Something Beyond the Pages: A Chilling Timeless Return

By Rachael Shaw

Adalyn returns once again to Tandalet on mission to return someone who has been lost for a very long time but her mission isn’t as smooth or as enjoyable as she would have liked it to be, when she finds out the land is quite literally falling to bits and time is no longer turning, creating chaos, heartbreak and loss for the residents of Tandalet.

 

With Gertie no longer by her side, is Adalyn in over her head even attempting to find a fix or will new and old friends be able to help her save the land once again? Or is this one challenge too far, especially when Adalyn’s unimaginable decisions cause upset to those who have come to care for her?

When one door opens, it has to close somehow but the question is how and who will be the one to do so?

Could this chilling timeless return be Adalyn’s last visit?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jan 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9781398493889

Rachael Shaw

Rachael Shaw was born and raised in Sheffield. She is the 3rd of 4 daughters and has a west highland terrier named Lola. Rachael took up writing just as a hobby to help with personal struggles and it soon became her passion. Her stories developed as part of a method to help her sleep at night. Something Beyond the Pages – a world that is hidden, is her debut novel.

Book preview

Chapter One

It’s late-ish; it’s the time of the day when my parents have nodded off on the sofa, midway through a tv show that they claim to be interested in but missed almost all the show, due to their eyes being closed. I can hear their snores faintly through the floorboards, annoying? Yes. I can hear Dad snoring more than Mum; he is like a foghorn, but you cannot tell him he snores because he will deny it and claim ‘I wasn’t even asleep, I just closed my eyes for a second’. You have to find the funny side or else you’ll scream.

It is a starless night. The stars have made way for the torrential downpour that has been the thing for the past week, ruining plans, hairstyles and nice outfit choices. Not that I have had any plans other than home schooling and work, but if I were to have plans, the rain would have put a dampener on it (excuse the pun, I have been around my dad for too long). Do work and school count as plans or just inconvenient events?

My thoughts had drowned out the snoring, until I just thought about it. Now snoring is all I can hear, even though I have two pillows pressed hard against my ears; I hate when that happens, when your brain just latches on to one noise and it dominates your mind.

Through the noises of my mind, snores, and the (not so) sound-cancelling pillows, I hear the doorbell. No chance I am going to the door; I have a feeling it is our new neighbours, the Pickleys. ‘Call Me Elizabeth’ Pickley plays the violin loudly in her back garden to show off. Unfortunately, everyone on this street is too polite to tell her to kindly smash her violin up and never pick another one up again. Although, I have been to the bathroom window a few times over the past few days to inform her that I do in fact like to sleep and playing a violin at 8 am is cruel and unfair. Obviously, I didn’t actually say it like that; it went more like: Erm, Mrs Pickley, is it okay if you wait till the afternoon…no? Okay. She comes around more or less every day to show Mum and Dad a new song she learnt that day and believes it is a treat; she may as well move in. I see her more than I see my own parents. She is awful at playing as well and that is the nicest way to say it. I’d much rather listen to someone scratch their nails down a chalkboard; it would probably sound more in tune and more pleasant; I just got a shiver in my spine at the thought about nails down a chalkboard. Anyway, she turns up at the door and offers to play them a tune or two (always ends up being like ten).

You wouldn’t get songs played to you by any other neighbour, she constantly reminds them; surely when Dad scrunches up his nose and looks like he just ate a sour lemon, Call Me Elizabeth would realise they don’t like her loud screeching noises. Her husband Rodney is actually decent though; I do not know how he copes; I’ve seen him leave the garden when she starts playing. I do have to admit though even this time is late for her to visit.

Adalyn, it’s for you! Dad shouts, a tinge of annoyance hanging on his tone due to an unexpected guest of mine waking him from his sofa nap at the late time of 9 pm.

Who is it? I reply. I want to know who it is, however at the same time, I cannot be bothered.

How about you come downstairs and look for yourself? Honestly, she is so lazy, I don’t know where she gets it from.

You do know I can still hear you, I say dragging myself out of bed to prove I am not lazy to the guest.

You were meant to, he answers.

When I approach the bottom of the stairs, Dad is stood laughing at the door, and given I don’t hear the guest laughing along as well, I am going to take it that Dad just said one of his highly unfunny jokes that only he finds funny.

Tough crowd, he whispers, pulling at his collar.

You’re not funny, I remind him.

I pull open the door to see a lady with mismatched clothes, a moth-bitten olive-green cardigan and an ankle-length purple summer dress. She must be freezing! The strands of her hair that have escaped from her loose bun are dripping wet, although crouched under an umbrella. It struggles to be a rain protector with the amount of holes dotted around it; she doesn’t look fazed being soaked but instead looks unnerved by something that I am guessing isn’t due to the weather.

Mrs Read. Hello, wow, this is a shock. I haven’t seen you in… The rain is pouring heavily; I feel like I am in a scene from a movie. The old films in black and white that my dad likes to watch. A lady is getting on a train, the rain is falling ruthlessly; although the lady doesn’t care, she waves goodbye to the place she once loved but can no longer live in. Then next second, a man runs through the rain and begs the lady to stay. She tells him why she can’t; he tells her why she should; she stays, and they all live happily ever after. Okay, maybe this isn’t exactly like that, only the rain part.

It’s been a while. Her eyes flicker towards Dad.

Dad’s definitely trying to linger around; he is dawdling by running his finger along old baby pictures of me that I beg them to take down (no one wants to see my chubby cheeks and food-stained mouth; it’s embarrassing. Baby pictures should be banned), clearly pretending to be checking for dust just so he can get an earful of what Mrs Read has to say.

Dad, how about you go in the living room? I suggest, which fell on deaf ears.

I’m just checking for dust. He monitors his finger and moves on to the next frame.

Please. I open my eyes wide to show him I am not falling for his dust checking.

I won’t listen, you know me, always fully absorbed in what I am doing. You won’t hear a peep out of me. He begins to hum. I just stand there with my arms folded. Pfft…fine, I’ll have to check for dust another time. He doesn’t move, he has sort of moved closer to the corner like he is all of a sudden hidden.

He finally leaves after he realises I’m not going to start talking till he has gone in another room. He closes the door behind him; I have no doubt in my mind that he or Mother or both are leaning against the door, ear to the wood.

Come in. You’re not really prepared for this weather, are you? I comment on her lack of coat and flimsy umbrella.

I’m fine here, thank you; I’m not going to be long. I haven’t just come here for a chat today, it’s something important. She grinds her teeth nervously. It’s about Tandalet. That name being said creates a twisting affect in my stomach.

She proceeds lowering her voice to a whisper, her eyes constantly flickering towards the living room just as mine are. Something is not right. I have had this weird feeling now for a while, but I just put it down to being apart from the land, no longer having the book an’ all, but it has got worse. I know something is wrong, I just do not know what, and I know it is not good. She takes a deep breath. You need to go back. Her words read desperate.

It probably is being apart from the book. I’ll get it; you can take it with you. I turn away. Mrs Read puts her hand on my shoulder. I get this sudden flashback to when I first met Mrs Read, a hand on the shoulder is where it all began.

"No, Adalyn, I know something is wrong, and I know you don’t want to go back just yet; nevertheless, you have to realise that if Tandalet is in trouble, they aren’t going to care if you turn up with or without Heston.

Even if you go back and it’s a false alarm, it will put my mind at rest. I would go back myself, but it’s very risky for me being so frail. She is agitated, I can tell; she is tugging at the bottom of her soggy cardigan. I trust Mrs Read’s words (well, sort of, I’m unsure sometimes). She would not have come all this way in this weather for nothing, but I cannot go back, not yet.

Mrs Read, I am sorry; however, I just can’t. Maybe this time, it is just a feeling because like you said, you aren’t in control of the book. Remember that day you had a weird feeling in the pit of your stomach? But it just turned out that the sandwich meat you had eaten had gone off. I sigh remembering that extremely awkward day. I am sorry once again, Mrs Read. You know why I can’t go back; it wouldn’t feel right.

Heston does not want to go back, and this isn’t gone off sandwich meat. You need to accept that. She’s angry, her voice slightly raised. I cannot force you, on the other hand please strongly consider it. I know you can help them; I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t believe the problem could be fixed by you. She grips her cardigan sleeve tight. I won’t keep you waiting anymore. Goodbye, Adalyn, I hope you do the right thing for yourself and Tandalet. She hobbles away, not looking back.

I stay standing at the door, just trying to process what had been said. I have not seen Mrs Read since she retired from being a bookshop owner and moved away, around four, five months ago now. She must have travelled here just to tell me that. I feel quite mean, practically ignoring what she had to say, but she is correct, I am not going back because Heston has said no, and I don’t know where he is. It wouldn’t feel right going without him.

Close the bloody door, Adalyn, you’re letting all the cold in. Dad’s leaning against the doorframe. I am unaware if he heard any of that conversation. She’s gone and you’re still standing there, do you do stupid things on purpose? I’ll need to put my coat on soon.

Chill out, Dad, I am closing it now. He has no right to call me dramatic.

I am chill, that’s the problem here. You let all the cold in, now I am chilly.

Oh, ha-ha, Dad. I try to leave, but Dad takes a seat on the bottom step.

Old bones, he says, patting his knees. What did thingamabob have to say anyway? Thingamabob, the nickname of everyone he forgets the name of. Thought she was retired and moved to who knows where like a year ago. Completely off but I am surprised he even remembers me telling him about her retirement; I could have sworn he was half asleep when I did. She is not one for jokes, is she? I told her one of my good ones I save for guests and it completely went over the top of her head; she did not even smile. I thought it was funny, your mum did as well. Some people just do not appreciate a good joke now a days.

Are we going to continue talking about you and your embarrassing jokes or can I go up to my bedroom?

You didn’t answer my question, what did what’s her face say? What’s her face, another nickname. His eyebrows narrow, I focus on the eyebrows avoiding eye contact at all costs. Is it just my parents that know when I am lying, just by looking into my eyes?

As much as I was enjoying this conversation, I gotta go. Fun talking to you, Dad, as always. I will not hear the end of this. But for now, I am going up to lay in my bed and over-reflect on everything. Dad has still not stood up, I bet his knee has seized up again; I keep telling him to buy a new one, but I just get ignored.

Chapter Two

The smell of summer enters my room awakening me from the most shocking sleep I may have ever had. There is dribble down my chin and a kink in my neck; I must have woken up a hundred and two times in the middle of the night (that’s not me being dramatic). All rude awakenings (not like the fresh smell of summer finally showing its face) were caused by a weird dream I kept having.

I was stood on a hill looking down on what resembled Tandalet, but it was frozen; people were hiding under hooded capes and extra padded coats obviously desperate to get out the cold, not looking up to say hello to a neighbour; they were all walking fast but not running like they didn’t want to disturb or break the ice. Buildings were hidden under a shell of frost, so were the streets. It was spooky and miserable. Then cracks began to form all around me, on the ground, in the sky, and within a second, people started to fall through the holes and vanish into nothing, all unable to be saved. All I could do was stand there and watch because I was frozen to the spot. As much as I tried to move, it was impossible; it was like the more I tried, the harder it got. Slowly, my hands started to turn blue; I began to panic struggling to catch breath; I tried to call for help but couldn’t. Then I woke up.

It is a Sunday which means…work. The sun has made a rare appearance; I may actually start believing that it is July if it stays like this. Unfortunately though on the only good day so far, I have to be cooped up with Carol, handing out unwanted leaflets and laughing off Carol’s snarky remarks. I still have an extraordinarily strong dislike for her as I am sure she does for me. Not that I care even though she for some reason considers me jealous of her. She has got in her head that I am after her job; how many times do you have to remind a person that you would rather slam your fingers in a door than work at Plants and More for the rest of my life, for them to finally realise you don’t want their job?

Work has actually given me some fun times over the past month so I can’t really complain; I came in one gloomy, dreadful morning to see Michael being escorted out of the building. That put a much-needed hop in my step seeing as he is just as bad as Carol, if not worse (his head idiot badge was polished so much to the point it was impossible to read; it was blinding). It all came with a bizarre but humorous story to go with it; it turned out Michael was stealing plant pots and little garden decorations from the shop when he was supposed to be locking up. Everyone had noticed things going missing here and there but put it down to stock confusion or whatever it is called. Mr Hunter became suspicious of Michael when he started being all shifty, throwing the blame on whoever and whatever, pleading his innocence. I got the blame a few times, but even Carol stuck up for me, she said, Adalyn can’t have stolen anything, she is far too clumsy, and well, just look at her, to get away with it for so long, it must be someone with at least a tad of intelligence. She told me it wasn’t a compliment and she wasn’t sticking up for me so I said to her ‘whatever helps you sleep at night’. So, Mr Hunter looks at the security camera, and what did he see? Michael grabbing plants pots and decorations off the shelf and putting them in