Monday, 3 November 2014

WITHIN WET WALLS - out now, for your wicked pleasure

Within Wet Walls is a short, gothic ghost story inspired by M.R. James, Dickens and Sir Walter Scott.

It speaks of a medieval manor built in a Sussex forest where beings as old as the land itself swirl, translucent in the damp mists. Ever hungry.

Travel through time within the wet walls of Wealdstone House. Slip into Eliza Lundy's Victorian sub-existence of servitude and debauchery, laced with opium and absinthe. Taste the terror. Embrace life... while you can.

Eliza's wandering spirit will take you by the hand, by the throat, by the lips. Enter her darkness to discover the beautiful horrors that reside there. She's waiting. She's always waiting. For you.

OUT NOW! From just 99p/$1.59



The first time I heard Georgia sing, I sucked her soul out through her skin. I took it – but I didn’t really want it, not then. 

Applause rang through Wealdstone’s derelict Great Hall. It drifted into cold Sussex skies to join the final notes of Georgia Holland’s aria. The sounds entwined, dispersed... fell again as a sparkling frost on a raw winter’s night.

The singer’s sculpted face gazed up at the vast ivy-edged hole in the roof, focussing on a slither of moon which glimmered and smiled at its companion star. Georgia raised princess hands towards the celestial display, bringing the audience to its feet in ovation.

Beneath broken beams, the room slowly quietened. People turned to each other in whispers, agreeing that Miss Holland not only sang like an angel, she looked like one; her beatific countenance transcending voice and stature. Her tall body swayed, swathed in white velvet. A stole of ivory feathers hung from the pin of her shoulders making wings at her back.

The hall sighed as one; Georgia’s scarlet mouth grew wide, the grin reaching her cheeks, her eyes.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Roses as red as the singer’s lips flew at the stage to cries of ‘Brava! Brava!’ leaving a carpet of petals at her feet. Georgia stared down – exalted – but humble, always humble. Tears blurred her vision and she watched in fascination as the flowers seemed to lap at her dress, soaking the hem. Silence fell. Georgia frowned, her smile wasting away. Tendrils crept up her skirts in crawling fingers.


She grabbed the moist fabric. It stuck to her bare legs, cloying and dripping with gelatinous greenery. Gasps peppered the makeshift auditorium; cold air scattered across the thousand tea-lights, extinguishing some, flaring others into a frenzied dance.

“Help me!”

Georgia’s voice went unheard amongst the mounting screams as the audience watched a figure wrap itself around the performer’s paralysed body, enveloping her in spirals of translucence. It squeezed, constricting Georgia’s ribs like a snake before rising to shimmer before her face with a face of its own.

A girl.

A girl with row upon row of tiny pointed teeth.

“It won’t hurt,” the mouth sighed. “It will be delicious.”

And it was.

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Lily Childs is a writer of horror, esoteric, mystery and chilling fiction.

If you see her dancing outside in a thunder storm - don't try to bring her in. She's safe.