This is the first few chapters of a fan fiction story inspired by Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë. It’s a rough draft set in 1970s coastal Australia that I started last year with quite a lot of enthusiasm but now I’m not sure I’ll finish it. So here’s what I’ve done so far.
‘We’re here now. Safe and sound,’ Mr Yorke coaxed, pulling the Kingswood into the driveway. They had driven for over twelve hours straight and the small boy hadn’t slept a wink.
The sun had recently set and stars flickered in the night sky. Dillon stretched out his matchstick legs, tingling from the long drive, and unclipped the seatbelt. In the distance a dog barked, disturbing the chickens asleep in their coop. From the front seat of the car Dillon’s eyes adjusted onto a sandstone farmhouse, illuminated in the blue moonlight like a forgotten shipwreck. Two ghostly white chimneys stuck out at either end as if they were naked masts, while a windvane slept at its centre. At the base of the chimney was a lean-to, stacked with piles of chopped wood. An outside light flicked on, revealing a cobbled path leading to the single story farmhouse. It was as long as two school buses, with a slanting roof and three shuttered windows either side of black door. The window to the far right glowed orange. A verandah travelled the building’s length and faced an ocean Dillon could hear but not see. A minute later another light snapped on in the window beside the front door.
There was no breeze. Everything was fixed in place like it had been a hundred years earlier, except for the multiplying lights. The lights meant people inside. Strangers. Dillon made no effort to move.
Mr Yorke opened the car door. ‘Now, I won’t let anything happen.’