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Suspected of murdering their parents, sisters Lily and Della flee to a strange, unnamed island in Scotland, and their arrival puts in motion a horrifying series of events… Literary suspense meets folk horror in 2025’s most original, mesmerising modern gothic masterpiece…
Evil runs through this cursed island
And these wicked sisters are about to make it burn…
When sisters Lily and Della Pedley are persecuted for the shocking murder of their parents, they flee from their home in Cornwall to a remote and unnamed island in Scotland – an island known for its strange happenings, but far away from the whispers and prying eyes of strangers.
Lily is terrified of what her sister will might do next, and she soon realises that they have arrived at a place where nothing is as it seems. A bitterness runs through the land like poison, and the stories told by the islanders seem to be far more than folklore.
Della settles in too easily, the island folk drawn to her strangeness, but Lily is plagued by odd and unsettling dreams, and as an annual festival draws nigh, she discovers that she has far more to fear than she could ever have imagined. Or does she…?
Chilling, atmospheric and utterly hypnotic, Small Fires is a contemporary gothic novel that examines possession, generational trauma, female rage, and the perilous bonds of family – an unsettling reminder that the stories we tell can be deadly…
Midsommar meets Midnight Mass in a folk horror, modern gothic masterpiece.
My thanks to Danielle for the tour invite. Small Fires is published by Orenda Books (27 February 2025) and available in ebook, audiobook and paperback formats. I reviewed Ronnie’s previous book from 2023 here on the blog, So Pretty which was a captivating sinister and chilling read. This latest standalone looks just as dark and haunting. For my turn on the tour today, its a pleasure to host an extract.
EXTRACT
HIM – THEN
The Cruelty of Language
His sister takes Silas to the water.
Gaia undoes his laces, removes his socks, and he thinks, This looks a lot like care, like kindness. But this will hurt. He can feel it in the soles of his feet. But he does not know how to stop it.
‘I want you to go into the water,’ she says.
He looks at her. Has she forgotten? ‘But … but I can’t swim.’
‘I know.’
The tide licks at the shore, trying to reach him, closer and closer, as if there is something under it. A storm hums in the air, gathering clouds and casting out its shadows. There are so many shadows, it might as well be night.
‘You’ve got your head so full of stories, but stories will make you unwell.’ She pinches the skin on his forehead, and he winces. Then her fingers go all the way around his head and under his ears, as if she is trying to find a way to get in. ‘Zip, zip,’ she says.
‘I like my stories. Why will they make me unwell?’ His stories don’t have her inside them.
‘Would you like me to tell you a true story?’
He shakes his head, and she smiles. He does not trust that smile.
‘Once there lived a boy who read stories all day long.’
‘Like me?’
‘Exactly like you. This boy had hundreds of books – old books, new books. Books about knights and thieves and princess and witches. About fairy tales with no fairies and cold desserts and waterless oceans. He coveted them. His books were stacked so high, he felt he could climb them and keep climbing all the way to the moon. His mother and father worried for him.
‘“You need to sleep,” they said to him. “You need to rest. You are pale and thin. You are ill. Get rid of some of your books. You do not need them all.”
‘This made the boy angry. He wanted to read every book that had ever been written. He wanted to know every story ever told. But he couldn’t read fast enough. So do you know what he did next?’
Her face looms above him. She is still tickling the back of his head. Please don’t let her find a way in, he thinks.
‘What – what did he do?’ Silas asks, tongue thick and clumsy in his mouth.
She smiles. ‘He ate his stories.’
‘He…?’
‘He tore the pages from his books and he swallowed them. All those words sat in his stomach and made it sore. He cried and cried, rubbing his poor belly … but he did not stop. His parents tried to take his books away from him but he found more. And the more he ate, the more his stomach hurt.’
‘Did he sick the words up?’
She shakes her head. ‘No. The words found another way of coming out.’ She runs a finger across his neck. ‘They came out of his skin.’
‘What?’ Silas says, but he really wants her to stop now. He does not like this boy, he does not want to know more.
‘Words ran down his back and between his toes and got lost in his hair. All those things from his stories stuck inside his skin. He tried to wash them away. He scrubbed so hard, he cried. But the words would not go.’
‘Then what happened? Did he stop eating?’
‘No. He was a greedy boy, a strange boy. He could not stop. His father was ashamed of him and cast him out. So the boy walked into the sea, thinking the salt would clear him. But the boy was wrong. His body was full of words, and they were so heavy, they pulled him down, down to the bottom.’
‘He drowned?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘He’s still there.’
Silas shivers, makes his hands into claws and tucks them under his arms. ‘He’s at the bottom of the sea?’
‘He lives there. And he can’t have any books, so he reads his own skin. Over and over again. The same words. They must make him mad after so long a time. He shouldn’t have been greedy.’
‘But stories aren’t … bad?’
‘Aren’t they?’ She taps his skull. ‘They made the boy mad, then they made him lonely.’
‘That’s sad.’
‘He’s so lonely, Silas. I hear him crying sometimes, you know.’ She lifts his arms out of his coat. ‘He calls for his mother. Even his father. He wants a friend. But he has been down there so long, he doesn’t know they have all gone.’
Silas holds himself, stamping his feet. ‘It’s cold, Gaia.’
‘I know. I know.’
‘Can I have my coat back?’
‘No.’ She removes his shirt. ‘This boy has been alone for so many years. I don’t want to hear him crying anymore. He needs a friend.’
‘I can’t be his friend. I can’t swim.’
‘You don’t want him to be lonely, Silas, do you?’
‘N-no.’ Tears are coming into his eyes. His heart is louder than the waves. ‘No. No!’ He shouts. ‘You’re just trying to upset me. You’re being mean. You’re just being mean! Stop it!’
She strokes his hair again, zip zip. Where are his seams?
‘Silas, you’re being selfish. Do you want to be like that boy? Do you want words, lots of frightening words, on your skin? You can’t get them off, you know. No matter how hard you rub.’
‘No…’
‘So go and see the boy. You’ll find the way – can’t you hear him calling to you?’ She turns him round and points into the water. Silas licks the salt from his lip. He is panting and he can’t quieten the sob coming up his throat.
‘I can’t swim. I can’t swim.’
‘Don’t let the boy be lonely.’
‘Please … I don’t want to.’
She walks him forward. She’s found it, she’s found his opening. The noise in his mouth breaks into the air. Birds lift up and leave them. Even the storm halts its movement, calms its voice to better hear his begging.
‘Silas, do as your told. You must do as you’re told.’
‘But I’ll drown. I’ll die, Gaia…’
‘You won’t. You’ll live with the boy at the bottom of the sea. And you’ll tell each other stories.’
‘I don’t want any more stories. I don’t like them anymore…’
‘You’ll tell him of fairy tales with no fairies—’
‘No!’
‘You’ll tell him of knights and thieves and cold deserts and waterless oceans—’
‘NO. PLEASE! I don’t want to go into the water. I don’t want to.’
‘You’ll stay down there with him so I don’t have to look at you. Perhaps I’ll find some words of yours washed up on the beach. Perhaps I’ll stand on the edge and wave at you sometimes.’ She smiles, and he wants to be sick. ‘But probably I won’t.’
Her hands drive him on. He claws at her, but she is so much bigger than him. He screams but her voice is loudest. He tells her he will never pick up another story. He begs, but begging has never helped with Gaia.
She pushes him forward into the water. Rocks pierce his skin. He cries, he does not think he will stop. He will drown the boy all over again. He will make another ocean.
‘Go on. He’s waiting for you, Silas.’
And so Silas goes, picking up his feet and making himself not mind the cuts. He looks at his pale skin. Is that a word there, inside his wrist? Is that one under his fingernail? He lifts his eyes and follows a voice he cannot hear.
He goes to meet the boy at the bottom of the sea.
`A deeply unsettling and thought-provoking tale of survival and storytelling, mixing elements of gothic and folk horror with literary suspense. Beautifully woven and eerily atmospheric´ Anna Mazzola
`Rarely will you meet a story as unsettling, nor one as bewitchingly told. With its roots snaking into folk horror, Small Fires plays with the contemporary gothic vibe reminiscent of Midsommar and The Wicker Man … I challenge you to pick it up and when you do, to put it down´ Janice Hallett
`Ronnie Turner has a way of weaving words into a spell – the darkest of spells. Mesmerising, sinister … this modern folklore gothic will chill you to the bone´ Essie Fox
`Crackles with menace and authenticity. Kept me up late and crept into my dreams´ Sarah Hilary
Ronnie Turner grew up in Cornwall, the youngest in a large family. At an early age, she discovered a love of literature and dreamed of being a published author. Ronnie now lives in Dorset with her family and three dogs. In her spare time, she reviews books on her blog and enjoys long walks on the coast. Ronnie is a Waterstones Senior Bookseller.
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Whoa reading this gave me such big chills!
Yes, me too! I knew that Ronnie’s writing is dark but…! 😱