Restless

By Jae El Foster

Nicola has a common problem that most authors face - writer's block. After eighteen strenuous months of suffering through the departure of her muses, she has ventured to a foreign land to seek inspiration. The tiny community of Woodland Village promises the romantic intrigue that she so desperately desires, but within the woods of this village, there is a dark, terrifying secret that lurks at night - a time when no one in the village dares to venture outside of their homes. When her romantic leads turn up flat, Nicola decides to ignore the warnings of the townsfolk and discover for herself what it is that lives within the seemingly haunted woods. Will her investigation lead her to the romance that she needs to break free of her writer's block, or will it lead to something much more deadly?

• Language: English
• Publisher: DCL Publications
• Release date: Feb 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9780985468286

Jae El Foster

When the muses speak, Jae El Foster writes, and he has been doing so for nearly twenty years, tackling some of the most intriguing genres out there. Delivering fresh, incomparable tales of horror, science fiction, and romance – sweet or spicy – he pens with seasoned skill the tales that his muses deliver to him. Follow him on Instagram and Twitter @jaeelbooks, ‘like’ him on Facebook at www.facebook.com/authorjaeelfoster and visit his website at www.jaeelbooks.com.

Book preview

Restless

By

Jae El Foster

DCL Publications, LLC

www.thedarkcastlelords.com

© 2012 Jae El Foster

All rights reserved

First Edition August 2012

DCL Publications

1033 Plymouth Dr.

Grafton, OH 44044

ISBN 978-0-9854682-8-6

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information and storage retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Annie Marshall and Beyond the Book Productions

PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

With the chaos of her day just hours behind her, one would have thought that Nicola would have been able to drift off to sleep rather easily. Such was not the case. In fact, lying in her bed with the cool breeze of the night’s wind coveting her through the sheets, she was more awake than before. This had been the circumstance for the last few nights, and although her body was now beyond tired, her brain continued to race with thoughts of restless anxiousness.

She rolled onto her back and stared up at the dark, blank ceiling. The only light entering the room was provided by the moon and it provided very little. All was dim, and as Nicola’s eyes searched around her quarters, everything looked like the same patch of nothing. She wondered if it was the change of scenery or the unfamiliar bed that had been keeping her awake, but she had been in Woodland Village for nearly a month now and the insomnia had been present for only a week.

Sighing from the tingling frustration, she pushed herself onto her elbows and sat upright. Even with the coolness of the breeze, she felt hot and kicked the sheets away from her. The bit of moonlight that shone in reflected off the silky white of her nightgown, almost illuminating her from the darkness. She shuddered a little, though she still was not chilly.

Nicola stood and ambled across the room to the wide window over the bureau. She stared out at the street below her rented room, noticing the absence of any life at all. There was no traffic; there were no pedestrians. She knew that only about eight hundred people lived in and around this village – which by modern standards would have been considered a small town – but she could not understand how any place could simply roll up its sidewalks at night. There was one restaurant in Woodland Village and it was open later than any other place around. It closed at six o’clock nightly.

A book was what had led Nicola to Woodland Village. A novel idea had sprung into her mind and it had remained there for weeks before she’d known what to do with it. She had published three best sellers over the last five years, and none of them had been published in the last eighteen months. She had been desperate for her muse to give her another tale, and that muse eventually led her from her New York City home to Woodland Village, a tiny but historic town tucked deep in the European hills. It was filled with romantic cottages, castle ruins, and old fashion charm that were the perfect setting for her ideal comeback novel.

Everything about it was exquisite, with the exception that she had been anything but inspired since arriving, and she had not written one single word.

It was a depressing stream of stillness that her muse had presented her with in New York, and the stillness had even followed her to where her muse had sent her.

How can everything be so still when I feel so restless? she asked, wondering if anyone on the other side of the window would answer her. The street was still clear and not a sound responded in return.

Nearly a month, Nicola pouted, turning her back to the window and slowly stepping toward her bed, I have been here. I have spoken with every local that I have come across. I have eaten at the restaurant with a different native almost every day. She was quiet as she sat down on the bed. Then, I have gone where they have told me to go and I have done what they have suggested I do. There has to be a story in this place; I can almost feel it.

Again, she stood. The restlessness was creeping from her mind and into her bones. She moved to the light switch and illuminated the room, which seemed dusty and faint under the dim lighting. There were three pieces of furniture in the room, aside from the bed, and a lone faded painting of a disgruntled looking gentleman hanging over a fireplace that did not work. Her clothing and many of her belongings were still in her suitcases at the foot of the bed; the dresser drawers remained empty. A bathroom was attached to her chamber, and she crossed over the cold hardwood floor to it. Stepping inside, she turned the light on and gazed at her reflection in the oval mirror above the hand-sink.

At thirty-five years old, she did not consider herself old, but somehow, she looked it right now. Her hair was a tangled mess and there were dark bags under her eyes from where the insomnia had taken its toll. She’d had an impressive, though fake, tan before leaving New York, and she was not certain if it was the lighting or not, but on this night, she simply looked pale – pasty. Part of this was to blame on Woodland Village’s weather. Although she had not experienced much rain here, the days had been