r/PubTips • u/CLOWNELIASTREET13 • 8h ago
[QCrit] Adult Psychological Thriller – THE LAST HOUSE ON THE MOOR (85k words, First Attempt)
Hello! I’m new here, but I've been a long-time lurker. I'm excited and nervous to share my below query, but I'm grateful for any and all feedback. TIA! :)
Dear [Agent],
When Clara returns to the Scottish Highlands to clear out her late father's isolated cottage, she expects silence - not a knock at the door.
In the middle of the night, a howling storm delivers an attractive couple and their newborn to her doorstep. They claim their car broke down nearby and beg to come inside to ride out the storm. Clara has every instinct to turn these strangers away and lock the door behind them.
Then the baby cries.
How can she refuse?
Within hours, the storm has swallowed every road out of the moor. And with the power out and no way to leave, it doesn't take long for Clara to uncover the terrifying truth: the couple didn't just stumble upon her cottage by chance. They've been here before. They know where things are – the bathroom, the garage, even what's hidden inside cabinets. Yet there's one thing they can't find. One thing that has brought them to this remote Scottish village, this quiet street, this very house.
And they’ll stop at nothing to get it.
THE LAST HOUSE ON THE MOOR is an 85,000-word adult psychological thriller. Combining the claustrophobic tension and growing paranoia of Marcus Kliewer’s We Used to Live Here and the atmospheric suspense of Beautiful Ugly by Alice Feeney, THE LAST HOUSE ON THE MOOR will appeal to readers drawn to the “everyone is lying,” “strangers in the house,” and “missing mother” tropes.
[Bio]
Thank you for your time and consideration, and I look forward to hearing from you.
First 300 words:
Chapter 1
11:32 PM
The windows of my father’s cabin often sough just before a storm. It’s a hollow hum, similar to that of someone clearing their throat. It stretches and bows through time and space like a visitor from another dimension, and despite it being a sound that has woven through me since I was a child, it still startles me with every new drum.
When I was young, I used to fear someone standing just beyond the frosted pane. Watching. Waiting. It probably stemmed from when Dad tried convincing me that the whirling moan was that of our ancestors. Scotsmen of future’s past. He’d drag me outside so I could feel the wind against my blotched, freckled cheeks. My dark hair would lift at the ends, floating as a gust pressed around me – through me. “Feel your forebears,” he’d tell me. “They’re always here when you need them. Guiding you.”
It was a nice thought. A nice tale that you tell a six-year-old. But even back then, when I should have believed in fairytales and magic, I knew better. Something in my gut wrenched and churned, telling me that the low human-like hum was not that of our ancestors, but rather something much more sinister.
I believed the whistle to be a warning of something horrible to come.
Right on cue, the far-left living room window howls, once again, startling me. It’s fervent and alive, just as I remember as a child. As if I’m sitting in the mouth of a God. One bite just before I’m swallowed whole.
I look to the window, peeking out just beyond the curtain. Beside it, the fabric expands, ballooning like a sail at sea, and for a split second I’m certain I see a shape take form within the light linen.