Beware of Cliffs

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.

1

Winter, 1976.

‘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.’

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