The Child
Genre: Kindle Edition
Author: Christine Howell
Price: £0.00
THE CHILD
A young couple are in the habit of spending their summer vacations in France, visiting a sister and her husband who live in Paris and who have bought themselves an old house in the country for holidays. The two couples spend their summers together working on the house, doing such work as they can, slowly bringing it back to life. In more ways than one.
The story tells the tale of the house’s rebirth, and at the same time weaves the story of the previous owners in and around the story of the current owners, taking the reader along a path that describes the whys and the wherefores of the various odd manifestations, culminating in a discovery that ties past and present together, making everything clear; a skeleton. The young couples’ attempts to understand how the skeleton came to be buried where it was, and their ill-advised attempts to give it some sort of peaceful end, leads to even more trouble, bringing down on their heads the wrath of a much older evil, and almost bringing the house itself down on their heads in the process.
This story is actually about a disturbed and disturbing house my sister and her husband bought many years ago in rural France, when we were all young. We are the people in the story, and the bones of story are fact, up to and including that final rose puzzle. The major exception to the truth is the happy ending I have concocted, because there was no happy ending. The house was sold 15 years ago, and the couple who bought it for holidays stayed there just once and never went back again. If I have to drive past the house nowadays I look away in case I attract its attention. It knows me too well.
A young couple are in the habit of spending their summer vacations in France, visiting a sister and her husband who live in Paris and who have bought themselves an old house in the country for holidays. The two couples spend their summers together working on the house, doing such work as they can, slowly bringing it back to life. In more ways than one.
The story tells the tale of the house’s rebirth, and at the same time weaves the story of the previous owners in and around the story of the current owners, taking the reader along a path that describes the whys and the wherefores of the various odd manifestations, culminating in a discovery that ties past and present together, making everything clear; a skeleton. The young couples’ attempts to understand how the skeleton came to be buried where it was, and their ill-advised attempts to give it some sort of peaceful end, leads to even more trouble, bringing down on their heads the wrath of a much older evil, and almost bringing the house itself down on their heads in the process.
This story is actually about a disturbed and disturbing house my sister and her husband bought many years ago in rural France, when we were all young. We are the people in the story, and the bones of story are fact, up to and including that final rose puzzle. The major exception to the truth is the happy ending I have concocted, because there was no happy ending. The house was sold 15 years ago, and the couple who bought it for holidays stayed there just once and never went back again. If I have to drive past the house nowadays I look away in case I attract its attention. It knows me too well.