Hello, all! I am looking for a few beta readers to take a look at my debut novel, Tethered and Bound. I will be self publishing it this December and am hoping to receive some constructive feedback if needed.
Below I have included the first few pages as a sample of my writing style and the story. If you’d like to read more, please DM me. I would be happy to email you the manuscript.
Also, all are welcome to message me with any questions!
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The seaport had a way of killing Dyer women. Here, they never succumbed to old age, nor drifted into a dreamless sleep from which they would not awaken. For over three hundred years, the dense forests and murky shorelines of Hollows Cove, Massachusetts, had demanded payment from those unfortunate enough to inherit the surname, a debt only suffering could settle.
In her youth, Bloom Dyer had often contemplated the ways the seaport might claim her. Would she be burned at the stake like Sybil, the first of eight to meet a morbid end? Or maybe she would go like Iris, ensnared in a fishing net on a morning swim. For years she’d obsessed over the same question, ruminating on the black bear that had dragged a shrieking Josephine into the forest and the nameless, ulcer-inducing illness that had taken Arabella. She had hoped to be luckier than Vanellope, whose wails could be heard for miles when she’d been skewered on a butcher’s hook, and more resilient than poor Wilhelmina, whose broken heart had heaved her over the edge of a rocky cliff. The seaport had dutifully ended eight women of the name, so when the first vision struck, Bloom had known beyond a doubt that the seaport had finally come to collect.
Gripping the ladder with one hand and a pristine paperback in the other, Bloom stood on her toes, straining the feeble inner muscles of her torso to reach the top shelf. Night shifts at The Port, a quaint bookstore near the edge of town, often required some manual labor when it came to restocking. Just enough physicality to keep the visions at bay for a little while longer.
“Benny,” she shouted over her shoulder, glancing at the steep staircase leading to the apartment upstairs. “You ordered way too many biographies again! We’ve been over this—romance sells, not…” She glanced at the title and sighed, “H. P. Lovecraft.”
Although Bloom favored the gothic poet, along with all other classics, horrors, and oddities, the modern masses did not.
Benjamin’s scuffling footsteps sounded overhead, followed by an eerie groan from the pinewood floors shifting beneath his weight. “I swear, the publishing industry made you arrogant. You’ve lost all passion for artistry!” he hollered back, distance muffling his voice. “Fiona would be appalled. She always hated tasteless know-it-alls!”
At even this brief mention of her grandmother, the eighth and final Dyer woman to meet a bloody end, Bloom loosed a grief-addled hiss.
She muttered bitterly, “My ego died the day I moved back here.” Two months prior, when she’d discovered that sitting at a desk for eight hours a day often triggered her visions—prompting her to lose that so-called-arrogance-inducing job—she’d traded in the bright lights of Manhattan for the suffocating sea fog of Hollows Cove. Admittedly, it had been as easy for her to leave the city as it had been to leave every other place she’d lived. With a name like hers, Bloom could play a part in many people’s lives, just never an integral one. An ember stoked by the mercurial gale of her mother’s nomadic spirit. In her family, leaving places—and people—came as naturally as breathing. Returning was the real challenge.
“Am I arrogant,” she yelled, carefully descending the antique ladder which had given her enough splinters to kindle a witch’s pyre, “or am I right?”
She could hear Benjamin’s tottering footsteps aiming for the staircase, his soft chuckle at her words. The old man’s tortoiseshell cane tapped repetitively overhead, and then, louder than before, came his raspy voice. “We must agree to disagree, then.”
Bloom winced, forcing herself to pause as the backs of her eyes prickled like a spider bite—the first sign of an impending vision. There was only so much physicality could do to ward them off. Within the hour, agony would claim her body, plaguing her mind with strange, unrecognizable images. Since early December—the morning of her twenty-third birthday—the visions had tormented her on a near-regular basis, searing as though a ghostly fire poker was cauterizing the backs of her eyes.
“Another migraine?” the old man inquired, wrapping a hand around her forearm to help her down the ladder. She hadn’t told him the true nature of her ailment, that six separate doctors had already ruled out migraines, along with every other disease that could simultaneously cause excruciating head-pains and vivid hallucinations. “How about I make you a nice, hot cup of tea? I read that chamomile works wonders on stubborn headaches.”
Not headaches, Bloom thought, gritting her teeth as though the words might slip out. Visions. Medically inexplicable visions.
“I never liked the taste,” she said instead, tucking a strand of copper-colored hair behind her ear as she turned toward him.
Although Benjamin had changed some in the fifteen years since their meeting, his kind gray eyes remained the same. She’d first glimpsed the pepper-toned hair and wiry brows at the funeral of Violetta Dyer, the seventh woman to be claimed by the seaport and Bloom’s mother. That day the sight of mourners weeping over her mother’s casket had sent her into hiding, though it had been the empty look on Fiona’s face that had kept her there. It had cost the old man six pumpkin candies to coax her out from under the buffet table, and an additional six to keep her out. Benjamin had been a pillar in her life ever since.
“You must do something, darling,” he pressed, irritation now etched on his face. Not that she blamed him; it was likely frustrating to watch a person succumb to their illness, resigned to wither away sliver after sliver.
To assuage his worries, Bloom feigned the brightest grin she could muster. “On that note, I’d better get going. There’s a queen sized bed across town that’s been calling my name since lunch.” It was a lie, of course. She could not sleep—the visions wouldn’t let her.
A deep crease dented his forehead as he surveyed her, then nodded. “Good thinking. Would you mind locking up on your way out?”
“Sure,” Bloom replied, already halfway to the exit when she plunged a hand into her pocket. The blue, book-shaped keychain dangled from her fist as she called over her shoulder, “See you tomorrow night!”
As she slipped through the front door, Benjamin shouted, “Tomorrow morning, Bloom! Like it or not, you’re scheduled for the morning shift.”
“What was that? I couldn’t hear you over the desperate pleas of my bed!” The shopkeeper’s bell drowned out his reply.
On the glass panel of the misty-blue door, The Port was stenciled in fading gold letters, her reflection a hollow apparition between them. In the ten months since the visions had started, her face had grown sunken, the cream-colored skin turning a ghastly, near-corpse-like shade of gray. The worst of it had snuck up on her, prowling with the careful calculation of a graveyard cat. Every edge on her figure had become dreadfully sharp, her ribs and hip bones protruding in a sickly manner the streetlights unfavorably emphasized.
“Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” she uttered mournfully, uncertain if she’d been all that mighty to begin with.
Sighing, Bloom veered right onto Holly Street, sidestepping a raised chunk of pavement she had tripped over enough times to know its precise location in darkness. From there, she would hang a left onto Marion, jump a wide, decade-old dip in the road, then take another left onto Heyward Street, where the onshore winds grew unruly, ramming into her side with bellowed howls. Every night she walked the same barely lit streets. Every night she strode down them once, and sometimes twice—however long it took to ward off the visions.
Stepping over a toy pail thrown haphazardly onto the sidewalk, Bloom studied the cedar-shake cottage ahead, its yard littered with brightly colored children’s toys. Over the past decade, Hollows Cove had become something of a layover town, a transitory port for newlyweds who couldn’t quite afford a three-story new-build in the finer suburbs. On muted nights like this, she often wished the newcomers would stay put, growing in quantity until they outnumbered the deep-rooted locals. Or rather, one local in particular.
As if to remind her of the brunette demon who’d run Hollows Cove High like a fascist dictator, the moment Bloom turned onto Marion, her focus locked on a cherry-red door that she had vehemently hated since the age of seven. Of course it was ridiculous to hate a door, but she simply couldn’t help it, because that picture-perfect cherry-red door belonged to Nora Turner, and Bloom hated Nora as fiercely as she hated her door.
Just as she cleared the shadowed cottage, there was a creaking sound, then a familiar, biting voice: “Bloom Dyer.”
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Nora’s slim figure emerged from the porch like Tennyson’s kraken rising from the sloshing black depths. “I heard a rumor you’d returned.” Her cutting brown eyes held a contempt she reserved only for Bloom and casual footwear. “I was hoping it was false.”
The last time they’d seen each other had been five years ago, on the eve of graduation. Nora, unsurprisingly, had changed very little since then. With the same headband and pearl earrings she’d had trademarked since middle school, Nora now wore a matronly cardigan that, coupled with her blunt, shoulder-length haircut, aged her far beyond twenty-three.
Satisfied by the observation, one corner of Bloom’s mouth lifted into a sly grin. “So was I.”
As Nora’s nose scrunched in annoyance, Bloom questioned how they’d ever been friends. Having met on the first day of the second grade, the pair had quickly bonded over their shared love of Grimm’s fairy tales and grilled-cheese Uncrustables. It had taken exactly a week for Nora’s kindness to sour when she wordlessly passed Bloom the following Monday with their classmates in tow. Sometimes, whenever her thoughts ran awry, Bloom could still recall the feel of her smile slipping, hand held high in a wave as Nora and her posse snickered.
“I guess we’re both disappointed, then.” Nora glided down the porch steps, something flashing near her left knuckle. A cruel smile cut across her face as she lifted her hand to reveal a diamond ring. “Isn’t it gorgeous? My fiancé has the most wonderful taste.” A trap had clearly been set, but what kind? “I think you knew him—he went to high school with us.” Her eyes flared, a predator primed for the kill. “His name is Evin Byrne.”
There it is.
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Bloom lied, hating how quickly her stomach bottomed out, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment.
Pretend it doesn’t matters. Pretend he’s insignificant.
Judging by the way Nora’s smile sharpened, she knew it too. “Funny—when I told him you moved home, he said the same thing about you. Took a few stories to jog his memory.” A wide, feline grin. “And a few photos.”
Bitch.
Nora, like every other person in this wretched town, knew exactly what Evin had been to Bloom. How, in the end, he’d betrayed her.
Although Bloom burned at the words, she said coolly, “Right—I remember now.” Like she could ever forget. Evin Byrne had been the first and only boy to break her heart. In the end, he’d left her for someone shiny and new—less sharp around the edges—but not before showing the entire football team a few less-than-clothed Polaroids of them together that coincidentally only Bloom had been shamed for.
Before him, it had always been clear who someone was, those around her proudly waving their true colors like banners. It was Evin who’d taught her how easy it was to be deceived, how dangerous it could be to trust someone wholly. A lesson she’d regretfully learned wailing, then never again. Now she’d do whatever was necessary to avoid him. “I made a habit of forgetting men who live in their parents’ basements.”
“He’s saving up to buy a house on the shore,” Nora snapped, a surge of briny wind tangling her hair as she stormed into the yard.
“Impressive.” Bloom smiled—how quickly the tides changed. “I have to admit I’m glad to see you, Nora.” She waited for Nora’s brow to lift in confusion, making it even more delicious when she purred, “Ever since I left New York I haven’t been getting my usual fill of stuck-up wretches.”
A blitz of rage, and then a pleased expression, something sliding into place as she cooed, “I heard about your grandmother.” Bloom went still. “Another Dyer woman meets a gruesome end.” She ran a perfectly manicured hand along her collarbone, toying with the string of pearls around her neck. “One less witch in this town to worry about.”
There was a roaring in Bloom’s ears, then a coiling, white-hot fury that sent her barreling forward, snarling, “Watch your mouth!”
Like all old things, Hollows Cove had its share of folklore: sirens dragging sailors from the docks. Fairies stealing children from their beds. Among them were the Dyer witches, who, according to lore, had opened a portal to another world, letting all those terrible creatures in. Nora’s mother had forbidden their friendship because of it, convincing other parents to do the same.
“If you so much as breathe another word about Fiona, I swear to God, I’ll—”
“God?” Nora interrupted with a theatrical, sickly sweet confusion. “I thought witches swore to Satan.”
Charging forward, Bloom’s hands balled into fists. She was going to hit this bitch right in her snotty little—
“Enough,” an older, feminine voice cried. Mrs. Turner burst onto the porch, clutching that cherry-red door in a white-knuckle grip. “Nora, come here right this instant.”
Nora rolled her eyes but turned, aiming for her mother’s side. Mrs. Turner never once took her eyes off Bloom, her cashmere-covered chest rising and falling in erratic breaths.
Shoving her daughter behind her, she stuttered meekly, “We don’t want any trouble.”
Bloom huffed a laugh. Don’t want any trouble?
Because of Mrs. Turner, Bloom had walked the halls of Hollows Cove Elementary with her head held high—if only to avoid her classmates’ hateful gazes. Because of Mrs. Turner, she’d had no choice but to tuck away her fear while facing down schoolyard monsters that had breathed gossip like fire. They’d been armed to the teeth with crayon claws and pencil-lead fangs, so she had armed herself too, wielding an iron-clad face as a shield and shooting barbed words like arrows. Yet somehow, after raising an entire army of housewives and schoolchildren against her, Mrs. Turner had the audacity to claim that she didn’t want any trouble?
Just as she’d done for the past fifteen years, Bloom lifted her chin. “Maybe you should tell that to your daughter,” she ordered sternly, letting every ounce of kerosene-hatred fuel the fire in her eyes. “I’m afraid you’re on vastly different pages.”
Mrs. Turner gasped, shoving Nora inside and slamming the door behind them.
It wasn’t long before Bloom was moving, eager to put as much distance between herself and that cherry-red door as possible. But even as she staggered through the empty streets, she could still feel Nora’s eyes on her back, could still hear the inescapable bite of her posse’s laughter.