Death’s Dark Veil - Patricia Dixon- Cover reveal


Secrets, lies and evil lie in wait.

Ivy and Georgie have secrets and pasts riddled with shame and betrayal. On a cold February day, both women leave home hoping to rebuild their lives, not knowing their worlds will soon collide.

When fate eventually brings them to Tenley House, the home of a bitter, domineering matriarch who controls her fickle son and terrorises her adoptive granddaughter, the women find themselves in danger. Behind the facade of propriety, amidst secrets and lies, the truth will unfold when evil is awakened…

Hiding in plain sight and sworn to avenge the wrongs of the past, something stalks the corridors of Tenley. It listens and waits patiently, lurking in shadows, tormenting its prey and when the time is right, begins to strike down the occupants of Tenley, one by one...

Deceptively dark with a creeping sense of menace, this is the tale of two young women drawn together by circumstance and heartbreak.

Extract from Death’s Dark Veil

I wish I didn’t have to die here, in this decrepit place of death and sadness where every room is thick with dust and wicked secrets, but needs must. It serves a purpose, and once I have made my peace, I will be free. I long to go, even if it means joining my ghostly companions. They appeared soon after we arrived, an unwelcoming committee. At first I did think I was losing my mind or the drugs pumped into me were poisoning my brain. But I’ve got used to my spirit visitors and although I’d prefer they stayed away, I am sure they mean me no harm. They are just waiting, that’s all. And they are angry.
Of course I understand why, so I’ve tried to make amends, whispering apologies for my own weakness and perceived avarice, begging them to listen. Surely they can see my sorrow and just as they, there have been moments when I have known fear, so much fear. But it seems my penitence and suffering is not enough. They want more. To be precise, my impatient guests seek revenge but then again so do I.
 They haven’t arrived yet, tending to keep their distance during daylight hours so I attempt to stay awake. A few moments of respite from their constant haranguing is all I ask because when night falls and shadows fill the room, they gather in the corner over there, just by the armoire. One perches on the fauteuil chair, one paces the floor, one wrings her hands while the other who holds the baby, she just stands and stares.
Black crows, that’s what they are, emerging from the grey mist that seeps from the cracks in the warped floorboards, chilling the air. That’s how I know they are here. It reminds me of stepping into the cold store down in the cellar where if you tarry too long, the ice freezes your marrow. And although I have resolved to keep my eyes closed for as long as I can, I still feel their presence.
Their images are as real and defined as the last time I saw them in the flesh whereas now, they greet me from the periphery of another dimension, just out of reach. Dressed in the deepest black of mourning, it is the women who disconcert me most. I recognise them all from their stature and demeanour, just able to distinguish their features. Their respectful garb is macabre and causes me to shudder. It always did. Each woman is wrapped in death’s dark veil, watching me from behind a gossamer sheath yet I know them still, despite such theatrical concealment.
The one who wrings her hands stands obediently at the side of the chair where is seated The Crone. She has reverted to type. Even Holy Communion hasn’t softened her and she irritates me still with the tap tap tapping of her dratted cane, sardonically marking whatever time I have left. And then I see him, pacing the floor, the only one for whom I feel deep sorrow and longing. I did love him you know? We loved each other so much, in our own way. He hasn’t changed a bit, in manner or devilishly handsome looks. His eyes won’t meet that of the woman who confers with The Crone, and I know why. He cannot bear his deceit of her, agitated further by the threat of confrontation so he remains weak, even in death.
But it is she, the one holding the baby, who I cannot bear to look upon for she has been wronged the most, and so cruelly. She stands to the rear of the group, still an outsider, looking in, and this belated observance makes me want to weep. Yet amidst my sadness and regret for this woman, I am grateful too for the care she gives the baby who belongs not to her. From the first time the visions appeared, I watched her soothe the crying infant, rocking it to and fro and it occurred to me that she might be claiming her pound of flesh. In truth this supposition does not vex, if anything it makes me hopeful, absolved even. The soul liveth on. If it makes her happy or recompensed, then so be it.
The bedside clock chimes six and I know that the light of this spring day will soon fade and despite my insistence that the lamps are left on, my attempt to ward off the visitors is, I accept, feeble and futile. They will return again tonight more so because the end is near. I know this. The clearer they become the closer I am to death. I sense it. Perhaps they are draining my life source and if so they can take it, be my guests. But before I am allowed to depart I have to keep my whispered promise to them. I must make things right. They crave reparation in this mortal life before the judgment of the next so I shall set things in motion and then destiny can choose its own course. Even the smallest reprisal might be all that is needed to allow them rest, so we all can rest.

Author Bio
Patricia Dixon was born in Manchester where she still lives with her husband. They have two grown up children and one grandson.
Ignoring her high school reports and possibly sound advice from teachers, Patricia shunned the world of academia and instead, stubbornly pursued a career in fashion. Once the sparkle of London life wore off she returned north and embarked on a new adventure, that of motherhood.
Now, almost thirty years later she has acquiesced to the wise words of her elders and turned her hand to writing. Patricia has written a total of eight novels, the latest is due for release in March 2019.

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