My husband’s idea of a supernatural summer is Paul the psychic octopus (yes, he really does exist) correctly predicting the results of the soccer World Cup, but we know better, don’t we….?
Mmm . . . supernatural summer . . . just those words alone send a tingle down my spine. I sense mystery, magic, danger, suspense, romance – especially romance!
And golden summer days, full of sunshine and dreams and long hazy nights.
As an English writer it is such an honor to be published in the US by the wonderful people at Harper, but any of you who have ever visited England will know that we don’t always have great summer weather on this rainy little island. But one magical year, when I was about sixteen, we had endless days of sunshine that seemed to last all the way from May to September. I remember wearing the skimpiest of little cotton dresses and denim shorts, and listening to summer love songs on the radio, and having picnics with my friends down by the river, surrounded by tall grasses and scarlet poppies, the buzzing of bees and the glitter of dragonflies. I remember lying in the fields on hot, hot afternoons, the book I was reading discarded in favour of daydreams, and I remember looking up at the high blue sky and wishing that moment could last for ever. It didn’t of course, but the memories of that summer did. The memory of my first proper boyfriend, who was dark and gorgeous and kind, and who played in a totally cool band. The memory of him playing his guitar and singing specially for me. The memory of driving to a gig with him in a white Lotus sports car upholstered in red leather. (Why did I ever let him go?!)
I have great summer memories. But what about the supernatural part? Can I honestly claim to have encountered the Other during those hot days and restless summer nights? Well, nooo . . . not exactly, but there were always possibilities hanging on the edge of things like bright shadows. Like the summer a crowd of us camped out on the wild Yorkshire moors, and went walking in the moonlight with no flashlights to guide us, only the stars above and the rush of water at our side. We followed the river up to a spectacular, dangerous waterfall, and swapped local legends about a girl who drowned herself there after her heart had been broken. You can hear her voice sobbing in the water, they said, and as I stood on the river bank in the deep black night, I thought perhaps that I could . . . And then there was the disused graveyard at the end of the street that we played in as kids. There were rusting chains on the iron gates but that didn’t stop us sneaking in. The headstones were crumbled and worn, but here and there you could make out a name. In memory of our beloved daughter Amelia, gone to her rest with the angels, aged seventeen . . . Who was Amelia? What had she been like? And was that a swish of a long skirt and the murmur of a sigh in the corner of the graveyard? Then when I started teaching in a gloomy gothic school, there was a winding staircase that led up to a haunted attic, where a little girl had once been locked up as a punishment, and then forgotten and left to starve. I couldn’t block my ears to the whispering echoes of her pitiful crying, however brightly the sun shone outside. . . .
We are surrounded by possibilities. It’s quite possible, like Evie in IMMORTAL, that you might just meet someone this summer who will change your life forever. That guy who serves you in the local store might be hiding the darkest and most fascinating of secrets. The woman in the dilapidated house across the way might not be who she seems. Keep your eyes and your hearts open.
We are all our own ghosts. We all have secrets, histories and memories. Everything we say and do makes a future and a past. Make this summer one you will never forget. Anything is possible, even Paul the octopus. Enjoy!
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