Unimaginable horror awaits Rose Baines in The House on Blackstone Moor.
Her journey into darkness begins with the murders of her family by her insane, incestuous father. Evil has found a way in, as has the world of the undead. The horrific discovery causes her to be incarcerated in two madhouses. Doctor Bannion, superintendent of Marsh Asylum, helps his favorite patient obtain a position as governess at Blackstone House. Built on haunted moorland, nothing is as it seems in Blackstone House, and its inhabitants have hideous secrets; the greatest secret of all being that of the blood.
Amid the unimaginable horror there is love - which comes at a terrible price. Will she become one of them?
The first novel in Carole Gill's Blackstone Vampires series, The House on Blackstone Moor is a tale of the eternal struggle of good vs. evil, and a story of love that strives to prevail, despite all odds.
They say my father was mad, so corrupted by evil and tainted with sin that he did what he did. I came home to find them all dead; their throats had been savagely cut. My sisters, only five and eight, were gone, as well as my brother who was twelve. My mother too lay butchered in her marriage bed. The bed her children were born in. I discovered him first—in the sitting room, lying in a sea of crimson, the bloody razor still clutched in his hand.
How pitiful I must have looked, bent down trying to wake him. Calling to him over and over, “Papa please, please wake up!” He could not, of course, waken. No more was he to open his eyes in this world—had I not been struck mad, I would have realized.
Yet, madness is sometimes a mercy when shadows come to take the horror away.
Do not pull away in terror, please. I have much to confess. Just be patient, for I promise I will tell you everything. The only thing I ask in return is for you not to judge me until you hear my entire story. If I recall that dreadful night, I remember it in confusing images and noise. People came and went. Gentle hands touched me, trying to soothe away the shock and agony—voices too, hushed and sad, told me things I could not understand.
I probably said that, though I can’t be sure. Lucidity was not my strong point that night. I do recall someone carrying me out of the house, to a neighbor’s.
We lived in Notting Hill then, having moved from Mayfair after my father’s illness—more about that later. The house was on Blenheim Crescent, a respectable house in a respectable neighborhood. Despite this, the grander environs of Mayfair were much remembered and longed for by my mother especially. My mother, who now lay caked in blood in her disliked rooms of Notting Hill.