My eleventh horror novel, ‘White Hill,’ sees a return to my home county of Kent. It features a tale spun around actual hauntings attributed to a real life location and its surrounding woods.
We’ve several road ghosts in this part of the world. Bluebell Hill is by far the most famous, but White Hill comes in a close second. It was well known to colleagues during my police career, who periodically dealt with distraught motorists there. Panicked souls labouring under the honest assumption they’d killed somebody at night on that quiet, winding, wooded country lane. And yes, they collided with a smiling woman in white! For several years I had to drive up the hill after 11PM on a weekly basis. You can bet I kept my eyes peeled and a ready foot close to the brake pedal…
Nearby King’s Wood is home to countless tales of disembodied screaming women and pursued walkers. It’s a site known for ritual practice (the place described in the book actually exists). As a child I sledded there during winter snow and have walked the woods in all seasons throughout my life. Carpets of springtime bluebells along the ridge overlooking The Great Stour Valley are a joy and source of annual pilgrimage for me.
White Hill sits along The Pilgrims’ Way from Winchester to Canterbury. The section mentioned in my latest novel from Boughton Aluph to the eastern side of Chilham, marks a point where the North Downs Way runs in tandem with it.
I grew up in the area and attended school nearby. Chilham, Old Wives Lees, Chartham and Mystole have been part of my life, going on half a century. I took great pleasure in spinning a yarn linking White Hill with the atmospheric wonder of Julliberrie Down and its long barrow. Chuck some local history and folklore into the mix, add a visiting bereaved father who’s split from his wife, teenage friends attempting to contact a departed peer, and a rag-tag occult group seduced by entities drawn to White Hill, then bake well for 355 pages. Et Voila!
‘White Hill,’ will be released on 26th March in paperback and Kindle formats, including Kindle Unlimited for Amazon subscribers. The Kindle version is currently available for pre-order at a knockdown discount. This price will remain until the end of March.
I’ll include a few of my snaps below, relevant to readers of the book.

Chilham Village Square 
Chilham Castle Front Gates 
Mountain Street from the bottom of School Hill 
The chestnut bend on Mountain Street 
Bluebells in King’s Wood 
Bluebells in King’s Wood 
Canterbury Cathedral from The Pilgrims’ Way 
White Hill from the ascent to Julliberrie Down

The guildhall stood an elegant, green, rendered structure with high, arched windows. The building rested on thick wooden stilts allowing a market to be held underneath. Once the local court house, it also featured a clock, flagpole and weather vane in the shape of a dragon. All around, wonky timber-framed buildings with high-pitched roofs clustered about the three principal streets that fed into this oft-photographed civic space.
On the other side of Dark Hill sat Westbrook Pond, fed from the Westbrook Stream that eventually flowed into Ardenham Creek in the centre of town. Lavington church reflected down into the mirror-like calm water from a tree-lined ridge above, and proved a popular scene for artists and photographers of all flavours. Jack had many fond memories of feeding the ducks there with his grandparents, whenever they came down to stay at Christmas back in the Seventies.
‘The Mermaid’ was a large, tumbledown, timber-framed old inn squatting at the far end of Abbey Street. The place sat just before the wharf entrance to Ardenham Creek, where sailing vessels loaded and unloaded their cargo. Its reputation as a dirty, over-crowded den of cutthroats and villains of all shapes and sizes was well deserved. If you were a merchant, deckhand or salty sea dog in search of rough grog, a good fight, or pox-infested tumble with a coarse strumpet, you need go no further into town. The more genteel population of Ardenham secretly hoped the inn would never burn down nor shut its doors. While there were certainly other rough drinking establishments, fleshpots and diverse dens of iniquity to be found close by, its proximity to the embarkation/disembarkation point of maritime crews kept some of the rougher elements at arm’s length. Many never went any further than ‘The Mermaid,’ unless they had other business to attend to.
Their cork heels crunched on the gravel path. It led up to the tall pillars that supported a shady front porch fronting Glyndale Park Manor. White rendering shone in the late September morning sun, affording the impressive structure an almost ethereal quality to match its palatial grandeur. Even though the old place had clearly seen better days – particularly when examined up close – it was still an elegant former residence.
Gaby grabbed his arm with a gasp, glancing around. “Jack, do you realise where we are?”
“Jack?” the musical, lilting female voice evidenced a hint of surprise and cheekiness. It stirred the diner from further deep thoughts his fathomless mind had wandered into whilst eating. “Jack Foreman?” the tone sounded again, as if to reinforce its first word with a reassurance tag provided by his surname.

