to get notes from other writers. I spent the last decade playing bass in various metal bands and through that scene, I met a horror writer from Denmark by the name of Bo Sejer. Bo read my work and offered some excellent advice which made me believe that I could actually publish this book, someday.
Social Media became a big part of promoting this book, and through that, I feel fortunate to have conversed with some really talented and established writers. I’d like to thank Adam Nevill, Matt Hayward, Tim Lebbon, and Ted E. Grau for their valuable advice, time, and well wishes. They didn’t have to respond or indulge me, but they did and it acted as an inspiration that helped me plough through the tough days when the blank page was kicking my arse.
I’d like to thank everyone at Matador Publishing who assisted with the publishing of this book. To Hannah Dakin and Joe Shillito especially for their efforts and ability to turn my idea into this book. Not to mention putting up with every little request and question I had.
A special thanks to Sarah Brophy, the artist who painted the book cover. She is an amazing talent, who captured the essence of this book perfectly.
My penultimate thanks go to Barry Keegan. Barry has supported my creative efforts from day one and without his support, advice, and everything else in between, there is no way I’d have the self-belief to pursue the craft of writing. Thank you, man!
Finally, I’d like to thank my family for enduring the countless nights I spent in front of my laptop. Without your patience, love, and support, I simply would not exist. Orla and Samuel are my life, my home, my love, and my everything.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Seán O’Connor was born in 1985, and grew up at the foot of the Dublin Mountains. From a young age he became fascinated with fiction, particularly stories based on the supernatural, horror, and the darker side of the human psyche.
He currently resides in Fingal County on the north side of Dublin, with his Fiancée and son, where he is at work on his next tale of woe.
The Mongrel Page 9