LOUISIANA BLOOD began life as a screenplay. It won or was placed in over 25 competitions, was performed on stage and gained me the offer of representation in LA with Anonymous Content. It was set up as part of a huge Canadian Film fund and producers came and went. A few years on and I decided that the story was too good to remain an un-produced screenplay and so with the backing of many hundred followers and the support of my family it was reborn as a novel. But how did the idea first surface...?
Forget everything you’ve ever read about Jack The Ripper...he never existed!
Let me start by explaining why I wrote this story. I’ve always been into conspiracy theories, after all history has taught us that there’s usually always a hidden agenda behind the big story, and sooner or later, the real story will come out. I looked at the mythology of one of the greatest serial killers in England, and possibly the world…not because of the scale of his activities…but rather the timing of his arrival.
I’m talking about JACK THE RIPPER, his actions were the catalyst for a huge amount of change within the world, and the case had an impact on many areas, Prostitution, the birth of the tabloid press, major development in the east end of London, a massive shake up in the police department and a new focus on forensics, not to mention the political shake up within the royal family and the sacking of the police commissioner…in short, a whole lot of people and organisations were never going to be the same…and while I’m reading about this, I’m thinking…what if that was what this was about? What if JACK THE RIPPER never existed?
I wanted to write an epic conspiracy thriller, linking the conspiracy of London in 1888 with a contemporary thriller in Louisiana, something with the imaginative duplicity of MISSION IMPOSSIBLE and the artifice of THE PRESTIGE.
And so LOUISIANA BLOOD was born:
CHANDLER TRAVIS, a London Detective recovering from injuries sustained during the terrorist bombings of 2007, works as an archivist and lecturer in the BLACK MUSEUM at New Scotland yard. His obsession to uncover the real identity of Jack The Ripper continues a family tradition stretching back to his great grandfather, a newspaper reporter at the time of the Ripper killings.
He’s even writing a book, the problem is, he doesn’t have an ending…well not yet anyway. So when he learns that a coach, buried in a LOUISIANA swamp for over a century has been unearthed containing five female corpses a diary and some letters from one DR FRANCIS J TUMBLETY, a key Ripper suspect, he gets the first flight out.
When he joins the investigation headed up by DUKE LANOIX, a local sheriff, things start to get complicated…local governor ROMAN BLACKBURN seems hell bent on shutting their investigation down, and is prepared to go to any lengths to stop them. Despite attempts on their lives and the destruction of their evidence, they close in on the truth.
But Governor Blackburn has his own agenda...and it doesn’t include their survival!
LOUISIANA BLOOD was The Idiosyncraticate Syndicate and the Thriller Night syndicate pick of the month, and an Inkshares staff pick! It has now made the Quill collection and is being readied for publication!!
If you have any questions or need help just e-mail me: My referral link is HERE! and my E-Mail is below.
On the night of October 2nd 1893 the second largest hurricane ever recorded hit Louisiana, killing 2000 people. Whole villages, including St Malo and Chenier Caminada, were swept from the face of the earth...to this day it remains one of the greatest natural disasters in American history and became known as THE EVIL WIND.
DEVIL’S SWAMP, LOUISIANA – Oct 2nd, 1893.
Tongues of lightning flickered from the sullen clouds overhead, bleaching the dark swamp waters on either side of a muddy track. Trembling shadows silhouetting the desolate landscape. Mangrove roots shuddered in the howling wind, grey tentacles writhing in pain. Through torrents of rain, a black coach raced ahead of the approaching storm.
Five women stared out into the gloom, their pale, terrified faces reflecting the life they’d endured. The coach driver whipped the horses with grim desperation. His face a ravaged mask framing coal black eyes. He wore a studded leather collar that barely covered the livid rope burns around his throat.
The coach shuddered to a halt. The wind and rain ceased. They were in the eye of the storm. A skein of cloud tore across the moon revealing a ghostly, silvered landscape. Swamp water shimmering in its pale light. Beside the banks of the track the hooded eyes of an alligator stared balefully into the night. The horses lunged against their harnesses. Eyes rolling with fear. The alligator sank back below the surface leaving nothing but ripples to mark its presence.
Inside the coach, the weary women huddled together. They wore identical red scarves around their necks. One of them, blonde haired with an ethereal beauty, looked out of the coach window. A sudden gust of wind ripped the scarf from her neck. Sent it floating into the sky. A red wound across the dark clouds above.
The driver climbed down from the carriage. Reached into his jacket and pulled out a pistol. He headed purposefully towards the door of the coach. The blonde girl started to scream. Her voice snuffed out as a maelstrom of grey water engulfed them.