Three Floors Up E-Book

Paul White

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Three Floors Up is the story of one man's psychosis and its effects on all who enter his world, and why the ones he chooses never leave.

This is a tale of dark doings, of murder and distorted perceptions.

Not to be read by the faint of heart.

This Electric Eclectic book is written as an introduction to the storytelling and narrative fashion of the author, Paul White.

He hopes you enjoy this book so much you will purchase some of his prime books which you can find on Amazon or on his website.

Leseprobe

Paul White

Three Floors Up

An Electric Eclectic book

For all who observe the world from a unique perspective. BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

Three Floors Up

Three Floors Up

by

Paul White

An Electric Eclectic Novelette

Copyright © Paul White 2016

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Introduction

Paul wrote this chilling tale of psychotic self-perception from the comfortable surroundings of his Yorkshire home.

A far cry from the sordid conditions inhabited by the characters in the deathly story.

Enjoy.

Visit Paul's website

Dirty Windows

Through the dirt-encrusted glass of the window, I look down on people passing below my vantage point.

Years of neglect have seen the small panes of glass, which make the whole of the window, become dulled by black and green mould, dust, soot and unidentifiable debris combine, the glass now opaque.

All except one small pane, the one I look through. My spyhole. It has a circle of clarity, rubbed clean by an old rag I keep to hand for that purpose.

At night I do not need my spyhole. It is easier to slide the lower section of the sash window upwards. By doing so I can let the voices of those passing by into my world.

It would be futile to open the window during the day; the noise of the traffic, of the town, the aeroplanes flying overhead all combine into a cacophony. It drowns out their voices. Which is why I only raise the sash after dark.

I sit in my darkened room; a black coat, thick, quilted to ward off the icy winds from my skin. A balaclava ski-mask stops my face being illuminated by external light.

I can see them. I can see them all, but no one sees me.

I can hear their voices, each word they speak, yet I remain silent.

They, the passers-by, are not so far away I cannot see the details of their faces, see their breath condensing in the chill air. During the evenings and throughout the night I hear them, all of them. Everything said, everything spoken aloud.