Overview
On the banks of the river Thames a new building is being completed. A stunning creation of glass and concrete that will be a new landmark on London's skyline.
The only problem is that people are dying because of it. Dozens of mysterious accidents have claimed lives during the construction of the Crystal Tower.
The owner, an enigmatic Russian businessman, has links to the site reaching back to the 1930s. Is he hiding a dark secret of unstoppable force and malevolence, created by one of his ancestors?
Something evil has been reawakened and no one can stop it.
Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940152222265 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Caffeine Nights Publishing |
| Publication date: | 06/15/2015 |
| Sold by: | Draft2Digital |
| Format: | eBook |
| Sales rank: | 583,965 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
Born and brought up in Hertfordshire, Shaun Hutson now lives and writes in Buckinghamshire where he has lived since 1986. After being expelled from school, he worked at many jobs, including a cinema doorman, a barman, and a shop assistant - all of which he was sacked from - before becoming a professional author in 1983.
He has since written over 30 bestselling novels as well as writing for radio, magazines and television. Shaun has also written exclusively for the Internet, a short story entitled RED STUFF and an interactive story, SAVAGES..
Having made his name as a horror author with bestsellers such as SPAWN, EREBUS, RELICS and DEATHDAY (acquiring the nicknames 'The Godfather of Gore' and 'The Shakespeare of Gore' in the process) he has since produced a number of very dark urban thrillers such as LUCY'S CHILD, STOLEN ANGELS, WHITE GHOST and PURITY. At one time, Shaun Hutson was published under no fewer than six pseudonyms , writing everything from Westerns to non-fiction.
Hobbies include cinema (he has seen over 10,000 films in the last 20 years and cites director Sam Peckinpah as his biggest influence), rock music and slumping in front of the TV.
Reformed alcoholic, Shaun was diagnosed by a psychiatrist as having mildly psychotic tendencies. He is extremely unsociable and used to shoot pistols for a hobby (four perfect qualifications for being a novelist, really.)
Shaun has appeared on and presented a number of TV shows over the years. He has lectured to the Oxford Students Union. He has appeared on stage with heavy-metal rock band Iron Maiden 13 times and received death threats on a number of occasions due to his work.
His work is particularly popular in prison libraries.
Read an Excerpt
PROVOCATION
LONDON; JUNE 1933
The window exploded inwards showering glass in all directions.
Seconds later another impact against the large expanse of glass caused more of the crystal shrapnel to erupt inwards, spraying the interior of the building.
Two more bricks followed, each one shattering more glass.
The little man on the stairs had heard the first crash and that was what had woken him, by the time he heard the second he was already out of bed and heading for the top of the stairs. Despite the fear he felt he knew he had to get down to the scene of destruction, to see exactly what was going on and, if possible, to prevent more of it.
He had felt fear like this before and he swayed uncertainly on the narrow wooden steps, dreading what might await him but knowing he could not hide from it.
He had hidden too much during his life already.
Either run or hidden. Those two methods of existence were becoming much too large a part of his way of life and he’d hoped that they had ceased. The sounds from below him now told him that they had not.
He wiped his face with one shaking hand and advanced further down the stairs, ears alert for more sounds. When none came he swallowed hard, wondering if the ordeal was over. Hoping that it was.
He rubbed his hands together now, large liver spots visible on the thin flesh of both. A legacy of his advanced years. He moved with surprising assurance for a man in his mid-seventies though, just the occasional pain of an arthritic left knee slowing him down.
He stood at the bottom of the stairs listening for interminable moments then moved towards the door opposite him, selecting a key and pushing it into the lock. He unfastened the door and waited a second before he opened it.
Even through the gaps in the frame he could feel a cool breeze blowing and he shook his head and clucked his tongue as he realised what must have been done inside the shop itself.
Sure enough as he emerged into the area beyond the door he felt the breeze more strongly and saw that it was indeed coming through the shattered front window.
There were several bricks or lumps of concrete lying on the floor and he knew they had been used to inflict the damage.
A quick glance around the inside of the shop told him that nothing had been stolen. That had not been the motive behind the attack. The glass display counters were untouched. Whoever had broken the windows had done so in a display of pure anger and aggression but not coupled with a desire to rob him too. He wasn’t sure whether he should be thankful for that or not. At least if they’d robbed him then the ordeal may be over but, he reasoned, once the windows were replaced again then they could repeat their frenzied attacks again and again. It would become a cycle of destruction and renewal.
As it had been before.
He wandered over to the broken window and peered out into the narrow street but it was silent, wreathed in blackness as it stretched away on either side of him. There weren’t even any lights glowing in any of the other windows that he could see through his thick spectacles. The night sky was the colour of burned wood, pure black apart from a sprinkling of stars but there were clouds gathering to the East, buffeted by an increasingly strong breeze.
He sighed and ambled over to a cupboard near the front door of the shop. From inside he pulled out a broom and he began to sweep up the broken glass, pushing it all into a pile so that it could be gathered up and collected more easily.
The task caused him to stop for breath on more than one occasion and once he actually leaned against the nearest glass counter for a moment to regain his composure, feeling a little dizziness.
This wasn’t right, he told himself. He shouldn’t have to endure this. No one should. And yet the overriding emotion he felt wasn’t anger but sadness. Of course there was annoyance at the stupidity and ignorance of those who would cause such damage but he also felt sadness that people found it necessary to act like this against him.
When he’d collected all the glass together he put it carefully into a cardboard box and carried it to the rear of the shop. He’d dispose of it later he told himself, after he’d contacted the police. Not that they would be able to do anything. After all he had seen no one attack his shop, he could identify no one, give them no names. Was it even worth bothering the forces of law and order?
There was a way to fight back, a way that only he knew.
Perhaps that time had come.