Dear Ms. Meadows,
Do you remember that house at the end of your block, the one your friends dared you to enter and your parents warned you to stay away from?
Maybe it was a stately mansion haunted by the ghostly victims of a murderous caretaker. Or maybe it was an abandoned hunting cabin tucked away beyond the treeline, housing some deranged killer. Perhaps it was a sand-blasted beach house where the spirits of sailors past still walked upon the foggy shoreline. Whatever the building, every neighborhood has that house upon the hill, a house of mystery and murder. “Crawl” is the tale of one such house in a community not unlike your own.
“Crawl” stands apart from the same-old horror story by giving readers intimate access to the observations and thoughts of the title character, a primitive monster in contemporary times. She roams the close, dark spaces between the walls of a dilapidated Victorian era house, with nothing to keep her company but the vermin she hunts for food and a pile of dusty bones she calls Mother. She is alone in the dark, until one day a young family comes knocking.
Will the creature’s horrific origin be revealed? Will the not-so-wholesome suburban family bring Crawl out into the light or join her down in the darkness? The answers will leave you not only stunned, but questioning the assumptions you’ve harbored all along.
I am currently seeking representation for my debut novel “Crawl,” a horror tale complete at approximately 70,000 words and a recent quarter-finalist submission in the 2009 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award contest. The subject material in “Crawl” is nearly as dark as the hidden spaces she calls home, so this particular novel is best suited for adult readers.
Thank you for your time and I hope to hear from you soon!
Her first memory was of Mother. So still, Mother. Always staring, always smiling. Quiet Mother.
She could also remember hearing muffled noises from the Others outside. Screams mostly, sometimes crying. But that was long ago. After a while the sounds had stopped, leaving just her and silent Mother. That was fine. More food for the two of them.
Her room was small and cold and very dark. No windows, no doors she could open. One way in and one way out. The flies and spiders found other ways, yes, but through paths too small even for her.
She had learned to be quicker than those she stalked. Starvation through failure, survival through success. The eight-legged weavers taught her patience. The winged ones preached quickness and vigilance. The hard-backed scavengers showed her that a meal can always be found when you really need it. The creatures of the dark were her teachers, her friends, her food. She turned on them in order to survive.
She grabbed them before they could scurry back into the shadows, back through the cracks in the wall. The spiders, grown fat on flies, squished soft and spindly in her mouth. The flies themselves, helplessly wrapped in silky coats, easily plucked from their captors’ webs. Beetle shells crunched between her teeth. Worms slithered down her throat. They were her prey, she was the hunter. She had no name. Mother had not given her one, silent Mother. If she had a name, it would be for what she did best. It would be for the way she moved on the hunt, the only way she knew how to survive.
If she had a name, it would be Crawl.