"Was surprised by some of the twists in it, which were unusual. Many stories in this genre are predictable...this one was different. I picked up the White Tower immediately after I finished this one." -Reader
"This story is a thinking person's story. Well crafted premise. Interesting characters, and enough action to keep even an addicted story reader involved." -Reader
"I highly recommend this book. Once I started I couldn't put it down."-Gloria A.
"Wow. What a great book. There wasn't a part I didn't enjoy." -Reader
"I love a good ghost story and picked this one up by chance. I've already downloaded #2 and #3 in this series and can't wait to start reading." -Karen M.
"This book was a lot of fun to read. I think the writer has quite a vast knowledge of the area and had fun writing his story." -Alice M.
From the Inside Flap
After a slow start to the afternoon, the bar of the Grey Horse was suddenly crowded, thanks to the arrival of the volunteer lifeboat crew.
"Another tourist stuck in a sweatbox, was it?" asked Rose Hyde, pulling pints of the local beer.
The 'sweatboxes' were small huts mounted on ten-foot stilts near the middle of the causeway, allowing people trapped by the tide to climb up a ladder and wait for rescue. As the nickname suggested, the huts hadn't been designed for comfort. They sometimes ended up smelling of worse things than sweat.
"Not exactly," said Jim Falk, the captain of the lifeboat. He gave a slight jerk of the head to indicate the end of the bar where Sharkey was nursing his pint alone.
"Another false alarm?" asked Rose, lowering her voice.
"Too bloody right!" said another crew member, without moderating his tone. "We spent two friggin' hours farting around out there. Not a trace of anybody. 'Bloke on an old-fashioned bicycle' my arse!"
Sharkey didn't look round, but silently picked up his pint and went outside.
"You should cut him some slack, lads," said Rose. "He's been through a lot."
"I know," replied Jim, but there were derisive noises from other life boatmen.
"If you're seeing things, you shouldn't be on the crew, simple as that," said one, to murmurs of agreement.
"Well, Barry," shot back Rose, "judging by your state most Saturday nights, we're lucky you don't call the boat out to look for pink elephants."
That got a good laugh and lightened the mood somewhat. Leaving the crew to their banter, Rose went outside to collect glasses and found Sharkey standing by the wall of the small beer garden, looking out at the causeway.
"Al right, Sharkey?" she asked.
He didn't reply.
Rose put the glasses down on a table and went up to him, touched him on the shoulder.
"I know you saw it, Sharkey."
"Don't you go and humor me, girl," he muttered, lips barely moving under his straggling gray beard.
"Brown clothes, maybe tweed. Cycle clips, thick socks. Cloth cap, with a peak. Old-fashioned bike, clunky-looking," said Rose.
Sharkey looked down at her, eyes wide.
Rose turned away, picked up the glasses and said over her shoulder.
"You're not the only one with the sight, Sharkey. I've seen that one a few times lately. The closer to the edge we get, one way or another, the more likely we are to see them. They're nothing to be scared of, just you remember that."
Sharkey watched her as she went inside, then turned and took a swig of his beer and set the glass back down on the wall.
"It's not the ghosts I'm scared of, girl," he said to himself, as he watched the shifting patterns of the restless sea.