A split timeline queer twisted love story, set against the backdrop of a haunted English manor, William & Edward’s story is perfect for fans of The Haunting of Hill House and How to Sell a Haunted House.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Ben Alderson’s The Haunting of William Thorn, which is out now.
William Thorn had his life all planned out… until he discovered his long-term boyfriend Archie in bed with another man. Distraught, William kicks him out of their home, where tragedy strikes when Archie is killed instantly in a car accident.
Riddled with guilt, William is shocked to learn that he’s inherited a manor in the quaint village of Stonewall, left to him in Archie’s will. He leaves the city with plans to make a new start for himself, but is surprised by the rundown state of the manor, and the unwelcoming villagers who want him gone. His only ally is Edward, a seemingly friendly local with secrets of his own.
However, it’s not only the villagers who are adverse to his presence. A malevolent spirit roams the manor, one that seeks to drive William out for good. But when he uncovers the heartbreaking tale of two men in love in the 1930’s, William strives to find peace for the spirit, ending the haunting once and for all.
But what dark secrets lie hidden in the manor walls? And will William be able to put aside his own grief to save his new home…and his life?
An evocative tale from #1 bestselling author Ben Alderson, exploring grief, trauma and the bones of the past, The Haunting of William Thorn is the perfect read for fans of the gothic.
Content Warnings
Please be aware this novel contains scenes or themes which readers may be triggered by.
This book deals with the topic of: death, suicide, discussions of suicide, murder, toxic relationships, loss of family members, anger, grief/grieving, depression, profanity, body horror, blood/gore, religious trauma, spiders on page, bullying.
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Hours later, when Mr and Mrs Thomas had been seen to their bedroom, Sergeant Andrew Dean, Callum and his fellow officers made bed for the night. Most of them felt uneasy taking Robert’s bedroom when offered. Andrew, however, didn’t argue and accepted it. Just the thought of sleeping in the deceased’s bed turned Callum’s insides out. How his father was so easily without care unsettled him just the same.
Callum and the rest of them set up camp in the grand living room just across the hallway from the kitchen. It reminded him of days back as Scouts when he and his friends would gather together and tell stories to one another. Except this couldn’t have been more of the opposite.
No one spoke as they made bed across the Thomas’s settee and reading chairs, one officer even taking to the floor.
Outside, the storm raged on, but the sound wasn’t so bad now their minds were dull with Mr Thomas’s brandy, which his wife had pulled from the back of a cabinet. Between them, the bottle was finished quickly, accompanying the chilled soup that Mrs Thomas made – soup her son would never get the chance to taste again.
The kitchen’s AGA did well to warm the house’s lower floor. But Callum knew it wouldn’t be long until the bad weather seeped through the old walls of the manor and wrapped them each up in a blanket of chill and damp.
Callum was just happy to have a blanket and a warm belly – more than his cousin would have. During his quiet moments, his mind always went to his cousin. He pondered at how well he slept in the trenches surrounded by his brothers-at-arms, lulled to sleep by the lullaby of death and gunfire.
He pondered why he wasn’t with him, as all other young men across England were.
From the distaste his older colleagues gave him, he knew that they felt the same, harbouring disdain for Sergeant Andrew Dean’s lucky son who would never see the haunting face of war himself.
It was the treacherous guilt that kept him awake most nights. Tonight would be no different. As expected, Callum wasn’t so fortunate to find rest. Unlike his colleagues who fell asleep quickly, he didn’t. No matter how deep he breathed or how far off he sent his mind, sleep evaded him. His mind warred between thoughts of his cousin and the corpse of another man lying in the cellar beneath him.
Callum lay upon the settee, violently awake as the storm sang beyond the walls, his heart feeling the need to beat in symphony with it. He forced his eyes closed, tugging the woollen blanket to his chin and pretending the thunder was the rumble of sheep flocking towards fences they leaped over.
One by one, he counted, praying sleep would find him.
That was when the crying began.
It was faint at first, coming from somewhere far above him. He dismissed it as the whimpering of Mrs Thomas, who likely struggled to find sleep as well. After all, she was the one to discover her only child hanging in the attic of her home. That was a scene that could break even the strongest of minds.
A breeze filtered into the room, engulfing Callum in a chill so unkind it was like the gawping maw of a deep lake.
The air caressed his face, like fingers tracing shapes. It was impossible when no windows and doors were open. And the crying. The torturous, endless crying only grew in pitch and volume. The sound became so loud that it was no different from someone screaming inches from his ear.
Callum’s eyes snapped open, expecting to find Mrs Thomas in the living room with them.
What he saw was not Mrs Thomas at all.
Callum’s limbs turned to stone, eliminating the possibility of movement completely. He could only stare at a young man’s body hovering vertically above him.
A face he knew well, even if he had only come to know it this evening.
Neck bent. Skin as pale as cooling ash. Wide sky-blue eyes.
Callum gasped, gagging on foul stale air, finding that he could make no sound.
Robert Thomas lay over him. He was still at first, so much so that Callum blinked, expecting the image to dissipate from whatever nightmare he had found himself in. But Robert did not vanish, no matter how hard Callum pinched himself with his nails.
This was no dream or nightmare. It was something worse.
Callum couldn’t do anything but watch as Robert Thomas’s face split open, his lips parting wide to reveal a black, endless hole.
Robert screamed. He screamed and screamed, the noise like nails scoring down a chalkboard. And Callum couldn’t look away. He couldn’t do anything but look into the impossible face of the dead boy. A face that would be resting in the cellar beneath him, covered with a sheet.
Except he was here. Shrieking. Blaring so loud that Callum drowned in the grief and fury of the ballad.
Robert Thomas was dead, which should have made this impossible. Just a trick of Callum’s exhausted mind. A nightmare. But it was not a nightmare, or an illusion conjured by brandy. It was something far worse. Something he had feared from the moment he stepped into Hanbury Manor.
This was a haunting.
