The Howler (Old Boundaries Book 1)

The Howler

In a remote West Country village, the wind carries more than weather.

When Henry Hughes leaves Victorian London for the lonely moors, he expects a quiet country retreat while his father investigates reports of a strange creature. Instead, he finds a village shaped by fear, old grief, and whispers of a cursed beast that stalks the night.

Drawn into the secrets of Nell and Thomas, the grandchildren of the mysterious Weather-Weaver, Henry discovers that the magical wards once protecting the village have fallen. As dreams, wild magic, and buried guilt begin to stir, the children must face a curse born of jealousy and vengeance—and learn that not all evil hunts in the dark.

Dark, atmospheric, and touched with folklore, The Howler is a tale of guilt, redemption, and ancient magic on the untamed moors. It is the first book in the Old Boundaries series by Christopher D. Pearce.

Step onto the moor and begin The Howler today.

Excerpt from the book

From behind a veil of cloud, a silver blade of light bore down. Under that ashy light of a waning moon, the moors came into view at last: vast valleys backlit by low, strong hills topped infrequently by tors and trees.

The carriage slowed to a crawl as it approached the village. Grey stone cottages were barely visible through the thick fog that hung overhead. Henry pressed his nose against the cold window, squinting at the landscape that looked nothing like the bustling streets of London. There were no towering buildings, no gas lamps lining the drab country road, and no familiar faces. Only mist, rolling hills, and those shabby little homes which crept into view. It was quiet on the moors with only the rattling of the wheels and Henry’s parents’ quiet chatter for ambience.

“Move back from that window, Henry,” his mother told him reproachfully. “It isn’t right to have your nose pressed to it like a sad dog.”

“Yes, Mother,” Henry replied, removing himself from the pane a fraction. He had never seen the sky so broad and open. So impressively vast was it that Henry thought for a moment that he might fall into it without any buildings to hold on to and stop him from floating away.

His parents had been awake for most of the journey, though Henry knew he must have drifted and dozed. The train from London had been exciting enough, so much so that he could hardly recall the move to the horse carriage within which they then rode, only his father carrying him to it as he had slept.

“Well, Henry, this is it!” his father said from the seat across from his own. His voice had the usual warmth, but Henry could sense the unease hidden beneath it. His father, a zoologist, had talked for weeks about their coming move to the moors, speaking with an excitement and glee which Henry knew was for his benefit alone. Henry had not been thrilled at the idea of leaving his school and friends, and so the façade had been easily dissected. Naturally, he had protested at first, as had his mother, but Father had to go and knew not for how long he would be gone. Most men would have taken the post without caring to bring their small family along, but with the enthusiasm with which Father had told him of the ghost stories of the place, the more a morbid eagerness had begun to thrill Henry’s constitution.

Arriving then, the village hidden under the shroud of night and low-settling cloud, Henry understood wholly his father’s deception. The place seemed to him as though it had not seen a change in centuries.

As the carriage turned down a narrow lane between two ramshackle, dilapidated houses, the village came into view. It was but a handful of cottages scattered along a winding road, each one cloaked in shadows where the ghastly light of the moon could not cast. The effect was one which felt more haunted than charming. No children were playing, no sounds of chatter. Even at so late an hour, Henry might have expected to see some activity beyond the few lights from uneasy candles that broke through shuttered windows.