Becky Moran has built a career claiming to talk to the dead. A successful clairvoyant medium, a Cambridge graduate with her own radio show ‘Medium Wave’ and a team dedicated to crafting the celebrity myth – because Becky Moran is a fake.
Until, one night, something supernatural, inexplicable, breaks through live in air as she is broadcasting. Becky Moran discovers the paranormal is real, the dead can indeed speak and she is being pursued relentlessly towards a battle for her very survival.
We meet Becky in her radio studio ‘Voice of Britain’, a national talk radio station in London, broadcasting her show ‘Medium Wave’. Here, Becky realises her new found gift can actually help….
An extract from the book
Becky arrived at the flat in Leeds by mid-evening. Her mother had popped in earlier with bleach (‘In case you need it, love’) and had put fresh milk in the fridge. She opened the front door to the flat, looking at the white sofa, the French décor, and smiled. The huge windows let in the glow of the streetlights. Becky snapped on all the electric lights using the switch by the door and, for the first time in over a week, she felt at home. She had caught a cab from the Leeds City station, picking up some food from the Marks and Spencer located by the main entrance. She had seen many spirits on the streets of London and on the train north, and also seen a group of them in City Square in Leeds, gathered around the statue of the Black Prince on his horse. None of the spirits bothered her. Becky had been visualising her own protective white aura. What with that and the amulet, she felt she was starting to take control of whatever was happening to her.
Then, something caught her eye, by the sofa.
It looked at first glance like a piece of lace, a thick black ribbon. No, the corner of a silk lace scarf. She could just see the edge of the fine cloth. She knew it wasn’t hers and very much doubted that it belonged to Iris. (‘Black is so ageing, Becky. Wear colour, especially with that hair,’ was a mantra she’d heard her mother repeat so often.) Becky stepped into the room. The light did not change and there was no bad smell creeping into her nose. She put the bags down and closed the front door.
Becky edged cautiously towards the sofa, bending from the waist to examine the cloth. It moved, as if wafted on a slight breeze, and Becky jumped back. There were no draughts in the room. She moved closer again and could see that the cloth was almost iridescent, not black, more a shimmering dark red, and she knew she was seeing something from the Other Side, not woven of Earthly fibres, not real or solid or of this world. As she reached the back of the sofa, the ethereal fabric was revealed to be a long swathe of twisted red cloth, laid out at the edge of the sofa. The fronds at the end of the unearthly rope lay in a perfect fan on the floor, as if placed there gently. They were frayed and delicate. Becky stared at the shape, wondering how a fine fabric could be bound together and twisted into a solid rope.
Becky’s eyes followed the line of the cloth. She was waiting for that terrible blackness to come rushing at her, for the thrum, thrum, thrum to begin. She tensed, preparing to flee. There was silence.
The end of the rope was wrapped and knotted around the neck of a woman. She was lying on the floor, coiled into a foetal shape, her once blonde hair swept back, exposing a young face that appeared to be sleeping. Becky was afraid, but it was a different fear. She knew this was a spirit. She traced the path of the cloth right around the neck of the woman who wasn’t really there yet lay curled on the floor. There was a sense of overwhelming sadness and pain that Becky could feel in her gut. The rope had dug deep into the neck and Becky could see the marks on the unearthly flesh, blue and mottled, of the exposed throat. She was dressed in what looked like a long white cotton nightdress, the material resting over the curves of her limbs. She simply lay there, the extraordinary red rope in shocking contrast to the paleness of this being. There was no movement.
Until the woman opened her eyes.
Becky took a step back. The spirit looked at her with such longing, such agony, and her hands, the not-quite-real hands, clawed at the rope around her neck. In the silence, Becky heard the wordless pleading of this girl to help her, to save her.
‘I can’t,’ whispered Becky. ‘I can’t.’ Becky understood – no, felt – that the life of this young woman had ended here, in what was once the attic of this Methodist chapel. She also knew that this girl had taken her own life, using the twisted red scarf to hang herself from one of the beams overhead. Becky felt her desperation, depression, sadness; it was almost overwhelming. There was no malice, no evil, and no threat here, just a yearning for the pain to end. Becky realised that the spirit had never left this attic. She’d always been here, like a faint photograph, stuck in the place where her life had ended. Becky’s fear was replaced by compassion.
‘You can go,’ she whispered. ‘I can see you and you can go. It’s all right, you have suffered too long. Time to let go, move on.’ The pale figure, bound by that shimmering red, twisted scarf, seemed to quieten. The hands left her neck where she had been so desperately trying to unbind the red rope and slowly, very slowly, her body began to fade. ‘You can go,’ Becky repeated softly.
As she looked down, the girl, the spirit, was dissolved almost into nothingness, her eyes finally closed. The final glimpse, the last thing to fade, was that shimmering red rope, until nothing remained.
If this extract intrigued you as much as it did me. Medium Wave can be purchased from Amazon. Please CLICK HERE
About the Author Rose Zolock.
Her Irish grandmother first told Rose about the Banshee when she was just a small child. How the wailing sound of the spirit of the dead and dying could be heard when someone was about to pass.
It was family folklore that the women in the family had ‘the touch’, the ability to see spirits and other dimensions. Rose listened and grew up fascinated by those who claimed to have supernatural or psychic abilities.
Rose does not claim to have those powers. Take her to Venice in February when the mist swirls over the canals, walk by her side along the darkened streets of Greenwich Village in New York City in high summer, listening to a ghost walk tour guide tell the stories of death, murder and the unexplained – Rose would say those stories and our belief in them gives her a power to see into the shadows within our imagination.
As a journalist, Rose takes every opportunity to explore and investigate strange stories, myth and folklore. Living in rural Yorkshire, with a rich library of ghost stories and literary tradition, Rose also has a sceptical and forensic insight into those who peddle the stories which feed our imagination but of which we have yet found no proof. She has listened to the debunkers who argue against those believers who are convinced that sand the dark side exist.
Rose’s mind is open. Is yours?
For more information about Rose, please CLICK HERE