Land of Ghosts by E.L. James First Chapter

Chapter I
The Terrible Now
August, this year

It was a glorious day to be buried. The sun shone bold and bright, and a lone cotton cloud
drifted across the bluest of blue skies drawing my attention away from the mourners
at the graveside.
Hmm . . . A solitary cloud. In a big empty sky. Alone.
Like me.
The distressed creak of nylon straps as the second coffin was lowered into the grave brought me
back to the now.
No.
No.
I couldn’t bear it so I forced my gaze onto a single majestic oak on a distant hill that had spread its branches and leaves to embrace the sun. It was magnificent; its leaves rippling emerald to forest green in the warm air. It wanted the light, not the darkness unfurling before me.
The tree. Concentrate on the tree.
It must be old.
Was it here before the graveyard?
A hundred years ago? Two hundred?
I had no idea.
The smell of freshly mown grass and damp chalky earth invaded my senses. The aroma filled my nostrils, fighting the overpowering sweet perfume of the flowers that lay in a vivid blanket of colour around the gaping grave. Tribute upon floral tribute – their petals, leaves and memorial cards fluttering in the gentle breeze.
For them.
My family.
My whole family.
I turned away and looked once more at the cloud that had thinned out to resemble a fluffy
crocodile scrambling across the sky.
Billy! The cloud!
I almost turned around to tell him and point to the sky.
Almost.
He and I loved cloud animals, and he always saw the most fantastical creatures, like giants and dragons and monsters, whereas my imaginings were more mundane and real: a dog asleep or a horse running. But of course, he wasn’t beside me, he was in front of me, cold and dead in a wooden box, and we’d never be able to share clouds again.
Reverend O’Connell coughed and stumbled over his words and I was once more back in the terrible now. The final, smaller – too small – coffin descended. The straps silent. The weight not testing the nylon.
Billy.
I watched his final short journey.
Down. Down. Down.
Until his coffin disappeared into the grave to join my parents.
Mum. Dad.
I should be with them.
I stepped forward. Only a short pace, but it took me closer to the brink. I stared into the large hole in the ground that was the final resting place for my parents and my baby
brother.
All three of them together in death.
Three separate coffins. Two large. One small. The small on top of the large.
I should be with them.
Everyone I loved.
Everyone.
Gone.
All I had left was an absence of feeling. Numb was my new BFF, my ever-present companion and I clung to her tightly. She was my lifeguard, holding me buoyant above the gruelling loss and pain that lurked beneath.
I stood with the sombre-dressed group of mourners.
There were so many of them. Colleagues and pupils from where they worked. Friends.
Neighbours. Most of our village had made the journey to Canterbury’s municipal graveyard. There were sniffles among the crowd, but I refused to cry.
I couldn’t.
I hadn’t shed a tear since the terrible news of the accident.
Reverend O’Connell was nearing the end of the burial service. His soft voice droned. ‘We
commend unto thy hands of mercy, most merciful Father, the souls of thy brother, thy sister and thy child departed, and we commit their bodies to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. And we beseech thine infinite goodness to give us grace to live in thy fear and love . . .’ It was hard to concentrate and hard to listen to his voice, and not for the first time, I wished I had some religious leanings; maybe that would help during this . . . crisis, but my parents had never bothered with religion. They were atheists, though not passionately so; and now they were gone. Truly gone.
Would there be an afterlife for them? Or would their bodies just feed the ground on which I stood – end of story?
I dismissed the depressing thought, and the distant sunlit oak drew my attention once more.
Suddenly, everyone around me muttered ‘Amen’, disturbing my friend Numb.
No.
No.
Hold on. Don’t leave me now.
The whispers began again.
‘She’s so strong.’ ‘. . . on her own now . . .’ ‘. . . so young to be on her own . . .’ ‘Only sixteen? Seventeen?’ ‘What’s to become of her?’ ‘. . . living with some distant relative . . .’ ‘Poor child.’ Ignoring them was easy, yet I was grateful for my mother’s huge sunglasses swamping my face, because all eyes were trained in my direction, watching my every move, all conveying their pity. I always hated being the centre of attention, but right now I just didn’t care. Numb helped. She kept my head held high for my parents’ sake. I didn’t want to break down in front of all these people. I didn’t want to engage. I couldn’t. My detachment was complete.
The crowd began to disperse. They were going back to my parents’ house – my house – for a funeral tea. I looked again at the lonesome mighty oak.
This is me now. Alone. But not so mighty.
Alone except for Dr Dylan Knightley who stood watching me. My sentinel, dressed in a sharp black suit, his frigid blue eyes taut with grief. ‘What do you want to do, Emily? Would you like to go back to the house or stay here a little longer?’ His voice was hoarse with emotion.
I swallowed. ‘Stay,’ I whispered, the solitary word squeezing through the uncomfortable knot in my throat.
He nodded. ‘I’ll wait by the car. Take as long as you need.’ He turned and stalked towards the dark Mercedes that had brought us to the city graveyard.
I stared down at the three coffins: my father’s, the largest, lay beside my mother’s, then on top of them both, Billy’s.
It was small, and white . . . He was seven.
My scalp prickled and dizziness swept over me as I realised this was my last goodbye.
My only goodbye.
I’d not been allowed to see them.
Sinking onto my knees on the soft, dry grass I plucked three roses from the nearest floral display and threw them one by one into the grave, whispering, ‘Goodbye, Daddy. Goodbye, Mum. Goodbye, Billy.’
In an instant, my protective shield disintegrated leaving me raw and exposed and all that was left was a horrible gaping loss. Agony ripped through my chest, and it had nothing to do with my bruised ribs – the only injury I’d sustained in the accident. The pain was devastating. No one could have prepared me for this feeling, this awful, awful hollow emptiness.
This . . . nothing.
I gasped, struggling to breathe, as it sucked me down onto the soft mown grass, where I lay and finally wept. The dam to my grief burst in loud, gut-wrenching sobs that wracked my body and crushed my soul.
I should be with them. I should be with them. I should be
with them.
I want to die.

I woke in my bed. My head buzzed and my eyes felt scratchy and swollen and I was still fully dressed. Only my shoes had been removed. I couldn’t recall going to bed. The last thing I remembered was being at my family’s graveside.
Oh yes. They’re dead.
All of them.
Every day since the accident, it hit me like the first time . . . like a wrecking ball. My life shattered by some stupid drunk driver. My family was gone.
Snuffed out. No more.
My pink bedside light, draped with its pretty silver scarf, was on, illuminating Dylan in soft light.
He was slumped
in the rocking chair in the corner of the room, fast asleep.
Dressed in his expensive suit and shoes, he made my room look small and cluttered. And he was wearing his trench- coat. In August.
He looked odd in my rocking chair; he was too big for it.
My mother would read me stories from that chair. Rocking gently to and fro. I’d tell her about my day at school. She’d tell me about hers. She was a teacher. Like my dad.
Teachers who would teach no more.
Dylan stirred. ‘You’re awake,’ he murmured, rising stiffly. With a bleak expression he moved to sit beside me on the bed. ‘I gave you a sedative. I’m afraid you were very upset. I couldn’t calm you down so I gave you a sedative.’
That explains the brain fog.
‘Everyone’s left now. You won’t have to face anyone for a while. It’s after eleven at night – you should go back to sleep. I can give you something if you need help with that.’ ‘Please,’ I whispered.
He nodded and left the room, returning a few moments later with a glass of water and  couple of sleeping tablets.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘Is there anything else you need, Emily?’ I shook my head. Swallowing the
tablets, I drank the water and lay back. 

Dylan gazed down at me, and I did my best to ignore the concern etched on his face. ‘Okay, then. I’m going to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.’ He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his forehead, revealing his grief and exhaustion, then turned and left.
Yes, he was suffering too. He’d lost his stepsister, and his godson. I couldn’t deal with the
thought. Poor Doctor Dyl. He was my mother’s younger, brilliant, elusive step- brother, and I used her pet name for him. He was the man sitting beside me when I’d woken up after the car crash that I couldn’t recall; the man who’d broken the bad news to me; the man I was going to live with. He was a doctor in an A&E department of a London hospital. I’d be moving to the big city, away from my childhood home, away from all I knew. Away from all the memories of my family to live with my young uncle.
What had my parents been thinking?
He was only – what? Nine, ten years older than me. I barely knew him, and they’d made him my guardian. But then who else would take me? He was my only living, com- petent relative, not that we were actually related. He was adopted. My mother has— I gasped as the pain rippled through my chest. My mother had a complicated family set-up.
Mum . . . Mummy.
I drifted, as the tablets worked their magic.

Extracted from LAND OF GHOSTS by E L James. Published by evermore, an imprint of Penguin Random House, on 20th October 2026, £9.99. Copyright © EL James 2026. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.