The Sixth Vector

A Supernatural Mystery Rooted in English Folklore

Set against the atmospheric backdrop of rural England, The Sixth Vector explores themes of friendship, belief, and the weight of the past. Drawing on real folklore and ghost legends, the novel builds a layered narrative where history lingers and not everything is as it first appears. As the group returns to Pluckley months later, they uncover deeper patterns behind the hauntings—suggesting that the village itself may hold secrets far beyond a single restless spirit.

This novel is ideal for readers who enjoy supernatural thrillers, British ghost stories, and character-driven horror with a strong sense of place. Fans of eerie mysteries, folklore-inspired fiction, and slow-building tension will find themselves immersed in the unsettling world of Pluckley.

With its blend of haunting atmosphere and emotional depth, The Sixth Vector offers a compelling exploration of what happens when curiosity leads into the unknown—and what it takes to set things right.

Excerpt from the book

Around campus echoed “fine fellow, Sheila”—this second-year archaeology student who seemed most at ease among men, neither girly nor mannish in her demeanour. Something about her drew the eye, though not in any conventional way. Perhaps it was how she wore her hair cropped close, a style that laid bare the elegant architecture of her face: those high cheekbones, that perfect oval.

Sheila nursed her pint of bitter in the Mooch Bar, shoulder-to-shoulder with Johnny. They weren’t exactly dating—more like orbiting each other with convenient gravity. As captain of the university’s second XI football team, Johnny turned heads; as the woman at his side, Sheila drew envious glances from across the bar.

Their circle completed itself with four others: Angelo from Physics with his Rom heritage, which he defended against campus whispers; Pete from Classics, who wore knowledge like armour; Matty, the rock-climbing Zoology major; and Dave Ossie Blair, the Biology student whose Lancashire hometown of Oswaldtwistle never failed to provoke snickers.

“We should have a name,” Angelo announced suddenly, gesturing with his glass. “Something just for us.”

The suggestion met with drunken enthusiasm despite its questionable necessity. After several false starts, Angelo turned to Pete. “Come on, Latin boy! Give us something proper!”

Pete’s eyes narrowed in concentration. Cerebrum Noctis?

Brain of the Night? Ossie translated, his grammar school education showing.

“Mind of the Night,” more like,” Pete corrected.

Angelo’s face lit up. “That’s brilliant!”

A few disgruntled noises of disagreement said otherwise, Matty’s being the loudest. “It’s too obscure,” he grumbled. “Nah, I just don’t see its relevance,” he added.

“Can you do better, then?” Johnny challenged.

Matty lowered his head, looked sulky for a moment, and then said, “What about The Sixth Vector—there are six of us, after all?”

“Let’s put it to the vote, either Cerebrum Noctis or The Sixth Vector,” Sheila murmured.

The latter won by five votes to one, the majority believing that the alternative was too obscure.

They could not know then that The Sixth Vector would prove to be a happy choice because it was easily transformable and close to the sixth sense that they would so much need.

The bar’s closing bell rang like a summons. Johnny leant in, eyes gleaming. “My room. Now. I’ve got coffee, biscuits, and a Gerry Rafferty album that’ll blow your minds.”

They stumbled down the moonlit slope towards Lincoln Hall, the night air electric with possibility. Four flights up, crammed into Johnny’s room, the coffee bitter on their tongues, Ossie suddenly fixed Angelo with an intense stare.

“Those Romani bloodlines of yours—can you read palms? See the future?”

Angelo’s face darkened. “No. But my mother… she’s a medium.”

“What?” Dave jolted upright, knuckles white around his mug. “Communing with the dead? That’s absolute horseshit!”

“Not communicating,” Angelo’s voice dropped to a whisper. “She channels them.”

Sheila leant forward, her eyes wild. “What if you inherited the gift, Ange? What if it’s in your blood?”

“Never dared find out,” he muttered, avoiding their eyes.