So after launching the last two books (Ralph and The Four Unicorns of the Apocalypse, and MacDonald’s Farm – Fleas Have Feelings Too!), I am once again sat in front of the trusty old keyboard working on my next novel.
Based in the same insane and whimsically weird, village of Rumbly Combe in the deepest depths of Somerset. This novel pitches, four overlooked and underappreciated women, an 18 inch Demon, and a book of questionable magic and intentions, against the dreaded PTA of the Rumbly Combe Primary School.
Project ‘The Witches’ is progressing well and below is a brief extract from the book to wet you appetite
The Finding of the Book of Questionable Magic
There are many things one expects to find in a Somerset attic:
• Old Christmas decorations
• A box labelled “Misc.” that contains nothing but regret and a single AA battery
• A spider the size of a small horse, possibly with a mortgage
• And at least one item that makes you say, “Why on earth do I still have this?”
What one does not expect to find is a book.
A talking book.
A talking book with opinions.
And, worse, a talking book with attitude.
But that is exactly what Maddy found when she went upstairs to use Sarah’s loo.
To be clear, she had not gone up there looking for a book. She had gone up because Sarah’s downstairs loo had a door that didn’t quite close unless you lifted it, jiggled it, and whispered encouraging things to it like a Victorian governess soothing a fainting child. Maddy, being a woman of spiritual sensitivity, preferred not to negotiate with bathroom doors. She believed boundaries were important.
So, she went upstairs.
And when she came back down, she was holding a large, dusty, slightly damp tome that looked like it had been written by someone who had strong feelings about punctuation and even stronger feelings about other people’s incompetence.
Sarah blinked. “Where… where did you get that?”
“Your attic,” Maddy said cheerfully, as if this explained everything, including the dampness, the dust, and the faint aura of judgement radiating from the book.
“I don’t have anything like that in my attic,” Sarah said, which was true in the sense that she had never put anything like that in her attic. But attics are mysterious places. Things migrate. Objects appear. Socks vanish. Entire ecosystems form. Some attics are basically portals with insulation.
Jo squinted at the book. “Why is it… damp?”
The book shuddered, shook off a few droplets, and said in a voice like a disgruntled librarian who had been forced to work overtime during a heatwave:
“Oh, marvellous. More amateurs.”
The women screamed.
It was not a dignified scream.
It was not even a horror‑movie scream.
It was more of a scream, of four women who had collectively reached the limit of what they were prepared to deal with today, and talking literature was definitely not on the list.
Charlie Hicks - Author 
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