About Banshee

Written by Hayden Thorne
Print Information:
276 pages / 69000 words / 5x8 trade paperback
ISBN: 978-1-60370-356-7, 1-60370-356-X
eBook Information:
204 pages / 69000 words
Available file types - html, lit, pdf, prc
ISBN: 978-1-60370-481-6, 1-60370-418-7

Nathaniel, or Natty as his family calls him, is a young man at a crossroads. His mother wants him to spend time with her family, far better off than his father, who is a poor vicar. His father would rather he do just about anything else, and his cousins have no interest in getting to know him. So what’s a young man with very few prospects to do?

When Natty meets Miles Lovell, a sophisticated friend of his cousin, he thinks he’s found something worth his while. During their long visit together, Natty discovers things about himself that he never expected, and manages to acquire a ghostly companion, as well.

Haunted by a faceless woman, who seems to appear when he’s at his weakest, Natty struggles with his own nature, and with his family’s increasing difficulties. His mother is distant, hiding things from him as she never has, and his father is growing old and tired before his eyes.

While Natty tries to find his place in the world, his childhood is crumbling around him, and he becomes more and more convinced that his persistent spirit is a harbinger of doom. Caught in a web of deceit and desperation, Natty must decide whether he will let his life be ruled by others, or if he can make his way on his own, or if the family banshee will bring about his ruin.

Sample

I was six when the world shifted. It was 1838, the year of Her Majesty’s coronation, a transition that—from all accounts—promised great changes, significant progress, perhaps a new era of prosperity for England. Everyone I knew gave voice to their hopes. Yes, even in a tiny, insignificant village such as Gatcombe, nestled quietly in the rural detachedness of the Isle of Wight, people’s expectations—already burdened by past wars and Bonaparte’s threat only a few years before—had firmly fixed themselves on the slender, youthful shoulders of a new queen.

Lead us to a better place. Give us back our glory.

An adolescent monarch leading a new generation—folks in Gatcombe noted it and took great heart. Those of us who could not afford to go to London—that is, all of us—kept our eyes in the direction of the great city. Most drank to the queen’s health, and most swore that they could see a million explosions of fire lighting the night skies at the conclusion of that remarkable day. I myself saw nothing, for it was all I could do to peer out of the window of the nursery, and all that met my gaze were shadows and darkness.

I’m much older now—nineteen years old, in fact—but I still look back to that year with great fondness and melancholy, for it was also a year that marked a turning-point in my life. The effects might not be felt for several years afterward, but my sixth year of life was the time when my world expanded, and possibilities were suddenly allowed me. Not all of the effects were happy, but I’ve learned to welcome them—accept them—as an inextricable part of my youth.

Yes, even the darker, more frightening turns my adolescence had taken.

When my mother first asked Father’s permission to visit her brother and his family, I was surprised. I knew nothing about them, and being a mere child, I didn’t really care to ask. I’d more pressing matters to attend to—my toys, books, and scattered local friends being the most important ones. Besides, Mother rarely talked about her family, and when she did, it was always with a distinct air of regret.

“It will be good for Natty to widen his circle,” she argued at the dinner-table. “Family should never be taken for granted, Frederick, especially with my brother’s children being so nicely situated.”

“Why—you haven’t spoken with each other in years, Cecily.”

Mother looked rueful. “I’ve written to them,” she admitted, “and they wrote back, finally.”

“Finally.”

“Yes.”

“How many times did you have to communicate with them before they decided it was worth their time to write you back?” Father prompted.
Mother shrugged, hesitated, but held his gaze. “Two. Maybe three. The point is, Frederick, they wrote back. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my letters, but—”

“You waited till you heard from them.”

“I’m sorry, my dear, but I really think it’s time to mend things with Edward and Julia now that Papa’s been gone for two years.” Mother paused, coloring, and added, “Indeed, I waited ‘till after he died. Taking a chance with my brother is far preferable to me. I know that Papa still would not have welcomed me back after all these years. I’m sure you’re convinced of that as well.”