In the continuation of my series highlighting the beginnings of my novels, I present the first chapter of my gothic mystery thriller, The Birds Began to Sing. While I appreciate the overall narrative, I find myself cringing a bit at certain aspects of this opening, written a decade ago. If I were to approach it today, my perspective would differ. Further insights are available in my companion article linked at the chapter's conclusion.

Facing rejection is a universal experience; it is futile to dwell on it. Persisting is key, as tomorrow may bring new opportunities.

That’s the mantra Alice Darnell repeated to herself. Yet, the relentless stream of rejection from agents and publishers felt more painful than a romantic breakup. After yet another rejection letter arrived, each one felt like a part of her soul withered away. Her bedroom wall was a testament to her struggles, adorned with rejection letters that conveyed similar sentiments:

Dear Alice,

Thank you for your sample chapters and synopsis which we read with interest. Unfortunately, we don’t feel this is one for us, but we wish you the best of luck elsewhere.

Kind regards,

The Publisher/Agent

Alice mused that a more candid response might read as follows:

Dear Alice,

We’re puzzled why you sent your sample chapters and synopsis, as you lack established credentials. It seems we didn’t even read it. Perhaps you might have better luck with someone else willing to take a chance on an unknown author, but don’t hold your breath.

Indifferent regards,

The Publisher/Agent

Alice affixed the latest rejection letter to the wall, glancing at the clock. Almost half past nine. With a cold keeping her home from work, she faced a day of solitude, resting and perhaps indulging in daytime TV, all while trying to stave off despair.

As she stared at the walls of her rented Kensington home, Alice questioned why her thirty-two years felt so unremarkable. Would this be her existence indefinitely? Working a mundane job at Farrow and Company with her housemate Chloe Green? While her job at the Central London letting agency was tedious, it at least paid the bills and allowed her to focus on her writing.

Deciding a shower might uplift her spirits, Alice trudged through her untidy room to the bathroom. Staring at her reflection, she ran her fingers through her straight dark hair, tracing the scars from her past fall down nightclub stairs. That incident had left her with serious head injuries, but thankfully her face remained unscathed. Gazing into her deep brown eyes, she pondered who she truly was. If her eyes were windows to her soul, hers had heavy drapes drawn, hiding whatever lay within.

Alice shook off these dark musings, recalling the doctors' advice to maintain a positive outlook.

Raindrops tapped against the window, echoing the typical January gloom that had swallowed December's festive cheer. Christmas had become a muted affair for her since the tragic loss of her parents. She often spent the holidays with her Aunt Esme or the families of sympathetic colleagues, like Chloe's.

After her shower, Alice donned her dressing gown, made a hot lemon drink, and, feeling still unwell, skipped breakfast. Instead, she settled onto the sofa with a spy novel by Sasha Hawkins. Although she typically preferred more serious literature, Hawkins’ gripping plots offered a guilty pleasure, one she felt the need to justify as “research.”

As she read, a sharp pain radiated from the scars on her neck. Rubbing the area, she speculated she might have slept awkwardly. Her fall had occurred during a turbulent time, just after losing her parents, and had been a catalyst for seeking help. It had also made her more compliant when Aunt Esme insisted on it.

Years had passed since the scars had caused her trouble, so it was unusual for them to flare up now. The discomfort was intense and persistent, worsening despite her attempts to soothe it.

Alice felt a rising temperature, perhaps a symptom of her cold. The central heating had been left on by Chloe, so she decided to turn it off and cracked the sitting room window for fresh air.

A chill breeze swept in, mingling with distant London sounds. Breathing deeply, Alice felt a momentary sense of relief, but soon she began to shiver and sought to close the window. At that moment, a large black crow swooped into the room.

She barely suppressed a scream, frozen in place as the bird flapped around in distress. Alice's fear was palpable; her aversion to birds was irrational yet overwhelming.

Taking slow, measured breaths, she tried to regain composure. All she had to do was guide the bird back outside, but instead, her instincts screamed for her to eliminate it. She couldn’t explain why, but the urge consumed her.

How could she do it? She had no weapons, certainly not a kitchen knife. Perhaps a lethal spray would work, but all she could think of was deodorant, far from effective.

The crow landed on the coffee table, surveying the room before locking eyes with Alice. Terrified, she couldn't look away, her mind racing for a solution. What had she been contemplating? She needed a way to eliminate the bird. The spray idea seemed inadequate, yet the thought of deodorant and a match lingered. However, that could ignite the entire house—she would forfeit her deposit!

Cleaning supplies? The bathroom had bleach—an option to consider. It was typically stored under the kitchen sink but had been left upstairs after Chloe's cleaning. Surely bleach would do damage, but it wouldn't kill the bird—just make it furious. No, perhaps the deodorant and match were more straightforward. She could always douse the flames with water once the bird ignited.

Yet, an even greater obstacle loomed: to execute her plan, she would have to cross the room, navigating past the bird, which was now airborne. The thought paralyzed her with fear.

Mustering her courage, Alice closed her eyes and reassured herself. It was merely a bird. It wouldn’t attack her, nor would it behave like a creature from an Alfred Hitchcock film. But it had trespassed into her sanctuary, and it had to pay the price.

Deep down, Alice recognized the absurdity of her thoughts, yet they made a strange sense. In an act of brave determination, she took a step forward, inching across the room, past the sofa and coffee table, toward the door leading to the stairs. The journey felt interminable, and as she neared the exit, her pace quickened, fueled by a growing recklessness. Her focus remained on the crow, trying to suppress thoughts of its claws, beak, and those dreadful eyes.

With a final burst of resolve, Alice dashed out of the room and slammed the door behind her. The crow now had only one escape route: the open window. But would it leave? She paused, listening intently. The sound of the bird's frantic movements echoed within. Part of her wished to confront the creature, to finish what she had started.

Driven by a sudden urgency, Alice dashed upstairs, grabbed the deodorant from her bedside table, and rushed back down. In the kitchen, she snatched a match and filled a nearly empty window cleaner bottle with water, ready to extinguish any flames. She secured the water bottle in her dressing gown belt, matches in one pocket, and deodorant in hand, fully prepared to confront the crow.

As she approached the sitting room door, the voice of reason from Chloe reverberated in her mind, questioning her sanity.

“Alice, have you lost your mind?”

“You’ll set the place ablaze!”

“It’s just a stupid bird!”

But Chloe's rationality faded as Alice gripped the door handle. The crow's fluttering persisted, and as it cawed loudly, Alice's heart raced anew, freezing her in place.

After a tense thirty seconds, her determination solidified. Resolving to take charge, Alice lit a match, holding it at arm's length in front of the deodorant. With her elbow, she pressed the handle and slowly opened the door.

The sight of the bird made her scream. It charged at her with surprising hostility, seemingly intent on invading her home. Time slowed as images flashed in her mind, accompanied by unsettling sounds.

Screeching tires on a dark country road.

A car flipping over.

Flames.

An expansive estate cloaked in frost.

A corridor leading to a shadowy door.

A woman screaming, blood seeping through her fingers.

Claws.

Beaks.

Flapping wings.

In less than a second, these visions crashed through her mind, stretching time. The crow was closer now, its claws extended, ready to strike. No longer hesitating, Alice pressed the deodorant nozzle and ignited a flame.

The crow shrieked in agony as it caught fire. Within moments, it collapsed onto the carpet. Alice, unusually detached, watched it burn. The scent of charred feathers filled the air, the large bird taking time to be fully consumed.

However, the flames spread quickly. The carpet ignited. Alice, lost in her thoughts, had forgotten to douse the fire. Realizing her mistake, she frantically sprayed the ashes and the burning floor, but it was too late. The flames crawled along the carpet, reaching a nearby wooden table. Paint began to bubble and burn. Smoke filled the air, followed by the shrill sound of smoke alarms.

Alice cursed her foolishness. If she hadn’t stood there in shock, she could have extinguished the fire. But now, escape was her only option. She needed to call the fire brigade.

Suddenly, dizziness washed over her. Her head spun, and clammy sweat drenched her face and arms. As she leaned against the door, she realized it was on fire too, causing her to slam it shut. The smoke thickened, making it difficult to breathe, even with the window open.

Then, louder than the alarms, she heard the terrifying calls of birds. The paralyzing fear returned. The floor felt unstable, and the room swirled around her. Sweat streamed down her face as she raised a hand to wipe it, feeling her knees buckle. The last thing she recalled was a dull thud as her forehead struck an armchair before everything faded to black.

The Birds Began to Sing is available at various retailers (Amazon, Smashwords, etc.). You can read my companion article detailing my approach to crafting opening chapters here.

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