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    Melancholia Falls
    Melancholia Falls
    Melancholia Falls
    Ebook54 pages1 hour

    Melancholia Falls

    By Vanessa de Sade

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    About this ebook

    The derelict cemetery at Melancholia Falls stands perilously close to a dark and sinister reservoir, its black water lapping menacingly at the crumbling mausoleums and headless angels.

    It is to this desolate place that Ellie comes to live with her dad, caretaker to the deserted necropolis that no-one visits, and the father and daughter's relationship soon begins to mutate under the cloudless Georgia summer sky. But who is the pale-skinned young man in black who flits soundlessly between the tombstones, and why do the seasons never change and the birds never sing at Melancholia Falls?

    Find out in this highly erotic ghost story from master story-teller, Vanessa de Sade.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPoison Pixie Publishing
    Release dateMar 17, 2012
    ISBN9781476436180
    Melancholia Falls
    Author

    Vanessa de Sade

    Vanessa de Sade is a thirty-something full-figure gal who likes to write hot stories about real women exploring the darker regions of their own sexuality. She is the author of several popular novellas plus the collection, Rubyfruit Jungle.

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      Book preview

      Melancholia Falls - Vanessa de Sade

      Melancholia Falls

      Vanessa de Sade

      Smashwords Edition

      Copyright Poison Pixie Publishing 2011

      1

      The bus driver pulled up at the crossroads where a rickety sign like a crone's finger pointed the unprepossessing way to Melancholia Falls. I had just twenty dollars left in my pocketbook, barely enough to let me stay on the bus and go back to the city again, but as I stood there swithering on the running board a small tired voice inside of me whispered, okay, so you'll go back, then what?

      I sighed, realising once again that my options were mighty thin on the ground right now, and, picking up the battered old case that had already seen far too many flea-bitten apartments and cheap hotels, I got off the bus and started slowly down the twisting road that led to the desolate valley below.

      The sun was already beating down mercilessly despite the earliness of the hour and spiky grass was chewing away the sun-blistered blacktop as I trudged down the rutted lane, the forsaken fields behind me a dry and dusty red, their barren clay baked to the colour of old brick.

      An abandoned tractor sat by the gateway of a long-deserted farm, its once gleaming paintwork now blistered and rusted, grass poking up through the exposed ribs of its engine, and in the jungle of the adjacent cornfield an old scarecrow flapped its arms impotently in the wind, powerless against the malicious rooks that were circling and cawing around his cavern-eyed head.

      I shivered despite the eleven o'clock heat, and wondered for the umpteenth time why my Dad would have chosen to come out to live in such a God-forsaken spot. Still, I thought, beggars can't be choosers, and I was truly a beggar today at the ripe old age of twenty-six, homeless and very, very broke, creeping back to the parental fold with my tail very firmly between my legs after storming out at sixteen on the crest of a teenage tantrum the cause of which had long passed into the mists of forgetfulness,.

      There was no phone for me to call him in advance and forewarn him of my proposed prodigal resurrection, and the only address I had to guide me on my desperate quest was a scrap of an envelope from a Christmas card sent two years ago, an olive branch which had doggedly found its way to me like a lost missive in an old documentary on the efficiency of the Postal Service.

      I glanced down at the creased scrap in my hand again, folded neatly and kept close to my heart like an amulet of my native soil these last two years, and read the sparse message for the thousandth time. Caretaker's Cottage, Melancholia Falls, Georgia. No street number, no zip code. As a route map it wasn't much to pin my faith on, but it was my only link to the one person in this cruel world who might, just might, give a fuck about me, and I had used my last fifty-dollar-bill to buy my one-way ticket to this desolate spot where even the rooks had fallen silent, the whole place pregnant with anticipation as I turned the last bend and finally beheld Melancholia Falls.

      But, as I cleared the final obstacle to my view and suddenly beheld the whole valley, I saw to my dismay that the road now ran down to the black waters of a man-made reservoir, and all that remained of the former town was a lonely church tower protruding from the sullen depths like the white-bleached arm of a long-drowned girl still crying vainly out for help.

      I stood and stared for a full minute and then dropped my case and cried. Not loud sobs or wails or any of the other histrionic stuff in my normal repertoire, but just big, wet, silent tears, running down my face and making little rivulets in my hot dust cheeks. This was the end of the road for me, my last slim chance of a possible happy ending dashed mercilessly against the rocks of this brooding mass of silent water that had swallowed up not only my Dad but also my last hope. There was no point in turning back now, and, leaving my case by the roadside, I waded quietly out into

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