As we progress through 2025, it is always worthwhile to reflect on the writing journey so far, and one significant milestone for me in recent months has been the publication of The House on Devil’s Lane. This novel, which guides readers through a suspenseful narrative filled with mysterious and unsettling events on an apparently ordinary street, began as a tentative foray into the world of self-publishing. Certainly, there are things I did wrong, and different decisions I might have taken, but the reception the novel has received has exceeded my expectations in a very good way!
I’m incredibly grateful for all the readers who have taken the time to write a review. Many have praised its intricate plotting, well-developed characters, and the chilling atmosphere that keeps readers on the edge of their seats. Indeed, the overwhelming support and enthusiasm from readers have been incredibly humbling and motivating.
This year, I have stepped away from fiction for a while to embark on a new literary venture that delves into the fascinating world of historical non-fiction. I am thrilled to be working with Pen and Sword Books on my upcoming project, The Legend of Lady Godiva. This book aims to shed light on the life and legacy of one of England’s most iconic figures, the legendary Lady Godiva.
Fascinating Facts about Lady Godiva
Lady Godiva was the grandmother of Ealdgyth, queen consort of Welsh King Gruffydd ap Llywelyn and later King Harold of arrow-in-the-eye fame. This connection places her within the intricate web of medieval royalty and politics.
The story of Peeping Tom, who allegedly spied on her legendary naked ride, may have been invented as a joke by Royalist soldiers. This mischievous addition to the tale adds an interesting layer of myth and legend to her story.
Godiva and her husband, Leofric, once occupied a hunting lodge in Kings Bromley. Up until recently, a modest modern bungalow stood in its place, boasting beams made with the timber of that long-lost dwelling!
Of the many artworks that feature Godiva, or Godgifu (Good or God gift), this is one of my favourites. This is a preparatory sketch by illustrator Henry Hugh Armistead.
Why Lady Godiva?
You might wonder, why Lady Godiva? The story of her legendary ride through Coventry is one that has fascinated me since childhood. The blend of historical fact and myth, the themes of bravery, sacrifice, and the fight against oppression, all resonate deeply with me. I am excited to be bringing to life the ‘real’ story of Lady Godiva, a tale that is as compelling and inspiring as any fictional narrative.
Looking Ahead
The journey from fiction to history has been incredibly rewarding, and I am eager to share this new book with you all in due course. Stay tuned for more updates on its progress, and thank you for your continued support and enthusiasm for my work.
In the meantime, if you haven’t yet read The House on Devil’s Lane, I encourage you to pick up a copy and join the adventure. Starting on Saturday, Feb 15th, the ebook will be available FREE for five days only!
Thank you for being a part of this incredible journey. Your feedback and reviews mean the world to me and help fuel my passion for storytelling. Here’s to many more stories to come!
And if you would like to write some of your own, please check out my creative writing courses page to find out what’s happening!
In my last post, I wrote about the setting for my new novel The House on Devil’s Lane, and how I was inspired to cross the border for the location.
The House on Devil’s Lane is available to pre-order HERE. Ebook and paperback will be released on 24/09/24
The main ‘character’ in the novel is, of course, Kat’s strange new home, and people often ask me if I have ever lived in a haunted house. Well, it all depends on what you believe ! I can confirm that I have experienced occurrences that I find hard to explain.
When I lived in Ireland, for example, we renovated a 300-year-old farmhouse in rural Limerick called Victory Hall. If any property was going to have an uncanny presence, it was going to be this one, right?! It certainly had a fascinating tale to tell. According to local legend, it had once been a parochial house, but the incumbent priest had committed a sin so grievous (I never found out what it was) that he was visited in the night by a furious mob, armed with blazing torches and pikes (hayforks). They evicted him from the house and marched him down to the river, presumably with the intent of drowning him. He survived, but lost his parish and was condemned to live out his days in a hut down by the very water that could have ended his life.
The ghost of a black-garbed man was said to pace the grounds of Victory Hall, pleading to be let back in to the house, but I never saw anything. We had to completely gut the place, and many ‘ghost’ artefacts came to light. The leather cover of a Bible, a part of a saddle, and so on, all helping to fire the imagination. On dark nights the blackness was absolute, with only a sole farmyard light flickering across the valley. Standing outside, you could hear all manner of rustlings and scratchings in the hedgerow, and even inside, the old timber would creak as it came to rest in the cool of the night. On the whole, the place had a rather peaceful air about it.
The great open fire in the kitchen was the perfect place around which to spin a yarn on a winter night, and I often wonder how many tales it had witnessed.
However, two strange things did stand out for me during our time there. Scratched into the lintel of the kitchen door were the letters WW, which I later discovered were not the priest’s initials, as I had assumed, but interlocking Vs, referring to the Virgin of Virgins. They were witchmarks, ancient graffiti calling upon the Virgin Mary for protection against evil. Were they there to keep the priest out?
Check out my fourth novel Sight Unseen to see where that idea led me! Honestly, no detail is ever wasted when a writer is around! You can find it HERE
The second thing? My youngest son, then around 3, called me over to the window one day, claiming to have seen ‘a man in a long black cloak’ crossing the yard. The house was accessible only by a driveway- one way in and one way out. No one had knocked on the door and I wasn’t expecting visitors. My scalp prickled. With two under- fours in the house, I was always on high alert. I ran outside, but there wasn’t a soul to be seen…
What had he seen? You tell me!
More tales from my current home next time! If you would like to subscribe to my mailing list please click HERE. It is quite occasional, but you can catch up on all my workshops and book news, and I also do a writing prompt in each edition. The perfect excuse to sit down with a cuppa and a notebook!
It’s halfway through February already and I find myself in the beautiful Scottish Borders. I could not believe my luck, last year, when I received an email from Executive Director Lucy Brown, inviting me to spend a whole month at Marchmont Studios to work on my latest project. I am very grateful to all at the Hugo Burge Foundation (learn more about the Foundation’s transformative work HERE) for inviting me to soak up the atmosphere here and become part of the landscape for this precious time!
The beautiful and historic Marchmont House lies a short walk away from the studios
Nothing like writing in a tower!
The novel I’m working on at the moment is a work of folk horror entitled THE BACK OF BEYOND. The title is no reflection on these environs (!) but the place is certainly brimming with qualities and stories that will certainly feed into the narrative. Thanks so much to my fellow resident, artist Anna King, who has loaned me a couple of wonderful old books about the history and stories of the area. Thanks too to Emma, who shared the story of Lady Polwarth, who hid her husband, Sir Patrick, in the crypt of Polwarth Kirk for a month as he was being hunted down by government soldiers after an alleged plot. The couple’s eldest daughter, Grisell, would creep out of Redbraes Castle at night (the ruins can still be seen) armed only with a lantern, and cross the fields with food for her father.
One of many stirring tales connected with the historic Marchmont House and estate.
The remains of Redbraes Castle. Did some Border Reiver take an axe to that door?!
I visited the Kirk on a dreich day and it was easy to imagine how creepy it might have been back then, and what danger might have awaited Lady Grisell, if she had been caught.
I was also fascinated by the story of the Polwarth Thorn, which lies just a mile or two away from the Kirk, in the village of Polwarth. The ‘Thorn’ is actually a pair of very twisted and gnarly trees, said to have sprung from the original, which must have been ancient, as the original Kirk dates from before 1300 (some accounts say there was a church there in the 10th century). It was the custom for newly weds to dance around the thorn tree for good luck and fertility.
I describe my folk horror book as The Wicker Man With Water, and no spoilers to say there might be a Roman goddess in it and one or two sacrifices… I’m now on the look-out for a holy well and some Roman remains…!
The Polwarth Thorn. Another brilliant local tale tells of two sisters, heiresses, who had their sights set on the handsome Wedderburn brothers. Politics and intrigue meant the girls were stolen away by a third party and confined to barracks. The steadfast brothers turned up at their door with horses and men and won the day! A double wedding was performed at the Kirk, and the couples, as tradition decreed, danced around the thorn tree.
Fantasy, folk horror and mythology-inspired stories never get old!
Whether you’re an experienced writer, or just taking your first steps in fiction, this course is sure to be a fascinating springboard for whatever genre you plan to explore. The richness of our folk heritage- stories, ballads, rituals and customs- lends itself to constant re-imaginings.
Join me on a mission to create wild, imaginative settings and compelling characters inspired by our age-old lore and landscape.
Thursdays evenings, 6.30- 8pm from 17th August 2023.
Course will run online (Zoom), with 8 weekly 90 minute sessions, plus email support and optional single 1-to-1 online mentoring session (60 mins) to discuss your project.
Each week, we will explore key elements of our folk narratives and the landscapes that have inspired them. There will be writing prompts and exercises aimed at helping you create the fictional world of your own story in convincing detail.
Week 1 Introduction
Week 2 Light versus Dark.
Week 3 Custom and ritual.
Week 4 Holy Grail(s).
Week 5: Liminal landscapes- caves, cliffs and waterfalls.
Week 6: Criminal seascapes- Pirates and Smugglers.
Week 7 Creatures & Characters
Week 8 Designing your fictional world.
Fee: £80 (£95 with 1 to 1 mentoring session). Payable by BACS, details on booking.
More info and to reserve your place: sandrairelandauthor@yahoo.co.uk
Hello! Hope you are doing fine. Thanks for dropping by to catch up with Part 4 of Scrapefoot. I thought it would only be four parts, but this story has other ideas! Thanks so much for reading.
This week, who exactly has broken in to Rebecca’s mum’s house?
SCRAPEFOOT #4
For the first time in my adult life, I felt a bit blindsided. How on earth was I going to get him out?
“If you don’t leave immediately, I’m definitely going to call the police and have you done for breaking and entering.”
“I didn’t break anything,” he said. “I fix things.”
He nodded towards the table leg. He was crafty.
“How exactly did you get in?”
He laid a finger aside his long, elegant nose and tapped it. “Ways and means, ways and means.”
“What? Look, this is my mother’s home and-”
“But she isn’t, is she?”
“Isn’t what?”
“At home.”
“She’s in a home. Look, this is really none of your business.”
He put another log on the fire as if the words coming out of my mouth meant nothing to him.
“I’ve cut some logs for her, out the back.” He dusted his hands together.
“But-but she doesn’t need logs. She’s in a home, where she is being looked after.”
“Looked after.” He repeated. “After. Doesn’t that word mean behind? Like something left behind, or a second thought?”
I was so angry I couldn’t reply. I glanced at my phone screen. Was calling 999 an overreaction? He didn’t seem dangerous, just…odd. I was just trying to remember the non-emergency police number when he stalked past me. I caught that sharp whiff again, the foxy, musky smell. I’d forgotten about the fox. Had it gone into the other room? That’s where he seemed to be going, the strange man, crossing the floor with long loping strides. Into the sitting room he went, and I followed him. He sat down in the big easy chair where Mum used to relax to watch Coronation Street and do her crossword. The memory made something go chink inside me, like a bit of ice breaking off. The man gave a couple of experimental bounces.
“This is better, isn’t it?” He jumped up so quickly I backed away, but he came after me, took my arm gently, the way a spaniel picks up a feathery game bird. “Come on- you try it. Remember how this chair was really lumpy?”
“No I don’t. This was my mother’s chair. I’m not in the habit of sitting in it and she never complained”
Reluctantly, I let him guide me to the chair and I sat down. The cushion moulded to my shape. Even though every sinew in my body was knotted with tension, I let myself imagine how wonderful it would be to let the softness of the cushion lure me into complete relaxation. Horrified, I sat bolt upright.
“Is this a new cushion? What the hell are you playing at?”
The pale stranger plonked himself down on the sofa, did another couple of experimental bounces, and then moved to the wing chair by the window, the one that had been my grandmother’s. That chair, I recalled, was evil. It seemed to have springs pinging from its soul.
“This chair is dreadful,” he said. “So hard and uncomfortable.”
“Yes, you’re right. I’ve never liked that chair.”
“And the couch- well, that is too soft.”
I tipped my head in consideration. “I always quite liked the couch. I used to curl up there to do my homework.”
“ Bad for your back. I bet you have a bad back.”
“ I have sciatica, but that’s neither here nor-”
“ So I found that cushion in the skip and now your mother’s chair is just right. She’ll be so happy when she comes home.”
He looks so pleased with himself, like a smiley collie dog, that I don’t have the heart to tell him she will never be coming home.
Thank you for reading!
While you’re here, please take a look at my novels and writing courses. I love to blend a little folklore into my novels, and from my interactions with readers, I know you like it too! If you can, please leave a review on Amazon and Goodreads. With book shops closed, it would really help. Thank you in advance!
It’s Sunday again! I can’t believe it. For people who are confined to barracks, we’re fairly rattling through the weeks and months! Let’s hope time is propelling us towards a bright spot on the horizon. Anyway, I hope you are keeping safe and well and have a few moments to spare for the third instalment of Scrapefoot. Who is behind the brightly-lit windows of a seemingly empty cottage? Enjoy…
Scrapefoot #3
My heart must have stalled, because it suddenly started up again, rattling in my chest like a freight train. This time I did fumble for my phone, not to access the flashlight, but to have 999 at the ready. Squatters. That was the only explanation. Eel Beck Cottage was an ex-forestry worker’s dwelling. It had its own modest patch of land, with a vegetable plot at the back and a front garden over which, despite some heavy-duty wire netting, my mother had fought a long running battle with the deer. This was not a house you’d stumble upon. There were no passers-by in the wood, no ramblers, or tourists or opportunists. Whoever was behind those warm amber windows had chosen to be here. Had been led here. I glanced up at that bright star.
How dare they? Mustering all my courage, and mentally rolling up my sleeves, I started up the garden path. I was not afraid of confrontation. Most people, be they board members or gnarly trespassers, could be viewed as naughty children. They just needed the error of their ways pointing out to them in no uncertain terms. I had only taken a handful of steps when I realised I was not the first to mark this pristine blanket of snow. There were tracks, a single animal, leading right up to the front door. Animal prints. Fox prints. I stopped dead. Despite the cold and the dark, the front door was slightly ajar.
I faltered. Icicles, like crystal drops, had formed on the stone lintel and now they were melting, drip, drip ,drip. Someone had lit a fire in house. I could smell woodsmoke and the snow which had been banked up against the bottom of the door caved in like a child’s sandcastle. The amber light around the door seemed to grow brighter. For a second, the idea of a dirty, smelly fox slipping into my mother’s home outraged me more that the notion of a vagrant take-over. I could smell fox; that sharp, musky whiff. The same scent that greeted me in London when I went out to my car in the early mornings. The scent of something waiting and watching, anticipating my next move.
Giving the door a shove, I stepped over the threshold of snow. A rich, dark heat hit me: smouldering timber, winter apples, spice. It propelled me forcibly back to childhood, to my mother’s far-fetched tales, fleecy pyjamas, hot chocolate before bed. I had to swallow something hard that lodged in my throat and when I called out, my voice had lost its usual authority.
“Hello? Who’s there? You shouldn’t be in here, you know.”
I let my gaze roam around the walls. The place was filled with candles in jars. On every surface they sat, little flames dancing like fireflies. I’d been imagining a crime scene, the place burglarised, upturned drawers and scattered paper and desecration. But none of that was evident. The place looked broadly as we had left it twelve months ago, when the paramedics had skilfully manoeuvred my mother over the same threshold. She’d looked back once, and I’d had to avert my eyes from the deep well of sorrow in hers.
No the place looked undisturbed. I said it again- hello -in a much firmer voice. A head popped up from behind the table, quickly followed by the rest of the man who’d been crouching there. There is a strange man in my mother’s kitchen. That’s all my brain would come up with. There is a strange man in my mother’s kitchen.
And he was indeed strange.
He was very…pale. Like a faded painting. Hair the colour of ash and a wispy beard to match, an Arran jumper unravelling at the hem, and those camouflage pants that soldiers wear in the desert. He was barely there, yet somehow he seemed to merge with the kitchen and all its neutral shades; whitewash, stone, limed oak. When he looked straight at me, his eyes reflected the amber glow of the candlelight.
“Hello,” he said, as if I was the visitor, the intruder.
“What do you think you’re doing?” My voice was gaining ground, becoming more confident.
He glanced at the floor tiles. “I was fixing that table leg. It’s wobbly, the table.”
“It’s always been wobbly, but-”
“No problem. You’re welcome.” He moved over to the hearth where a healthy blaze was spitting and crackling. Sparks detached themselves and floated up the chimney. As a child, I used to rush outside to see if I could spot them emerge, little specks of fairy dust against the night sky. I shook the notion away.
“My mother hasn’t used that fireplace for years. There’s central heating and light.” I marched over to the wall and clicked a switch. The kitchen was flooded with a harsh artificial glow, making the stranger wince. I could see him clearly now. My first thought was that he was much younger than I’d first thought. Maybe he’d gone prematurely grey, like Philip Scofield. His skin was still young and taut, and his facial hair looked a bit tentative, like a teenager’s. It was hard to work out his age.
“I like the dark,” he complained, rubbing at his eyes.
I immediately clicked off the switch and we reverted to candlelight. What the hell was I doing?
“Look- who are you? I’m going to call the police.”
He laughed at that, one of those seen-it-all-before laughs. “I wouldn’t bother. They’d never be able to find this place. It took me all my time.”
“So how did you find it?” I was feeling frustrated, angry and my legs were tired. I wanted to sit down, but I had to get this person out of the house first.
“The star, of course.” He jerked his head towards the low ceiling. My thoughts travelled upwards, through the rafters and the attic, up into the sky to the Great Conjunction. I brought them back down to earth and rearranged them. I had to get this CRAZY person out of the house. Something else occurred to me.
“That fox- is it yours? A pet or something? It came in here, I saw the prints in the snow. You need to get out and take it with you.” I suddenly moved from the spot where I’d planted myself, looking under the table and between the legs of chairs. “They’re unhygienic.”
“The white fox?” His voice sounded amused.
“Is it a dog?” I straightened up. That would make more sense. “Is it your dog? Look, seriously, you and your dog need to sling your hook. Get out now. This is my mother’s house. I don’t even know how you got in.”
I glance around wildly but there is no sign of a forced entry. Everything is untouched apart from the addition of a warm fire and soft lighting- and a fixed table leg.
“No, No, it’s not a dog,” he said eventually, but he didn’t elaborate.
Thank you for reading! See you next week for Scrapefoot #4
Thanks for joining me on the blog! As promised, here is part 2 of Scrapefoot. Rebecca has simply gone to check on her mother’s empty cottage in the woods- but what will she find? Check back next week for part 3. Enjoy!
Now, in the wood at Eel Beck, something strange occurred. I felt a little disorientated, giddy. It was like being hit by that first sip of glühwein when the air is cold and your stomach is empty. It wasn’t unpleasant, just a shifting of things, as if the cottage I was heading towards was no longer where I might expect to find it. The wood was white and alien and when I paused a moment to look back, my footsteps had been obliterated. Or maybe they had never been there. Where had that voice come from? It had broken into my thoughts, low and insistent. Catching my breath, I glanced at the tree beside me. It was a holly bush, grown to such a point that it could safely be called a tree. The snow had slipped from its razor leaves, leaving green, glossy spikes and berries the colour of blood. In this faded-out world, the red hurt my eyes. It looked positively gaudy, a distraction.
In my peripheral vision, I saw something else- a slash of silver, a black eye, a slender paw. I gasped, but the more I looked for the creature, the more I saw only absence; twirling snow, ragged roots. It had been a fox, a white fox!
I felt breathless, glorious and yet strangely cheated, as if I’d only been granted certain permissions, and was longing to learn more. How often does anyone get to see a white fox? Are you sure that’s what you saw? That voice again. I glared at the holly tree, but she was giving nothing away. She? Oh, come on! I shook my head at my own foolishness. The landscape was playing with me. The longer I stayed there, the more it would try to outwit me, like an owl waiting to sense the heartbeat of a mouse beneath the ground. Don’t fall for it, I told myself. My mother’s vacant home was only a five minute walk away. Go check on it. Turn on the taps, make sure there are no leaks or broken windows and get the hell out of there.
Before ploughing onwards, I cast a last glance behind me. Despite the ongoing snowfall, the path was crisscrossed with tracks. Not mine, they were still missing, but I recognised the cleft print of deer, the spiky splay of some kind of bird, and paw prints of all kinds, from shrew-sized to dauntingly large. The one that stood out the most was the one I seemed to know by heart. Perhaps as a child, I’d learned to recognise it. This trail threaded back on itself, looping around the rest like a sheepdog or crime scene tape. Bold, self-possessed. Quick-witted. A slender arrow of five pads, with the indents of sharp claws. Fox.
All those random impressions in the snow began to resemble a music score, an offbeat tune that filled my being and made my heart stutter an accompanying bass beat. Pressing my hand there, I tried to swallow my irrational fears and took a deep breath. I hadn’t noticed any of those tracks as I’d passed. I hadn’t noticed them. That didn’t mean they hadn’t been there. It was absurd to think otherwise, that somehow these creatures had manifested behind my back like ghosts, I shook my head and walked on. The light was fading fast and I deliberated whether to activate the flashlight on my phone.
My mother had always been a great one for an uncanny story. She knew all the old tales from this part of Yorkshire; the menacing Gytrash, its eyes like burning coals, Mother Shipton the prophetess, well-dwelling serpents and Scrapefoot the Fox, who gatecrashed a bear’s lair. Sometimes mum would sketch odd things in the evenings, straining her eyes by the light of the fire. As a child, I was fascinated and appalled in equal measure, but later, that turned to contempt. She made me despair. I wasn’t interested in her tales or her drawings and it was the 21st century. We had electricity, for goodness sake! It was as if she wanted to row back to an earlier, eerier time, when the fire played out such tales across the ceiling, the characters like shadow puppets, lurking in the cracks in the plaster. No wonder I was in such a hurry to grow up and leave. My current home is a newbuild; a swish apartment in Highgate, with artic white walls and high-performance lighting controlled by personal software which means I can illuminate the place from my I-phone. I never have to step into a dark room.
I am no longer used to the dark. The trees seemed to be bearing down on me. Above me the sky was like a massive 3-D poster, a luminous chart of all the constellations I had ever known. I could even identify some of them; Orion and his belt, the Big Dipper. And the one that looks like a W. Right overhead was suspended the brightest of stars, or perhaps a planet. On the News, there’d been a story about a Great Conjunction, the alignment of Jupiter and Saturn, but I hadn’t really been paying attention. Apparently, it hadn’t been seen for centuries and they thought (whoever they were) that this might have been the actual Christmas Star.
Another of my mother’s stories flitted into my mind. In Finland, Artic foxes are said to race across the sky, brushing the mountain peaks with their tails. The resulting snowflakes ignite to form the Aurora Borealis. Like all of my mother’s stories, I’d packed it away with a sigh, impatient to move on, but out here, in the dark, below the vast dome of the sky and amid the hush of the snow, it felt like anything was possible.
I tried to shrug off the notion. Any moment now, the cottage would come into view and I could do my duty and return to my car, which was parked on the main road. And then it would be back to my hotel for a warming mulled wine at the bar. By some strange quirk, the Christmas Star, or whatever that bright shiny thing was, seemed to be pinned right above me, above the cottage, like a bauble on some weird cosmic Christmas tree.
And then I noticed two things. That creature, that flash of silver fur I’d spied earlier, whistled past me again and in my mother’s cottage, lights were blazing. Lights which should not be there. Each pane of glass was a little square of flickering gold in the dark wood…
Each pane of glass was a little square of flickering gold in the dark wood…
Hope you’ve enjoyed part 2! While you’re here, do read about my writing journey, my books and my creative writing courses- and do drop me a comment. I’d love to hear from you!
Sandra Ireland 