The Smog (The Sentinels Series)

On the eve of Queen Elizabeth II’s coronation in 1952, the future is bright with promise for England and American reporter, Rachel Beaumont. Life couldn’t be sweeter; her book is a smash hit, her husband has settled into his job at the ministry and their young daughter, Emily, is growing like the proverbial weed. But when Emily has a nightmare about the “Raggedy Men”, Rachel knows – without a doubt – the Sentinels are back. Her days as a seer are far from over. More ghosts than ever need her assistance to cross over. Ghost sightings are popping up all over London. Police officer Jack Warner’s patrol is riddled with nightly visits of Jack the Ripper and his victims re-enacting their macabre dance of death over and over again before disappearing as quickly as they appear. Deadly smog is claiming more lives than anyone can imagine. Churchill wants the Witchcraft Act abolished but little does he know that England is on a collision course with the ghost world and the smog deaths are just the beginning. It isn’t until Rachel meets famed radio celebrity and host of The Ghost Mans series that everything starts to make sense and she figures out the true danger lies within her own family. Rachel is no stranger to murder, mayhem and monsters, but this time, the stakes are too high and the losses are too deep. They seem to be adding up like casualties during the war. Rachel soon realizes she has much more to lose than her own life!

From the Inside Flap

"Well, I think that's settled, more or less," says Kneale. "Shall I get the bill?" "Oh, let me chip in." Rachel starts to open her purse, but Kneale shakes his head while trying to catch the eye of the waitress. "No, no, this is on the BBC!" he insists. "After all, it's tax-payers' money." He gestures to a waitress. "Why is it that they always go selectively blind when you want them, but when you don't, they hover incessantly? Ah, that's more like it. Think she got the message." Twisting around to look behind her, Rachel sees a figure in a black and white uniform appear at the entrance to the kitchen. Kneale is talking again. She turns back to him. "Before I forget, Rachel, would you be able to make the Herbert James broadcast this week or would you need a bit more time to plan? Find a babysitter and all that?" "Oh no," she says, "Tony, my husband, is wonderful with Emily, and anyway my best friend lives nearby, so we're very lucky ..." She trails off, as Kneale's pallid face has become even paler. He drops his teacup and it ricochets off the saucer, rolls off the table and falls to the carpet. "Tom! Are you all right? What is it?" Now people at other tables are looking, but not at Kneale, she realizes. Their gazes are fixed on something behind Rachel. She turns to see the apron of the waitress, but instead of clean cotton, it's filthy with black soot. Rachel looks up into a face that's half burnt flesh, half scorched bone. Clumps of hair clinging to the skull. The jaw drops open and a blackened tongue moves. "Anything else for sir, or madam?" A woman screams. Another piece of crockery falls, this time with a shattering sound. Rachel shoves her chair back, stands, and puts her arms around the dead waitress. Closing her eyes, she holds the ghost close, feels a skeleton through the scorched uniform. Startled, she opens her eyes. They've never felt solid like this before, she thinks. And other people can't see them. What the hell's going on? No, I've gotta focus! "It's the end of your shift," she says firmly, looking into the empty sockets. "You can go home and rest your feet. And there will be no more air raids. No more Nazi firebombs. It's all clear. All clear." Rachel looks into the empty sockets and waits until the blackness disperses and she is once again just a young American woman in a London tea room holding nothing in her outstretched arms. No more than five seconds have passed since the woman screamed. Rachel sits down again. "Did that just happen?" asks Kneale. "Yes," she replies, "and you shouldn't have seen it." "So, this book of yours," he says in a high-pitched voice. "It's not entirely fiction, I assume?"

About the Author

David Longhorn was born in North East England long before the internet, but fortunately they had plenty of books in those days! He enjoyed reading all sorts of fact and fiction in childhood and also became a huge fan of old horror movies and the BBC's Ghost Stories for Christmas on television, despite losing a lot of sleep as a result. He went on to get a degree in English Studies, which somehow led him to a career in local government, which in turn took him into a recording studio where he provided voice-overs, read news, and did a lot of other audio stuff. It's been that kind of life, really - a bit random but quite interesting. All the while he was reading and writing supernatural fiction, influenced by both the classic tales of writers like Ambrose Bierce, M.R. James, and Edgar Allan Poe, but also by modern masters such as Stephen King. He hopes to write a lot more about the world of the dead and undead, assuming they let him...

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