Suffer the Children by Caroline Clark

Book 3 in the The Ghosts of RedRise House

The Ghosts are only children how dangerous can they be?

Shelly wants to find ghosts. It has obsessed her for the last six years, ever since that day, the one she can never forget. There is something she has to tell them, something she needs to do.

When she hears about the haunting at RedRise House she knows she has to visit. To save the souls of the children trapped there and to seek out justice.

Now she is here with her best friend Jack and the house is super creepy. It all seems so real and when she is told to leave she is so close to going. Only that is foolish. What could go wrong? She knows what she is doing. After all, she has spoken to one ghost, and only children haunt the big old manor.

With her best friend Jack, they plan to spend a week of excitement and discovery. On the first night strange noises drag them from their room. Secrets are revealed and then they meet the children. What has she done?

Too late she discovers The Ghosts of RedRise House want them and will never let them leave.

Find out if Shelly and Jack will escape the house or if they will join the haunted souls who reside there.


Read an Excerpt:

RedRise House

Yorkshire Moors


10 pm

Sprinting through a dark and clouded night, a young boy
raced as if for his life. Tiny bare feet made no sound as he
tore along an overgrown path. So thin, so frail, and yet he
raced like the devil was on his tail. Arms pumping, lips pulled
back into a snarl. The breeze didn’t lift his home cut hair as
step by step he ran on and on.

Though weeds and brambles blocked his path, he passed
through them without hinder as he ran toward the freedom
of the countryside beyond.

Behind him, a chill, keening sound started. Standing at the
door of a once imposing house were over a dozen children.
None of them moved their mouths, yet the sound came from
them and rose on the air. Louder and louder, higher and
higher. Like nails on a chalkboard, it shattered the stillness
and ripped through the quiet. Was it encouragement,
disapproval or despair? It followed him as step by step he
came closer to freedom. Closer to the open grassland dotted
with trees and beyond that the world.

Yet the shadow of the hulking house stretched out in the
darkness, and he had yet to break its reach.

It had once been an impressive sight, but now the front door
hung half open. Broken windows winked in the black night
and yet kept the secrets within. A tile had slipped from the
roof and lay shattered on the path. Weeds crowded the
garden. Straggly, forest like growths that attempted to take
over but were brown and dying around the base of the house
and the front door.

Surrounding that door were over a dozen children, ranging
from five to twelve in age. Though it was difficult to tell, for
all of them were small and malnourished. They wore oldfashioned
clothes. The girls dressed in plain, dark, work
dresses that came down to their bare feet. The material
patched and threadbare in places. The boy’s trousers didn’t
quite cover their bony ankles and were topped with plain
dark smocks.

Despite the late hour and the chill of the night they didn’t
shiver. Simply stood looking, staring as if at freedom. Big
eyes, white against dirty skin pleaded for escape. On either
side of them, stood like a sentinel, was an adult figure.
Cloaked in a long dark robe that covered their head and hid
their features. One was smaller, perhaps a woman, but it was
impossible to tell.

The keening hit a note so high it must surely shatter the
houses remaining windows. The boy was so close to
escaping. Just five more feet and he would clear the house
grounds, clear the shadow. He would be free of the jungle of
weeds and place his bare foot on the rolling grasslands.

At the door, the children shuffled on the spot. Leaning
forward as if to push him those last few paces. Their faces
were lit with excitement, hope, and yet beneath it all was the
mask of fear. This was false hope, and they knew it.

One more step and the boy was gone. The keening was
replaced by a collective sigh of disappointment. They
stepped back, making room and were not surprised when
the ginger-headed child appeared before them. Tears ran
down his cheeks, tracing a clean path through the dirt.

The children all crowded around him offering support
though none tried to touch him. They knew better.

Then, one by one they threw back their heads and the
keening rose into the night. A sound so terrible, it told of
their pain and their eternal torment. Now, it was clear why
they didn’t move their lips. The sound came from the brutal
slashes across their throats. The torn and bloodied skin
flapped as the noise rose into the night.

The adults stayed still, like statues, and yet despair came
from them too. This was not a good place, not a place that
they intended to stay.