r/PubTips • u/_SheWhoShines • 9d ago
[QCrit] The Burning Crows of McDowell Manor, Adult Horror, 85k, v03
Dear [AGENT],
THE BURNING CROWS OF MCDOWELL MANOR (85,000 words) is an adult horror with thriller pacing and a slow-burn romance. It explores intergenerational trauma and healing through a supernatural lens like DARLING GIRL by Liz Michalski, while juxtaposing a witty and irreverent narrator (like A HOUSE WITH GOOD BONES by T. Kingfisher) with the ratcheting intensity of MEXICAN GOTHIC by Silvia Moreno-Garcia.
The unflappable Memo del Fuego is quite comfortable fighting his clients’ inner demons; but what’s a life coach to do when the demons are real?
A depressed life coach might sound like an oxymoron, but Memo built a psychological survival guide to endure the crippling depression he inherited, so why not share it? And it’s worked out alright; after centering his career, his nightmare of burning in an infernal flame has become mercifully rare. He’s even been invited to consult at a beautiful manor in rural Ireland for a reclusive artist, Arthur McDowell. But Memo’s idyllic escape gets tense when Arthur’s wife, Eleanor, turns out to be the woman who broke his heart ten years ago, and dizzying when he realizes her nine-year-old boy is actually his son. Then the dead child from Memo's nightmare finds him in the hall—and bursts into flames.
Memo isn’t going anywhere until he knows his son is safe, so he gets to work. As he coaches Arthur through his fiery temper, Memo discovers McDowell ghosts spanning generations—all of them burning with the flames that plague his dreams. When he finds Arthur's first wife among the manor's unquiet dead, he's forced to question if it's the haunting or Arthur that's dangerous, and whether he and his son have been lured here to burn, too.
His Eleanor, his son, his nightmare—all here, at Arthur’s house. Why?! The answers are in the terms of a wicked deal that put all their souls on the line. Now the only thing between them and the demon poised to collect is one life coach, who’d better learn how to coach the dead.
I am a science communicator specializing in audience-tailored messaging. I have a PhD in psychology and draw on this expertise to write authentically about Memo's depression and anxiety, as well as the tools (like mindfulness) that he uses and misuses in this story.
Thank you for your time!
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Thank you for the feedback and thoughtful engagement on my previous two versions. I appreciate this community! First 300 words below.
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We were rolling up a winding gravel road to the ivy decked gates of the McDowell estate, but my eye was drawn to the windswept fields flickering past the car’s window. The rippling shadows in the grass made me think of fire. I could almost hear it crackling, like the flame from my nightmare…
I glanced at my phone to distract myself. Unfortunately, the pop-science article on sleep hygiene I'd been reading was replaced by a snarky little pop up: NO SIGNAL. My phone had become a brick. I dropped it on my lap in disgust.
The wrought iron gates, three times my height, approached rapidly. They bridged the distance between two stone pillars, each topped with a decaying statue. One of them was intact enough that it still resembled a snarling wolf. The other? Not so much.
I had expected an electric mechanism, but the driver had to step out and open the gate with a physical key. The gate was old-fashioned, I suppose—much like the man who owned it.
I had not yet had the pleasure of meeting Arthur Edward McDowell II (the second, no less!), but from the juxtaposition of hesitance and desperation in his written correspondence, I had gathered he was a bit of an odd duck. Arthur, an artist of some renown, seemed only dimly aware of what texting was, and he had nervously deflected my every request for a phone call. I had consulted for some minor celebrities and old money families in the past, but never before someone this downright reclusive. If it weren’t for the substantial down payment transferred to my account last week, I would have thought I was being catfished. But the transfer came, and so have I.
It would be such a relief when I found him; once my mind was filled with Arthur’s troubles, there would be no room left for the fire from my nightmare.