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"Thompson delivers on all levels"

Jean Maitland comes to England searching for answers. She wants to know what happened to her ancestor, Jean Fowler Chapin. The man with the answers wants the past to stay buried, but Jean is determined. She has no idea the evil that she will unleash when she enters the abandoned mansion on the cliffs, how in opening the door to the past, she conjures and evil into the present. Legend says Jean Chapin was murdered, along with her husband, Malcolm, by her husband's uncle, Colin. Only, Jean feels there is more to the story. She has no idea the menace from the past hadn't ended, but has been waiting for someone to set it free.

20 years ago the late Dawn Thompson began writing an epic saga, about the struggle between good and evil. Thompson went on to produce the story as a play in New York; her sister Diane, even starred as the heroine, Jean Fowler Chapin. This story is that 'book of the heart.' Thompson is widely known for her amazingly detailed Regency Historical Romances and her Paranormal stories that ranged from Vampires to shapeshifters to the erotic fantasy world- building Lord of the Deep and Lord of the Dark. This book will be a departure to her fans, but they will get to see Dawn Thompson at her very best. The book was written when authors had a bit more freedom in length, when the style of storytelling was given to wonderful sagas. During the years when her books were selling so strongly, she could have cut this book and sold it. Instead, she held on to it, determined to see it printed as she originally intended it to be told. It's actually two books in one, but the point where the book would break would see one small book and one large one, so this is printed as she wanted¯in a single volume.

From page one, I was hooked. Thompson clearly shows just what an amazing talent she was by instantly giving you a dark, suspenseful tale of horror. She described the book as "Anya Seton meets Stephen King" and that is a fair assessment of its style. I would also say she added a touch of Daphne du Maurier and Arthur Quiller-Couch. Rape of the Soul is one of those books that will linger on bookshelves, and be read again and again.

Thompson delivers on all levels. When Jean Maitland enters the abandoned glass house of Craigmoor, you have a Hitchcock style, 'dark at the top of the stairs' foreboding that pure evil can exist and can reach from the past to destroy the future. Thompson delivers with this spellbinding tour de force, her legacy to her fans. It's a keeper. This is one I fully expect to see made into a movie.

Reviewed by: Deborah Macgillivray, author

Reviewed by Deborah Macgillivray
Posted July 2, 2008

The house seemed to beckon her. Welcome her. As if it knew her. The light had faded, and dark, bilious clouds had taken its place. In the three short weeks I'd spent in Cornwall, I'd learned two things: that the weather was not to be trusted, and that the wind never ceased to blow. Fair weather or foul, it whistled and murmured and moaned, like a living, breathing, tortured being. It had risen since it played innocently among the foxglove blooms earlier stirring the mists along the graveyard gate. Now it was angry, driving the black clouds inland from the sea. Waterfowl raced before it dotting the sky like a blizzard over the mighty house, and I'd scarcely pulled the car to a stop when the rain came. It was just as I remembered it from my drive-by earlier, like a creature of myth silhouetted against the storm-a huge, rambling, turreted structure of stone and timbers defying its existence in such a setting. Yet, aside from a wounded turret, a few missing boards, and a good deal of broken glass, Cragmoor approached the dawn of another century remarkably intact. I tried to imagine the house as it once must have been, ablaze with light and life, surrounded by manicured lawns and courtyards and lush, fragrant gardens. Now it rose from a tangled snarl of briar, thorn, and desolation. Row upon row of darkened windows, catching stray glints of the fading light, shuddered in the wind as the gale bore down upon it. The house was asleep, and I was about to wake it.