I am trying my hand at something other than horror – a story about an eighteen-year-old starting university and living with her estranged grandmother while she studies. If it works, it will be part spy thriller, part family drama (including coming to terms with dementia), and part coming of age story – with a ghost.

I figure that, if it’s a mess, there might be something there worth saving and developing, and if it isn’t a mess, it could be something special.

I’ll show you a selection of my research materials to illustrate the breadth of what I’m attempting.

It may, or may not, be written entirely in April’s (the eighteen-year-old’s) POV. I am toying with the idea of including a few chapters from a different perspective.

As I work through my DIY MFA reading list with my study buddy and experiment with different techniques, the novel evolves, deepens and expands. I’m having fun, and isn’t that the point?

I’ll share the opening, but as I am still writing draft zero, it’s unlikely to remain the same if it’s ever published.

The borrowed, red Ford Escort entered Fyfield Street from the north. Slate roofs and attic windows glowed in the late-September sun, while the street itself was drenched in shadow. It had been an arduous journey. April navigated using an out-of-date atlas while her mother, Charlotte, shunned the motorway and stopped for comfort breaks in almost every town and village.

“It’s this one.” April said.

The moment Charlotte pulled up alongside a well-kept hedge, April burst out of the car. Ponytail swaying, she jogged to the iron gates to study her new home for the first time. She gazed in awe at a 19th century, Gothic revival mansion with four floors above ground, including the tiny arched windows in the gables, and narrow steps leading to a basement. Dozens of chimneys of varying styles and sizes rose from the slate roof.

“Wow!”

Gravel crunched underfoot as April pushed the gates wide, anchored them in place then waved at her mother. Charlotte inched the car tentatively across the pavement and onto the driveway.

A tall man with a messy jet-black mane and bushy beard appeared at the side of the great house. He peered at April and the car. A few seconds passed as the startled eighteen-year-old mustered enough courage to approach him and introduce herself, but before she took a single step, he retreated into the shadows, leaving her confused and unsettled. Was he expecting someone else?

Charlotte parked the car beside a battered white Bedford van and turned off the engine. She remained seated, white knuckles gripping the steering wheel as if it were a lifeline in a stormy ocean. April expected her mother to leave the sanctuary of the car and help unpack the boot, but Charlotte was still causing delays.

Exasperated, April opened the driver’s door, took the ignition key and used it to unlock the boot. Leaving her mother to compose herself, she carried boxes and suitcases to the front door. When the task was completed, she knocked on the window to get Charlotte’s attention.

Charlotte wiped her face, replacing her tears with a rictus smile, and slowly pulled herself out of the car. “I’m trying to be strong, love.”

April wanted to be patient, but her body itched to start this new chapter of her life. “I know, Mum. It’s a big change for both of us.” She took Charlotte’s clammy hand and guided her to the front door.

April’s fingers tingled as she wrapped them around the bell pull. Fear filled her mind, replaying all the worries and concerns that Charlotte had poured into her ears since she accepted Oxford’s offer and contacted her estranged grandmother, asking whether she might stay in her house rent-free. A long shot, and both mother and daughter were surprised that Miss Miles agreed.

If it didn’t work out, it would take one letter to her mother and April would be collected, taken home. No judgement, no questions. Charlotte would be all too eager to be reunited, their tiny flat unable to contain the vastness of her loneliness. Too young to carry three generations worth of guilt, April hardened her heart. What might have been a great wrench felt like a lucky escape.

Focusing on the present, April tightened her grip on the painted metal knob and pulled. Bells chimed beyond the door as she swallowed her fear and shifted her weight from leg to leg.

The door opened into a large but dark hallway. A woman, slightly older than Charlotte, wearing a plain grey dress and sensible shoes, stood before them and wrinkled her nose at April’s battered trainers, ripped jeans, cardboard boxes and cheap suitcases. Before April dipped her head, she noticed webs of broken capillaries beneath judgemental eyes.

“I’m April Watts. Elizabeth Miles is expecting us.”