“Chillingly fantastic!!!” – Amazon customer
“This is a multi era’d dusk enveloped journey into gory dark corners of London…with the Lycanthropic wrath of a curse hounding those in its path..10/10. !!!!!” – Patrick Stephens
The Hound & The Philosopher Inn looks like your average pub, with only its mouthful of a name to separate it from any other. But, secrets lurk just beyond the ales, wines, spirits and bar snacks. Deadly secrets.
Kit pops into the pub following a dismal experience at a job interview. Christine visits the same pub whilst waiting for a cab. Both of their lives will be changed forever. Both will learn the pub’s secrets.
Peter is one of these secrets. Peter Smedley is a businessman, ruthless and cunning and co-owner of The Hound & The Philosopher Inn. He is also a werewolf, hellbent on changing the status quo.
Hellhound will draw you into the supernatural underbelly of Greater London with the promise of blood, guts and the realisation that the monsters may be closer than you think.
“Lou’s new book deals with the werewolf genre in a new way. Bucket loads of gore combined with the wry sense of humour that I’ve come to expect from Lou’s writing style makes this book a great read for any fan of horror. There are many twists and turns that draw you in completely and the characters take you through a roller coaster ride of emotion throughout the story. This book deserves a place in your library and will be a book you read more than once!” – Feral Rogue
About the Author
Lou Yardley is an Office Gremlin by day and an author by night (it’s the best time, really, as it’s when all of the monsters come out to play). “The Other’s Voice” (published in 2016) was her first novel and she has discovered that this whole ‘writing thing’ is quite addictive. Her aim is to write one full length novel each year, as well as publishing exclusive monthly short stories on her Patreon page.
She currently lives with her partner Mark, and their seven cats in Greater London. When she’s not performing spreadsheet alchemy in her day job, Lou likes playing the banjo, reading, listening to the kind of Metal where the vocalists growl at you, and watching B-movies.
Find her online at:
“Top marks for relatable characters – even the bad guys – and for a really original take on the popular werewolf trope.” – T Ormiston-Smith
The comfortable bed embraced her, but Christine couldn’t sleep too long or too deeply. Exhausting all her usual tricks (one foot out beneath the blanket, fan on, window open, sheep counted), she got up and walked to the window. Outside, despite the late hour, there were still people milling around, in various states of intoxication doing whatever people do in the very early hours of the morning, at the point where ‘tomorrow’ turns into ‘today’. Aside from the odd shout or lone car horn, the night was peaceful; the outside providing no reason why she shouldn’t be able to sleep. Those reasons hid inside her head. Her mind just couldn’t let go of the events of the last few hours. The scream – real or imagined – weighed heavily on her mind, anchoring her in wakefulness. Going back to bed would be pointless, so Christine turned to check the clock radio on her nightstand to see if it was a reasonable time to make coffee and start on breakfast. Darkness stood in the place where red digits usually waited.
That’s odd, she thought. Must be a power cut or something.
Bare feet paced across the room and she tried the light switch. It didn’t work. No change – not even a flicker – happened after she’d clicked it on and off again half a dozen times. Maybe a fuse has blown, she thought.
Glad to have something to do, Christine crossed back to her nightstand, opened the drawer and pulled out a torch. A big heavy thing that took a seemingly infinite supply of those huge batteries. Sometimes she thought about replacing it with something more compact, but she liked the idea of having it close to her at night. Christine lived alone, and she thought the torch might prove itself to be a useful weapon if anyone chose to break in. Not that it could do much damage, but a decent swing to the head with enough force behind it might slow any wannabe attacker enough for her to make a hasty escape.
The space in front of her immediately illuminated as she hit the power switch. Christine couldn’t remember when she had last replaced the batteries, but the light held bright and strong. As she swung the light around her bedroom, she wondered if any passers-by would mistake her for a burglar. She dismissed the thought almost as soon as it had formed. Of course, no-one would. Nobody would be remotely interested. You could be bleeding from every orifice and screaming like someone insisted on inserting a very large, very sharp metal pole up your rectum and nobody would even bat an eyelid. Everyone here was too involved in their own business. In many ways, this was one of the things that Christine liked about her current location; she had anonymity here. It also nagged at her. What if the hypothetical attacker did break in? She’d be on her own. The big torch filled the role of being her first and last lines of defence.
With the torch tightly gripped in her left hand, Christine carefully made her way down stairs. The fuse box was just by the front door, almost directly in front of the staircase. She’d look inside and with a quick flick of the switch there would light and radio alarm clocks. Her hand touched the door of the fuse box, but, before she could open it, she noticed something amiss.
It felt like she was being watched.
Her heart quickened in her chest. Was this it? Was the hypothetical attacker real? Faking nonchalance, she slowly turned around.
A face stared back at her, the whites of its eyes wild.
It took Christine a long moment to realise that she was looking at her own reflection in the mirror on the wall. She smiled, even though part of her that thought that the reflection wouldn’t do the same. Her eyes locked with the mirror image. There was nothing unusual here, her reflection only looked sinister due to the dark shadows caused by torchlight. Nothing to worry about. There were no ghoulish apparitions in the house. Everything was fine.
That’s what she told herself.
But that feeling of unseen eyes studying her remained, making her skin prickle. Frantically, she looked around, trying to take in every bit of her surroundings. She knew this house, she’d lived here for seven years, so she could account for every shape and every shadow. Maybe I’m just shaken because of what happened at the pub, she thought, reasoning with herself. She turned back to the fuse box.
The knocking was quiet, but intentional. It didn’t need to be loud, she was standing right next to the door. Whoever stood on the other side waited just a few inches away, separated by a lump of wood. Christine hoped it was a very strong, very secure lump of wood. If she concentrated, she could hear breathing. Ragged, feral breathing. More animal than human. This is stupid, she thought, but it didn’t stop her from tightening her grip on the torch even more. Cramp threatened to take her hand hostage. Knuckles whitened with the effort.
“Monster, gore and filled with evil… The story is great and I’m a fan of the author. The story went in the right direction, by going in all sorts of directions- but that’s what kept me. The story is rich and original in the origin of things too! I’d never have imagined the true beginning of werewolves were from ***NO SPOILERS***. Sorry folks; you’ll have to read the book. Just know that it’s pretty cool.” – Alyssa