Welcome to the blog tour for SUCH DARK THINGS, an adult psychological thriller by New York Times bestselling author, Courtney Cole, writing as Courtney Evan Tate. See below for information on the book, buy links, and an exclusive excerpt.
About the Book
Title: SUCH DARK THINGS
Author: Courtney Evan Tate
Release Date: April 1, 2018
Genre: Adult Psychological Thriller
Links: Goodreads | Amazon | Amazon UK | Amazon CA | Amazon AU | Barnes & Noble | iBooks | Kobo | GooglePlay
A HORRIFIC RECURRING NIGHTMARE IS THREATENING TO STEAL HER SANITY…
Dr. Corinne Cabot is living the American dream. She’s a successful ER physician in Chicago who’s married to a handsome husband. Together they live in a charming house in the suburbs. But appearances can be deceiving—and what no one can see is Corinne’s dark past. Troubling gaps in her memory mean she recalls little about a haunting event in her life years ago that changed everything.
She remembers only being in the house the night two people were found murdered. Her father was there, too. Now her father is in prison; she hasn’t been in contact in years. Repressing that terrifying memory has caused Corinne moments of paranoia and panic. Sometimes she thinks she sees things that aren’t there, hears words that haven’t been spoken. Or have they? She fears she may be losing her mind, unable to determine what’s real and what’s not.
So when she senses her husband’s growing distance, she thinks she’s imagining things. She writes her suspicions off to fatigue, overwork, anything to explain what she can’t accept—that her life really isn’t what it seems.
I count the ceiling tiles in the night.
The light from the moon illuminates the dark just enough to see them.
From down the hall, I hear screaming, but that’s normal here. I’m under no illusions about what this place is.
I hear the nurses’ shoes as they scurry toward the noise, and I look again at the ceiling. There are over five-hundred tiles. I’m not sure of the exact number because every time I count, I get distracted.
I’m so lonely, and I know for a fact that I shouldn’t be in this room. I’m a physician. I should be medicating whomever is screaming.
But I’m not a doctor in this building. I have no credentials here. I’m a patient, like everyone else. It’s a difficult pill to swallow. It’s a fact that lodges in my throat and won’t go down.
With a sigh, I roll to my side, and stare at the wall. It’s white and stark, and the sheets beneath me are cold and thin. My bedding at home is luxurious and thick, spun Egyptian cotton, one-thousand thread count. It’s funny how accustomed I’ve gotten to nice things over the past few years.
During my childhood and med school, I didn’t have anything. Now, I pretty much have everything. And in this place, it’s a stark reminder of the differences between home and here.
The biggest difference of all is that I’m here, and Jude is not.
It’s hard to sleep without my husband. In all the years that we’ve been married, we’ve never been apart. We always sleep curled up together, our limbs intertwined. No matter how little we’re able to see each other during the day, we always wear each other like a second skin in the night.
I wonder if he’s struggling with this as much as I am?
I’ll ask him on Saturday.
God, I don’t get to see him until Saturday?
What day is it now?
With a start, amid my rambling thoughts, I realize I don’t know.
I don’t know what fucking day is it.
How long have I been in here?
The walls close in on me, getting tighter and tighter, until I squeeze my eyes shut so that I don’t have to see them. The only way to survive this is to just plow right through it. I’ll do what they want me to do, and I’ll breathe, and I’ll talk to them, and I’ll remember, and I’ll get better.
I count, whispering, the monotony lulling me into sleep.
One one thousand.
Two one thousand.
Three one thousand.
The last number I remember is one hundred before I drift into the abyss of sleep.
The hissing whisper wakes me, and my eyes open wide, and I don’t know how long I’ve been sleeping. Minutes? Hours?
At first, I think I’m dreaming, but then I see the outline of a girl…a woman…in the chair next to my bed.
It’s dark so I can’t see her face, but her nail polish glints in the moonlight. It’s chipped around the edges. She chews her nails, and she seems so so familiar.
“Who are you?” I ask, a pit forming in the base of my stomach.
“Your worst nightmare.”
I sit straight up in bed, trying like hell to adjust my eyes to the dark, and in that one split second, she’s gone.
I scramble out of bed, turn on the lights, and the nurses find me moments later crawling on my hands and knees, searching beneath my bed.
“What are you looking for?” they ask curiously as they help me up.
“There was a girl in here…” I tell them, and they look at each other strangely because we’re definitely alone now.
“What did she look like?” one asks me as I crawl back into bed.
“I couldn’t see her,” I have to admit. “It was too dark. And her face…it seemed blurry.”
“Maybe you were dreaming,” one suggests.
“I wasn’t,” I insist. “I wasn’t alone.”
But they don’t listen. They turn off my light, and maybe I really am crazy.
I’m on edge for the rest of the night, watching and waiting for someone to appear, but they never do. My muscles are tight and coiled, ready to lunge out of bed again.
But I don’t need to.
She doesn’t come back.
I’ve got to relax. I’ve got to breathe.
I count my breaths until I finally fall asleep again.
The last breath I remember is number five hundred and four.
“Fans of domestic thrillers with an unreliable narrator will gobble this one up…Recommended for all thriller/suspense collections.”
About the Author
Courtney Evan Tate is the nom de plume for New York Times bestselling author, Courtney Cole. Courtney Evan Tate is her darker side… the side that explores shadowy places.
Courtney lives in Florida with her husband and kids. She has a passion for raising drug addiction awareness, the Marine Corp (her middle son is a Marine) and being introspective on the human condition.