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Advent Devotional: Week 1 – Zechariah

1st Week of Advent: Zechariah’s Angel

Luke 1:8-20

Angel’s Message:

“Do not be afraid, Zechariah. Your prayer has been heard. Your wife Elizabeth will bear you a son, and you are to give him the name John. He will be a joy and delight to you, and many will rejoice because of his birth, for he will be great in the sight of the Lord. He is never to take wine or other fermented drink, and he will be filled with the  Holy Spirit even before he is born. He will bring back many of the people of Israel to the Lord their God. And he will go on before the Lord, in the spirit and power of Elijah, to turn the hearts of the parents to their children and the disobedient to the wisdom of the  righteous—to make ready a people prepared for the Lord.” (vv. 13-17)

Zechariah’s Response:

“How can I be sure of this? I am an old man, and my wife is well along in years.”  (v. 18)

Zechariah was a priest, which meant he had spent his life studying the scriptures, and was therefore well-acquainted with what the Word of God said. If anyone would have faith, we might assume it would be a priest. However, his response to the angel’s message suggests that this man of God’s faith wasn’t as strong as it should be, and it seems his relationship to God was more ritualistic and liturgical than personal. In his study of the scriptures, he had to have read the accounts of the Lord answering prayers and fulfilling His promises. Yet when the angel appeared to him, breaking into his rituals to tell him that his own prayers would be answered, his response suggested a lack of faith. He could not bring himself to believe the angel’s words; he immediately provided the reason why God’s promise couldn’t come true.

The angel’s message was not only news of an answer to Zechariah’s personal prayer for a son; it also held a deeper significance for all of God’s people. The long-awaited son for Zechariah and Elizabeth would be the forerunner of the long-awaited Messiah who would take away the sin of the world. In responding doubtfully to the angel’s promise of a son, it appears that Zechariah completely missed the second part of the message given to him. Did he doubt the news of the coming Messiah as much as he doubted the news that there would be a child in his house at last?

Application and Questions to Ponder:

Christmas is often considered a time of miracles, a time to believe that prayers will be answered and that our wildest dreams will be realized. In our scientific and all-too-often skeptical world, miracles have been relegated to Christian novels, Hallmark movies, and the occasional Readers Digest article. If and when a miracle does occur in someone’s life, there is always someone who bursts in to offer a rational explanation–the doctors gave the wrong diagnosis, someone read the medical tests wrong, the vehicle was built to protect occupants in the event of an accident. But where we don’t allow for the possibility of miracles, we also don’t allow for the possibility of God to act.

Have you been praying earnestly and seeking God for something in your life? Do you truly believe that God can and will answer those prayers? How would you respond if God sent an angel to you right now to tell you that God had heard your prayer and would answer it?

What promises has God made to you that you can’t bring yourself to believe? What reasons have you given God for why His promises can’t/won’t come true?

Captive Quill Book Fair & Giveaway

The Lost Heir by Allison Whitmore

Isabella Foxworthy was just another girl…until she learned she was an empath, able to read the energy of others.

A secret world known as the Violet City lies beneath her Hollywood family’s legendary hotel. Through this discovery, Isabella is catapulted into a whirlwind of magic, adventure, and danger. The Violet City holds the key to protecting her stability; her family hotel, her friends, and her very sanity.

With morphlings, empaths, and fair folk also comes a powerful entity that twists her mind into knots, threatening everything she loves. Now, Isabella and her new friends—a guitar-playing jock, his gifted but neurotic brother, and a set of over-indulged twins—have until her 16th birthday to save her world with the help of someone who’s been lost for a very long time…the lost Foxworthy heir.

But will they find him in time? And will he be a friend or foe?

Embark on a fantastical journey in this young adult novel perfect for fans of Harry Potter and The Mortal Instruments.

https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B01MF63NVG/

Excerpt

The Light Council

They lurched forward. Seth gripped Isabella’s hand. Cleo squeezed her arm. Soft lights blinked off and then on—slow then fast—until gossamer light illuminated an octagon-shaped room. On each of its eight stone walls hung a portrait, and beneath each portrait was a shiny jewel-like object. In the center of the room was an eight-sided table with eight high-backed chairs, each decorated with the same symbol they’d seen on the other side of the wall. Four matching oblong velvet boxes had been placed at each station. And there was a shimmering black globe at the center of the table.

“Sick,” said Seth.

“I don’t think I’d call this sick,” remarked Cleo.

“Sick means—”

“I know what it means.” Cleo said. “It’s just that…”

“Can you two do me a favor?” Isabella asked before they went on.

“What?” asked Seth.

“Loosen the lockjaw grips.” She felt an odd heat from Seth’s hand turn her core cold and an uneasy warmth from Cleo’s. Cleo’s mood was easy to discern—embarrassment; but Seth’s was more complicated, and, as usual, a cool wall was quickly erected around him so there was nothing more to investigate.

“Sorry,” they both said, dropping their hands. Cleo approached the table.

“Well, Theophilus obviously isn’t here, either,” said Isabella.

“Oh, wow,” said Cleo, holding up a gold pen she’d taken out of one of the oblong boxes at the table. “Look at these!”

Seth approached the table and grabbed a pen from a box in front of a different chair. “Okay. This is weird.”

“What are you two talking about?” Isabella strode over as Seth held out his pen. The name Gerard Logan, looped in script, was etched into its gold plating.

“They’re two for every person in these case things,” Seth muttered as he continued around the table.

“Patricia Antonelli,” whispered Cleo, reading the pen in her hand before moving to the next station and picking up another. “Marcellus Antonelli.”

“Mariah Logan,” said Seth, his voice cracking as he stared at the next pen in his hand.

“Catherine Bayer Foxworthy,” Isabella said slowly, studying the one she’d picked up. What was all this? She tucked one of the pens with her grandmother’s name into her pocket as she moved to the chair at the head of the table. She picked up another. “Theophilus Dodge.”

“Who are Millford Peck and Betty Reed?” asked Cleo.

“Betty Reed? That’s our cook,” said Isabella, temples pulsing. “This is really starting to scare me, you guys.”

“Every set of pens has its own symbol and the symbol from outside. The same symbol that’s right there.” Cleo, pointed to a carving of it on the table. “Look. It says lux, veritas, virtusbeneath this one. I think that means ‘light, truth, and courage.’”

 

SPIN by Genevieve Raas

A necklace, a ring, a child…There is always a price one is willing to pay.

Laila sees her impending death in the mountains of straw waiting to be spun into gold. Faced with the impossible, she makes the impossible decision to survive, no matter what the cost.

A shadowy stranger sees an opportunity for vengeance. Born to a nightmarish destiny that crushed and embittered his faith in humanity, he devotes himself to dealing in dark desires and desperate souls, and Laila’s is ripe for the trade.

When the stranger asks his price, Laila is bound by blood and magic to pay. His own heart was never supposed to be part of the deal, but when honor drives Laila to break their bargain, he ends up tangled in his own web of deceit and destruction in a desperate attempt to save her life. In the black of night, there are no fairytales, only choices.

One choice makes a queen. One choice consumes a soul. It’s a roll of the dice in a game where love is everyone’s undoing.

Spin, Genevieve Raas’ debut fantasy novel, is a twisted, sexy retelling of one of Grimm’s classic tales and the first book in the Spindlewind series.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01M2YOLJ1/

EXCERPT

Straw.

Mountains of straw filled the room from floor to ceiling. Heavy stones crushed all hope. A rat scuttled along the wall’s edge. Water dripped from small cracks. Darkness abounded except for the dim light from a small torch. In the center of the room, amid the golden slopes, stood a simple wooden spinning wheel. Baskets of empty bobbins were strewn all around, waiting to be filled by the girl who was supposedly able to spin straw into gold.

“I think it is very clear what I want you to do,” the king hissed. “If by tomorrow morning you have not spun the straw into gold, well, I’m sure your head will fit quite nicely into one of these baskets instead.”

My blood ran cold. It is one thing knowing you will die, but another completely to hear about the disposal of your remains.

“Spinning straw into gold is impossible! I could never do such a thing. No one can!” I pleaded.

“I suggest you figure it out. Spin for your freedom. That will be your prize. Otherwise, I will kill you and have your carcass nailed to a stake so the entire kingdom will see what I do to liars.”

I grew dizzy and thought I might vomit. My limbs shook, and I couldn’t stop thinking that death awaited me in the morning. I slumped against the spinning wheel, scrabbling to hold onto it and losing my footing as the wheel betrayed me and rolled, sending me stumbling into the straw. The king only laughed, and it made me hate him more than I knew possible.

“Don’t look so glum! I know my methods may be harsh, but I do what’s necessary to get the results I desire. You seem to need some motivation, and I have learned that death is the greatest motivation of all.”

He gently ran a finger down my throat, “But I must admit, it would pain me greatly to sever such a beautiful neck.”

My stomach twisted as a shiver ran through my body, blood draining from my veins. I was forced to double over in agony, unable to breath. I wrapped my arms around my middle and dry heaved.

“Come, come, I’m sure it won’t come to that,” the king said, his lips cracked in a terrifying, gargoyle grin. “I suggest you focus your energy on the task at hand rather than self-pity if you want to be done by morning.”

He departed, his shadow retreating behind him up the spiral staircase, leaving me alone to my kingdom of straw. A fresh wave of panic rippled through me as a thunderous bolt and lock echoed down from the iron door. I was sealed in. Entombed.

Frantically, I waded into the sea of straw to find a way out. One had to exist, it just had to be unearthed. A million sharp little ends pricked my skin, but the straw was too deeply packed against the walls for me to reach them. Refusing to surrender, I dove my hands within the thick jungle of twigs until I felt the cold stone beneath. I ran my hands quickly along the deep grooves of mortar, searching for some opening, some forgotten crevice that might lead to freedom. The needle-like straw bit my fingertips and scratched my hands until I stained the yellow twigs red with blood.

I would’ve kept searching until my hands were nothing but bone and sinew, the drive for survival hammering in my chest. However, as the hours passed, I finally began to accept the truth. There was no passage, no crevice, no way out except the heavy metal door atop the staircase.

I was completely trapped.

 

Deadly Alchemy by Julie Morgan

Winner 2015 sexiest steampunk book award

How do you choose who lives and who dies?

Alchemist Amelia Rimos has just discovered the cure for the Undead. Being naïve and vulnerable, she does not realize the Undead have their targets set on her.

Happening upon a tall, dark, exotic man named Michel Gauthier, he saves her from becoming a victim, thrusting her into a game of cat and mouse. Amelia realizes being an Alchemist is not in her best interest when she befriends him. Is Michel as sincere as he seems or does he have an ulterior motive?

When her life cannot be more complicated, John Hawthorne interjects himself into Amelia’s life and shifts it completely upside down. He informs Amelia she has the key to their survival. Soon, she will realize the Undead are not the only monsters in the world…

Amelia will find herself in a stalemate: She will be forced to choose between destroying her evidence and saving the man she’s grown to love or destroying over half the population of the world, including the love of her life with it.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01MG5WUBM/

EXCERPT

The sound of a struggle erupts from the side of my coach. My heartbeat speeds up, and standing frozen in place, my eyes roam the area in hopes of seeing what is happening… before it sees me. Vampires are plentiful in our world; however, as an Alchemist, it is my duty to protect the humans from attacks. If I am attacked… “Well, I can’t think about that right now.”

Taking in a deep breath, and pushing the thoughts of a vampire attacking me by the lab out of my mind, I take a few steps toward my coach. “Henry?” I call for my driver, “Are you alright?”

Tentatively, I reach inside my bag. My fingers search for a vial of liquid sun. Years ago, when becoming a master at my craft, the best decision I made was creating this solution. As the Undead burn from the inside out, their bodies explode as if the sun was actually shining from within.

Clutching it tightly in my grasp, I think for a moment I might break the glass within my grip. Slowly pulling it out of my bag, I take another tentative step forward. “Henry? Please talk to me!”

Suddenly, a growl pierces the night air, followed by a figure moving so quickly, I am afraid I might have imagined it. A scream pierces the night from somewhere nearby and I drop the liquid sun on the ground where it explodes at my feet. I cover my mouth with my hand to keep from screaming along with whoever is being tortured. Panic and fear build quickly and I am afraid I may pass out from the adrenaline rush I am experiencing. I take a few steps back when a man peers from around the side of the carriage.

 

Downcast by Cait Reynolds

Secrets.

Myths and monsters.

What if you had to believe the impossible…then fall in love with him?

Stephanie Starr thinks her senior year of high school is going to be like every other: an ordinary kind of awful stuck between a group of mean girls and her mother’s overprotective mania.

Everything changes when gorgeous Haley Smith walks into her life. She doesn’t understand why he wants her so badly and pushes him away. But, Haley won’t give up. He can’t give up. There’s a shadow running through his blood tied to a curse in hers, and time is running out for them both.

Faced with rogue gods and deadly prophesies, Stephanie must survive the ultimate test in order to uncover the truth and save her mother, her friends, and her town. Nothing can prepare her for what she discovers, and no one can save her from her fate.

Except Haley.

https://www.amazon.com/Downcast-Cait-Reynolds-ebook/dp/B01M2VAHMV/

Angel Hands by Cait Reynolds

Sometimes, it is best to begin at the end.

Angel Hands, by Cait Reynolds, begins at the end of The Phantom of the Opera, revealing, for the first time, the true story behind Leroux’s fantastical tale and the real fate of the Phantom himself.

When the Opera de Paris is purchased and renovated, years after a mysterious fire nearly destroyed it, the Phantom finds himself unexpectedly resurrected – in the form of a young boy hired by the manager’s daughter to play pranks on the cast, crew, and audience. After all, the return of the infamous “Opera Ghost” can only be good for ticket sales, and Mireille Dubienne is determined to see her father’s investment become profitable.

Plain, shrewd, and proud, Mireille pours the rage of her disappointed hopes and looming spinsterhood into helping her father manage the Opera de Paris and making it a success.

What she doesn’t count on is the real “Opera Ghost” deciding he no longer wishes to be an understudy in his own domain, the theater that Mireille believes is hers.

The Phantom and Mireille push each other to the limits of their cunning to control and manipulate each other, with no game too low to play. With each passing day, the stakes get higher, until surrender is no longer an option for the Phantom or Mireille.

Every trick and betrayal drive them toward a startling truth that will change more than one life forever: you can’t love what you hate…but you can desire it.

https://www.amazon.com/Angel-Hands-Cait-Reynolds-ebook/dp/B01MA1UHFX/

EXCERPT

The smallest sound of a deliberate breath jerked her from her unguarded moment of fatigue.

“Mon Dieu!” she exclaimed, searching the shadows that suddenly seemed to swallow all the light in her office.

“No, not God, mademoiselle. Simply a ghost.”

The voice seemed to come from everywhere at once, and the rumbling, purring quality had Mireille struggling to get back in control of her wits. But once she was thinking clearly again, she was ready for battle. There was only one possible source for such a voice.

“So, you are real after all,” she drawled sarcastically.

“Hmmm. Quite,” the voice replied, matching her tone precisely.

“And why reveal yourself to me tonight, Monsieur le Fantôme?”

“I was bored.”

Mireille narrowed her eyes.

“I am sorry,” she said innocently. “But you must come back. Auditions for the Opera Ghost are not until next week.”

“Why hire one when you already have one?”

“Why not? I would have to pay the ghost one way or another—for I am sure it won’t be long until you’re making monetary demands of me. At least with an outside ghost, I can fire him if he pisses me off.”

“Your candor is remarkable.”

“A nice way to say fuc-”

“Tut, tut. Such language from a young lady.”

“You’ve heard me say worse to the stagehands, no doubt.”

The silence acceded her point.

Mireille prayed that her wildly beating heart would slow and steady. It was taking every ounce of bravado and wit to keep her cool during this exchange. He had taken her by surprise…well, shocked her to her core, to be perfectly accurate. It was all happening too quickly. She just had to brazen this through then think over the consequences later…consequences and opportunities…

“What is it that you want, monsieur?”

“Hmmm. An excellent question, mademoiselle. And not one that I have an exact answer for at the moment.”

“I didn’t think you the type to pay social calls.”

“I’m not.”

“Then what is this truly? A warning shot across the bow? An opening salvo?”

“Perhaps.”

“Don’t fight me, Monsieur le Fantôme. You will lose.”

“Perhaps.”

A throaty chuckle seemed to shiver in the air around her. “Then again, perhaps not.”

Mireille’s head was throbbing, and she fought to maintain her composure. “Well, as pleasant as this little chat has been, I am afraid that I must go now. It has been a long day, and I am tired.”

“Yes, you must be. The circles under your eyes are terrible.”

She couldn’t trust herself to make an adequate reply. She was angered at hearing her father’s words echoed back at her. It was even more unnerving to think that this man could have been eavesdropping on her from the very beginning. Forcing herself to act calm and nonchalant, she stood up and put on her spectacles again.

With a sneer, she turned out the oil lamp in a gesture of defiance that showed she was not afraid of either the dark or the man that lurked in it.

She picked up her folio of paperwork and was about to leave when the voice stopped her.

“When you go for your dress-making appointment, I would like for you to select something in midnight blue. I think it will suit you quite well.”

Mireille opened her mouth in protest, then closed it without making a sound. As much as she wanted to yank the door open and slam it closed, she made herself to open and close it softly and normally.

In the dark, silent office, a shadow moved and smiled to itself.

“So, you are a woman after all, my dear. Excellent.”

 

SILENCED by KN Lee

Silence kept her alive.

Magic will set her free.

Willa Avery created the serum that changed the world as humans, witches, and vampires knew it. Sun Serum 99, the cure for a vampire’s death by sunlight. Many tried to create it, but it took the magic and science of a Grand Elite Caster to perfect it. Despite the fame and recognition that came with this discovery, the fact remains: Willa was forced by the vampire king of the West to create the one thing she could have used to kill him.

After hiding from the king and his spies for years, she’s tired of living in the shadows. She vows to end his reign of terror and return to the man she was stolen from a century ago.

With her two best friends–witches of high rank by her side, and the love of a vampire seeking his freedom, can Willa destroy the king that ruined her life?

**WARNING: contains explicit adult situations and violence.**

https://www.amazon.com/Silenced-Grand-Elite-Caster-Trilogy-ebook/dp/B01CBOFACK/

Straw.

Mountains of straw filled the room from floor to ceiling. Heavy stones crushed all hope. A rat scuttled along the wall’s edge. Water dripped from small cracks. Darkness abounded except for the dim light from a small torch. In the center of the room, amid the golden slopes, stood a simple wooden spinning wheel. Baskets of empty bobbins were strewn all around, waiting to be filled by the girl who was supposedly able to spin straw into gold.

“I think it is very clear what I want you to do,” the king hissed. “If by tomorrow morning you have not spun the straw into gold, well, I’m sure your head will fit quite nicely into one of these baskets instead.”

My blood ran cold. It is one thing knowing you will die, but another completely to hear about the disposal of your remains.

“Spinning straw into gold is impossible! I could never do such a thing. No one can!” I pleaded.

“I suggest you figure it out. Spin for your freedom. That will be your prize. Otherwise, I will kill you and have your carcass nailed to a stake so the entire kingdom will see what I do to liars.”

I grew dizzy and thought I might vomit. My limbs shook, and I couldn’t stop thinking that death awaited me in the morning. I slumped against the spinning wheel, scrabbling to hold onto it and losing my footing as the wheel betrayed me and rolled, sending me stumbling into the straw. The king only laughed, and it made me hate him more than I knew possible.

“Don’t look so glum! I know my methods may be harsh, but I do what’s necessary to get the results I desire. You seem to need some motivation, and I have learned that death is the greatest motivation of all.”

He gently ran a finger down my throat, “But I must admit, it would pain me greatly to sever such a beautiful neck.”

My stomach twisted as a shiver ran through my body, blood draining from my veins. I was forced to double over in agony, unable to breath. I wrapped my arms around my middle and dry heaved.

“Come, come, I’m sure it won’t come to that,” the king said, his lips cracked in a terrifying, gargoyle grin. “I suggest you focus your energy on the task at hand rather than self-pity if you want to be done by morning.”

He departed, his shadow retreating behind him up the spiral staircase, leaving me alone to my kingdom of straw. A fresh wave of panic rippled through me as a thunderous bolt and lock echoed down from the iron door. I was sealed in. Entombed.

Frantically, I waded into the sea of straw to find a way out. One had to exist, it just had to be unearthed. A million sharp little ends pricked my skin, but the straw was too deeply packed against the walls for me to reach them. Refusing to surrender, I dove my hands within the thick jungle of twigs until I felt the cold stone beneath. I ran my hands quickly along the deep grooves of mortar, searching for some opening, some forgotten crevice that might lead to freedom. The needle-like straw bit my fingertips and scratched my hands until I stained the yellow twigs red with blood.

I would’ve kept searching until my hands were nothing but bone and sinew, the drive for survival hammering in my chest. However, as the hours passed, I finally began to accept the truth. There was no passage, no crevice, no way out except the heavy metal door atop the staircase.

I was completely trapped.

Resigned, I fell down into the straw. I put a hand to my neck, imagining the cold blade slicing my flesh, and then my head toppling down from the executioner’s stand until it lay at the feet of the king. Lifting his trophy to a cheering crowd, he would remind them all of the penalty for boasting a lie.

The flicker of light danced across the treacherous landscape, my vision clouded by tears as the scenario played through my mind without end. Blade. Blood. Cheers.

If only my father had kept his mouth shut!

Wiping my eyes, I imagined the color of the straw growing more vibrant, the torchlight causing it to appear as burning flames.

My heart pounded. I saw a way to escape the fate chosen for me.

One spark from the torch would set the entire room ablaze, the inferno engulfing my body along with the mountains of straw, robbing the king the joy of his example.

I stared at the torch. The flames licked at the air, desiring to be fed. I could only imagine how quickly my skirts would ignite. Curious of the sensation of what burning to death would be like, I let my hand hover over the fire. Scorching pain flooded over my skin, causing me to gasp in surprise. It would be savage, but at least the results would be assured.

The king would return to nothing but ash.

It seemed such an easy thing to decide. Breathing slowly, I took the torch from the wall and marched towards the nearest hill of straw. The flames rejoiced at the feast waiting beneath them. Closing my eyes, I prepared to take destiny in my own hands. All I had to do was release my grip, and the nightmare would cease.

“Now why would you want to do a silly thing like that?” an amused voice asked behind me.

I spun around, shocked and confused as to who would be speaking to me in this locked cell.  The torch slipped from my grasp and fell towards the straw, but a hand snatched it out of the air before it lit everything in flames.

“Determined to be stupid,” the voice grumbled.

I expected to see one of the king’s guards checking on my progress. Instead, I found a most peculiar man. He couldn’t have been more than eight-and-twenty. Black hair framed a defined face with a pale complexion. He was tall but thin, wearing a tight fitting black doublet and pants. A white shirt peeked out of his collar and sleeves. Though his mouth smiled, his gray eyes held storms.

“Who…who are you?” I asked.

“Obviously someone who is keeping you from making a rather poor decision,” he quipped, walking towards me with a firm step and placing the torch back where it belonged. “You must really hate it here to be so desperate to burn yourself up. You do know there are more pleasant ways to kill oneself?”

He stared at me, waiting for an answer. I was unable to reply, still trying to comprehend how this strange man was down here with me at all.

With a shrug, he moved past me over to the spinning wheel. He ran his long finger down the wheel, turning it and producing a happy purr from the machine.

“You see, I sensed you might be in need of some assistance. You must forgive the impertinence, but that’s what I do, and by the looks of things, it appears my instincts were correct.” His penetrating gaze chilled me.

“Are you here to rescue me?” I asked. It sounded stupid even as I said it, but I could see no other reasonable question to ask.

He laughed. “In a manner of speaking, though I think it might be in a different way than you are hoping.”

In an instant, he was standing before me, my eyes hardly able to follow the speed with which he moved. My heart hammered in a new flush of panic. What sort of man was this?

Placing a hand over his own heart he gave a small bow, continuing, “I’m here to offer my services. I just happen to have quite the talent for spinning straw into gold.”

For three seconds I felt I had been granted a miracle. But hard, cold reality stopped such foolishness, reminding me that this stranger’s offer was not feasible.

“You mock me. How do you expect me to believe something so impossible?” I demanded. “No one can do that.”

“You are the logical sort, aren’t you? I like that,” he said, nonchalantly plucking a twig from my hair, inspecting it under his slender nose. “If logic is what you desire, then you must realize it is already quite impossible that I am down here with you at all, and yet, here I am! I defy reason. Don’t you think you at least owe me the courtesy to prove my skill?”

It aggravated me unreasonably that his point was valid. I hadn’t heard one click of the lock or squeal of the hinges announcing his entrance. Somehow, he’d managed to appear out of thin air.

“All right,” I agreed, still hesitant as to his means and motives, but viscerally curious to watch his reaction when he inevitably failed.

He was already positioned at the spinning wheel before the words left my mouth, stretching his fingers. There was not a single indication of doubt or trepidation in his manner. Poise emanated from him.

“Prepare to be dazzled,” he smirked, removing a bobbin from one of the baskets and slipping it into place with an odd kind of delicacy.

 

Soul Discovery by SJ Cairns

Sophie Saterlee has made it her mission to get her life together. Leaving behind an abusive relationship, she’s bartending her way through a psychology degree. Ultimate goal? A new, stronger sense of identity.

When a terrifying recurring nightmare begins to poison Sophie’s waking hours and threaten all her progress, once again she’s close to losing everything.

An invitation to a tea leaf reading party sounds like exactly the kind of distraction Sophie needs. But an innocent girls’ night out turns into a journey through a complex and treacherous world of magic.

To survive it, Sophie must forge uncomfortable alliances with arrogant Donovan and mysterious Caine. One of them is tied to her past, and the other fills her present. Both men might hold the key to her uncertain future.

There’s more going on in her little corner of the world than Sophie realizes, and the truth will change everything.

https://www.amazon.com/Soul-Discovery-Seer-Chronicles%60-Book-ebook/dp/B01M7P6SBL/

Exclusive Excerpt

Why am I here?

 

I turned around, searching through the rain for the exit to the street above. The soles of my feet were numb, submerged below rapidly rising water. I lifted a foot, but had to sink it back into the dark water, the crunch of gravel now only a slight pressure against my skin. The creek was flooding into the park, water rushing toward me. Debris from the trees wrapped around my ankles as the stink of the creek wafted into the stirring air. The rain and wind battered the blanket of liquid taking over the park, while an uncomfortable tingle grew up my calves. Cold took root within my body.

 

A shudder skittered along my spine and crawled under my skin as my panic intensified. This wasn’t just the wind or the rain, or even the cold. The hyper-vigilance of someone watching me had my eyes open wide despite the rain.

 

I spun around, looking for what had me in its sights. Seeing nothing through the pouring rain but trees in the darkness, the feeling grew into an urgency to escape.

 

This urgency should have got me moving. Instead I froze, unable to will my body to listen to my brain.

 

Whatever was in that darkness was close.

 

Too close.

 

At my back.

 

Can I run fast enough to get away? Not with the water now up to my knees. Should I run for the safety of the stairs or confront the thing? Every muscle quivered in fear of either choice. Like a frightened child, I snapped my eyes closed, wishing for a blanket to hide under.

 

Gathering my gumption, I held my breath and slowly turned around. Tense moments passed as my lungs burned. Still with my eyes closed, I felt the presence move closer. I had no doubt something was there.

 

Come on, Sophie. I goaded myself into rummaging up a hint of courage.

 

As soon as I peered through my lashes, the black mass in front of me made my heart stutter. No distinguishable features were illuminated. There was no way of knowing what it was, but its oppressive size made me want to sink into the water now grazing my thighs. I shivered.

 

Terrified curiosity made me fully open my eyes. The darkness rushed forward, and the shock of seeing, yet not seeing what was coming for me, woke me up with a gut-wrenching scream.

 

Forget Me Not by Allison Whitmore

Theodora “Teddi” Donovan and Calvin Wynne have always hated each other. They didn’t have a choice after Teddi’s bootlegger father killed Calvin’s and left them both orphaned. The scandal has fueled gossip in quiet, quaint Brookhurst, New York, for over a decade. When a friendship develops between them as teenagers, they are ridiculed and shunned by the strict society that dictates life in their town. As they grow older, friendship turns into love, and Teddi and Calvin have to choose between their future and the specter of their past. Spanning continents and decades, Forget Me Not is a coming-of-age story about truth, self-reliance, and the freeing power of love.

https://www.amazon.com/Forget-Me-Not-Allison-Whitmore/dp/069273774X/

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Bound to Blackwood Birthday Bonanza

The award nominated paranormal romance, Bound to Blackwood is celebrating its first birthday!

What does this mean for you? Well author, Sharon Lipman is offering you the chance to win a signed copy of the book, as well as some amazing House Blackwood swag!

Think all vampires are the same? House Blackwood begs to differ!

About the book

Would you surrender your soul for the love of the King?

Lena, a vampire and a Guardian of the Order, has been honour-bound to protect human souls all her life. Acting first and thinking second is what’s saved her skin time and again in the war against the Fallen, but her disregard for orders soon catches up with her when her boss is seriously injured. Forced to take responsibility for her actions, Lena is thrust into the path of her very own kryptonite; Thorn. The raw power of his soul calls to her and his mere presence lights a fire within her that she cannot contain.

With Vampire magic waning and the race in crisis, can either of them afford to ignore Nature’s call? If they do, the future of the race is in jeopardy. If they don’t, they will both lose the most precious part of themselves. Their souls.

Want a copy right now? Bound to Blackwood is available free via Kindle Unlimited.

You might also like to read this blog post, explaining why the author chose to publish Bound to Blackwood on November

Want to learn more about the characters? Take the quiz and discover which Bound to Blackwood character you are!

About the author

A huge fan of the paranormal romance genre, Sharon Lipman started writing in her teens. It wasn’t until she was in her thirties that she found a story she was desperate to share. House Blackwood was born and Bound to Blackwood is her debut novel.

She was born in west London and grew up in leafy Surrey in south-east England. A lover of all things British, except the weather, she now lives in Almeria, southern Spain with her husband and an ever growing collection of dogs.

Keep in touch with the author

Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads | Website | Join the mailing list

Excerpt 

Thorn stepped out from the shadow of the Huguenot Protestant Church in Soho Square. The stench of Fallen hung heavy in the air, making the bile rise in his throat. But what made him nauseous was the delicate scent of Lena’s blood that rode the air with that of the Fallen.

Flashing across the small park, he found her.

His first thought was to go to her, but as he rushed towards her, he realised she wasn’t alone. Lena cradled the human to her as the air around them hummed and crackled. Thorn’s jaw went slack as the realisation of what he was seeing hit him.

The faint green glow of the human’s soul shifted and shimmered as Lena’s power forced it back, moulding it, shaping it. Binding it. The pale green shone more brightly as Lena worked, the air becoming more dense as the spring greens turned into a deep emerald.

Lena’s raven hair whipped across her face and her eyes glowed a vibrant sea-green as she forced the woman’s soul back to her body. A great roar echoed around the park, and for a moment, the air stood still before a blinding light made Thorn shield his eyes. And then it was gone.

Thorn heard the woman’s heartbeat kick-start as her soul found home again.

Lena released her vice-like grip on the woman and fell backwards. Thorn caught her before her head could hit the ground. She was ghostly pale as Thorn cradled her against his chest, her breathing shallow. The exertion of holding the human soul showed in the sheen of sweat across her brow, and Thorn winced at the bruising on her cheek bone.

“For the love of all that is holy, Lena! What the hell were you thinking?”

Lena’s black eyes fluttered open and stared up at him in disgust. Even injured, with her powers severely depleted, Lena’s contempt for him was tangible. “No one should hold dominion over another’s soul,” she spat back at him.

Thorn closed his eyes. So she knew. In that moment, he realised he’d convinced himself that she hadn’t really seen through him that night in her bedroom. That she’d just rejected him because she didn’t want him, even told himself that it would all be fine. The look on Lena’s face told him otherwise.

As if on cue, the delicious scent of her blood became overwhelming. Thorn gritted his teeth as exotic spices assaulted him. It was almost overpowering.

“You need to get away from me.”

The Giveaway

Sharon Lipman is giving away a signed copy of Bound to Blackwood, as well as some exclusive House Blackwood swag. To be in with a chance of winning, enter the Rafflecopter.

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Witch of Willow Lake Epilogue

Okay, so Witch of Willow Lake has been out for about a month, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the ending. I like the ending the way it stands; for the most part it wraps up the main story and leaves an opening for Kyr and Spook’s story to continue, which it will.

Still, in some ways I felt it wasn’t quite complete. I had a few ends left dangling, and I felt that more could be said. So I sat down and wrote up a bit of an epilogue that ties up some of those loose ends. Enjoy, and let me know what you think in the comments.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, Spook and I packed up our things and checked out of the hotel. Even though I knew we each had to return to our respective homes and get back to our routines, I was more than a little reluctant to let him go. We’d once again come dangerously close to losing each other, and I couldn’t quite dispel the childish fear that he might disappear as soon as he was out of my sight.

We decided to spend some time just sitting by the river and enjoying each other’s company before we parted ways, so we headed downtown and parked in the public lot. It being a holiday, Market Street was quieter than it would usually be at this time on a weekday morning. Only a handful of cars were in the lot, and the few cars that passed by were headed out of town, most likely weekend visitors on their way home.

As we walked hand in hand up the sidewalk, Spook turned to me and asked, “Is the Street Faire not open yet? It seems awfully quiet.”

Glancing at the clock on the town hall building up the street, I responded, “No, they won’t start up for a little over an hour yet. There might be some food stands open, but that’s about it.” I smiled up at him. “Were you in the mood for some fruit soup?”

He laughed and unlaced his fingers from mine so he could wrap his arm around me and pull me close. “No, but it sounds like you are. Shall we go find some?”

I bit my lip, considering for a moment, remembering the scrumptious peach soup I’d had the previous day. I was about to suggest taking a stroll down to the end of the line of vendors to see if Ladle Old Ladies was open for business yet, but another thought suddenly popped into my head. “Actually, Spook, I’d like to stop in at the used book store and talk to Cora, let her know how the investigation turned out. What do you think?”

He gave me a crooked smile. “You do know if you do that, you’ll likely end up being featured in one of her Willow Lake history stories.”

“Well…” I wrinkled my nose as I returned his look. “I guess I’ll have to take that chance. You know how stories get twisted in the telling, especially in this town. I want to make sure at least one person has the truth and that Mary and Warren’s names are cleared. Who better than a local history buff and storyteller?”

We crossed to the northern end of Market Street and continued up the block to the maroon-shuttered building. The battered Used Books sign still hung above the door, and it looked even more faded than it had a couple days ago. The old shop still had an appearance of neglect, but now a sense of nostalgia and long-forgotten memories emanated from inside. I raised my eyes to Spook’s to see if he had the same impression. His furrowed brow told me that he, too, sensed something different about the place.

I stepped up and tried the door; it was locked. Glancing at the window where the Open sign had been displayed, I noticed that one of the panes of glass had been broken, and I wondered if vandals had struck over the weekend. “They must be closed for Labor Day,” I mused. It really wouldn’t surprise me. Carleigh had said the shop didn’t get much business, so it was indeed likely that Cora might decide to take the holiday off herself.

Spook leaned close to the broken window and cupped his hands around his eyes to peer in. “What the…Kyr, come here and look at this. Everything inside is gone! No books, no shelves, nothing is left!”

“What?” He took a step back to let me squeeze in to peer in the window. He was right; the building was completely empty. There were no books, no decorations of any kind, and only a couple broken bookshelves standing along the back wall. Even in the dim light, I could tell that cobwebs and dust covered the floors and the shelves. A shiver ran down my spine. There was no way Cora and her granddaughter could have moved all those books and furnishings out within a day or so; the place looked as though it had been abandoned for years.

As Spook and I stood looking at each other, baffled, someone behind us spoke. “Are you folks looking for something?”

We turned to see a heavyset older woman walking a pug that seemed as rotund as she was. “I’m not sure,” I said hesitantly. “Do you know what happened to the book shop that used to be here?”

The woman laughed. “You folks must be from out of town. That shop closed down a couple years ago. The Renards just couldn’t keep it open any longer.”

“Oh. Well…thank you.” I edged closer to Spook as the woman and her dog continued on their way. Looking up at him, I asked, “What do you make of that?”

He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know, Kyr m’dear. I just don’t know. Just when I think this place can’t get any weirder, something like this happens. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least to turn on the Paranormal Channel and find Willow Lake featured on one of those old Twilight Zone episodes.”

I gave him a bemused smile before we turned our backs on the abandoned book shop and made our way over to River Street.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

A few weeks later, I opened my mailbox and found a special edition of the Willow Lake Alumni News. I was reluctant to open it, knowing at least some of the news that it held and thinking it was too soon to revisit the events of Labor Day weekend. In fact, I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to consciously revisit those events; my mind did enough of that through the crazy dreams I’d had since returning from Willow Lake.

In the end, my curiosity won out, and I sat down after work one evening to read it from cover to cover. As I’d suspected, there was quite a lengthy write-up that documented Dr. Harris’ decades-long career with the college. As Bobby had told us, Dr. Harris had indeed enjoyed a meteoric rise from a Teaching Assistant in the Business School to College President, and it was duly noted that he was a well-respected—or in my opinion, greatly-feared—member of both the Willow Lake campus and community. The article briefly mentioned, but otherwise glossed over, his association with Professor Childress, whose obsession with the occult had been rumored for years and had ultimately led to his hasty departure from the college after Mary’s death.

I still wrestled with how I felt about the now-former college president. I had never cared for the man, and in some ways I believed he had brought some of his troubles on himself. Most of my anger over the events of that weekend was directed at Professor Childress. I wasn’t sure how much real occult power he had actually possessed, but the fact that he had used what power he had to manipulate a grieving man at his weakest point caused my chest to burn with anger.

Unable to bear reading any more of the sad saga of Dr. Harris’ final days with the college, I roughly flipped the pages until I came to an article entitled “Honoring the Past, Looking to the Future.” I began reading, hoping for a bit of more positive news. I gasped aloud at the news that the decision had been made to demolish Appleton Hall and use the space to create a commons area where students could gather to study or to just enjoy the outdoors while on campus. With a twinge of nostalgic uncertainty, I studied the drawings of the proposed changes being made. Two pavilions would stand on either end of the green space, for use during college events and alumni functions, and in the very center of the commons would be a gazebo.

I sat back and closed my eyes, imagining what the space would look like in real life when it was completed. While I could indeed see the cosmetic appeal, as well as the functionality of the space, a lump of sadness rose in my throat as I mentally turned to look towards the spot where Appleton Hall had once stood. Even though the newly-proposed space was beautiful and functional, I couldn’t help feeling a sense of loss and injustice as I thought about Mary Bollinger. Her spirit was now at rest, and the real story of what had happened in 1958 had at last been told; still, I couldn’t help feeling that the decision to demolish the building was an attempt to erase from memory the tragedy that had happened.

As I was about to open my eyes and end my reverie, a voice whispered in my ear. “Look.” In my mind, I was guided to the walkway at the outer edge of the commons area, where an archway spanned the sidewalk leading into the green space. Atop the archway was a sign that read “Appleton Commons.” I smiled, somewhat mollified that the memory of the building would in some way live on. Again, the voice whispered, “Look.” I raised my gaze to the pavilions. Tears of happiness blurred my vision, but not before I saw that one pavilion had been named the Mary Bollinger Pavilion, and the other had been named the Warren McKnight Pavilion.

Satisfied that Mary and Warren’s love story would indeed be remembered, I pivoted slowly to take one final look at the future green area. “Oh!” My eyes widened in surprise as I noticed a figure standing in front of the gazebo and watching me. It was Mary Bollinger, looking peaceful and happy, as though she approved of the space. For a brief moment, I was alarmed; I had thought her spirit was now free and at rest, but she was still here.

As I opened my mouth to speak, another figure appeared on the commons and glided towards her. Warren! The younger version of Warren McKnight I had seen in my visions joined Mary in front of the gazebo. They gazed at each other for a moment and then kissed each other sweetly before turning to me. Smiling broadly, both raised a hand to wave to me before slowly fading from sight.

Between Silence and Fire–Kristan Cannon

KRISTAN CANNON’S NEW NOVEL – BETWEEN SILENCE AND FIRE – ON SHELVES OCTOBER 28TH, 2016

Kristan Cannon, author of the novel After Oil, is releasing her third novel in the Sudbury set Kingdom of Walden Series. In Between Silence and Fire, the action heats up as Derek, Sheridan and Garrett fight against both a tyrant to their east and nature itself. War is brewing on the horizon and the author states that not everyone will survive.

Kristan Cannon is a staunch supporter of literacy and independent artists and writers, an active member of the Indie Writer’s network, and a member of the NaNoWriMo Ambassador’s program. She wrote both all three books during three separate NaNoWriMo events.

Readers of her books have expressed great enthusiasm for the series so far and love that the books takes place in Sudbury, Ontario.

“I set the series in Sudbury—while it’s post-apocalyptic and deals with the fall of civilization–I saw that the people here would band together and support each other. You don’t see the same sense of community in many larger cities. Somehow Sudbury has managed to be a big city with all the perks but yet a small town at its heart.” – Kristan Cannon

Kristan Cannon became fascinated with the post-apocalyptic genre through games such as Fallout, and books such as The Day of the Triffids (a book Kristan admits was the “one of the best books I was forced to read”) by John Wyndam, but she admits her own writing is heavily influenced by authors Margaret Atwood and Elizabeth Moon. Born and raised in Northern Ontario, Kristan decided to set her books in the North after moving to Toronto and missing her home. More information about Kristan Cannon and her books can be found on her website at http://www.kristancannon.com.

Third book in the Kingdom of Walden Series

Blurb:

THE LINE IS DRAWN

Four years ago Derek Moss formed the Rangers of Walden to protect the last spark of civilization from those who would see it all vanish into dust.

Now, Colonel Harnet has encroached into the borders. He has one aim on his mind–taking the last barrier between him and total control over the whole Region.

ALLIES UNDER FIRE

Communities once free are slowly falling under the tyranny of Colonel Harnet. Those who resist are brutally dispersed. Survivors are forced to flee to new safe havens or into communities who have bowed under the pressure.

One last one remains–the small enclave of survivors led by Russell Wither on the shore of Richard Lake.

THE DRUMS OF WAR THUNDER

When Harnet’s soldiers strike deep into the heart of the Kingdom of Walden, tragedy soon follows.

Fanning the flames of war is the knowledge that they cannot leave their allies with only silence as an answer.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kristan Cannon is a hybrid author with credits including novels, novellas, numerous short stories as well as two blogs, Kristan’s Desk and Lone Wolf Books & Review (for Lone Wolf Books, a bookstore she co-owns with her father and fellow artist, Greg Cannon).

She was born in April 1980 in Kirkland Lake, Ontario and educated in North Bay and Toronto. She has been writing since the age of thirteen under the pen names Selena Grey and Meredith Hayes. In 2014 she dropped the pen names in time to release the Special “Anime North” Edition of After Oil and re-launch her writing blog.

Kristan is a staunch supporter of literacy, reading, and young writer’s programs. She also holds a current membership with The Indie Writer’s Network and is a member of the NaNoWriMo Ambassador’s program.

Her inspiration for writing came from her love of reading. She loved to read so voraciously that one of her school teachers pointed out that she should write her own stories before she read through the school’s entire library. This sparked another beloved hobby—one of research, and asking questions to seek out those answers on her own.

 

My Halloween Playlist

So, as most of my friends and followers know, a lot of my writing tends towards the spooky. I can remember growing up that this was one of my favorite times of the year, even over my birthday, beca…

Source: My Halloween Playlist

A Ghost Report from the Nashville Union and American on November 19, 1868

The Merry Ghost Hunter

Before the Civil War, a horrible murder occurred in a house in Greensburg, Indiana. The murderer escaped and was eventually killed in the war.

The house didn’t forget. Every midnight, a ghostly commotion ensues. A ghost hunter claims to have seen a female spirit dressed in black.

Each Wednesday, I post an actual ghost report from a U.S. newspaper published between 1865 and 1918. You can also hear me read the articles The Big Séance and the History Goes Bump podcasts — or listen to previously released recordings here.

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The Stuff of Legends

People often ask about my writing techniques, or where I get my ideas. Like a lot of other authors, I tend to pull ideas from many different sources–my everyday life, my dreams (or nightmares), my own past experiences, and most recently, from local legends and stories.

Both School Spirits and The Witch of Willow Lake are set in a town that was heavily inspired by Lock Haven, PA, where I attended college. School Spirits built on a lot of the campus ghost stories I heard during my time there, and The Witch of Willow Lake continued one of those stories, the tragic tale of Russell (Appleton) Hall Mary.

What I bring to you today is a few articles I found as I did research for these books. A lot of the stories I discovered were both written by and shared with me by Lou Bernard, Lock Haven historian extraordinaire.

So sit back, grab yourself a cup of coffee, hot cider, or cocoa, or even something a bit more potent, and give a read to some Clinton County legends that found their way into my heart and my books.

Russell Hall Mary

This is the story I built upon for Mary Bollinger’s spirit being in the Appleton Hall bell tower. The article states that the first actual documented telling of this story was in 2003, in an edition of The Eagle Eye, LHU’s student newspaper. All I have to add here is that this may have been the first documented telling of the story, but I recall hearing the story when I was there in the late 80s through the mid 90s, and I had my own creepy experiences in Russell Hall (which, by the way, you can read through Kyr’s recounting of her experience in School Spirits). I’ll leave you to decide how much is truth and how much is embellishment.

 

The Were-Wagon of Farrandsville/Jerry’s Sarah

Okay, so there was more than one alleged witch in Clinton County, and even in the Lock Haven vicinity. I suppose the stories all have their commonalities–usually a woman living alone, almost always at a distance from other townsfolk/settlers, and many times they are reputed to be healers, or at the very least they have some strange habits.

In those days, superstition often took over in the absence of real explanations for why things happened. In my research, I came across two alleged witches who piqued my interest. One was the Witch of Farrandsville, or as Lou called her, the Were-Wagon–I love this guy’s wit, so much like mine at times. This was a woman who was very protective of a spring that ran past her property. Woe to anyone who allowed their horses to drink the water from her spring!

The other witch, obviously, was the one tied to the Giwoggle (see the next entry). The article mentions several women who were blamed for conjuring the Giwoggle, but I was drawn to the name Jerry’s Sarah. I thought it odd and intriguing that she didn’t have a last name, or even a husband (at least from what I gathered from the article). It seemed like a great little tidbit to add to my own story.

 

The Giwoggle

Unless you’ve lived your whole life under a rock, you’ve almost certainly heard of cryptids such as Bigfoot/Sasquatch, the Loch Ness Monster, the Yeti,  or even Mothman and the Chupacabra, but I’d be willing to bet you’ve never heard of the Giwoggle. Well, unless you’ve been reading Lou’s articles, or more recently, my blog posts.

What is a Giwoggle? Well, it’s kind of like a werewolf, but isn’t. A werewolf transforms between human and wolf, but a Giwoggle doesn’t. A Giwoggle is a beast that has been conjured or summoned–it depends who you ask–by a witch. When I first read the description of this creature, my reaction was a lot like Kyr’s–I laughed. A wolflike beast with horse hooves on its back legs and bird claws on the front? It certainly didn’t sound like something to be afraid of. But as we all know, looks can be deceiving.

****************

So there you have it. Just a few pieces of local folklore that have found their way into my books. I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Lou Bernard for introducing me to these and other stories. He’s tipped me off to a few more legends that may just pop up in future books. But you’ll have to wait for those.

 

 

 

October Frights Blog Hop: Day 2

Question: What does The Witch of Willow Lake have in common with The Wizard of Oz?

If you answered, “They both feature a good witch and a bad witch,” you’d be correct.

Of course, the bad witch is the one Kyr and Company are most concerned with, but Kyr also has a good friend who practices Wicca and owns her own metaphysical/New Age shop in Gettysburg. This friend assists Kyr in getting rid of a cloud of negative energy that has attached to her, and gives her a stern warning about someone who wants to harm her.

For today’s post, I’m sharing an excerpt from Witch of Willow Lake in which Ione performs a cleansing ritual for Kyr.

************

Ione pulled a piece of black tourmaline from the pouch on the corner of the table and handed it to me. “I’ll take back the sodalite now, Kyr, and you can hold onto this one for protection.” My eyes widened apprehensively, and she quickly reassured me, “I don’t expect there to be any trouble, but I believe it’s better to be prepared when dealing with negative energy.”

I took the black stone from her and grasped it tightly as she got up and ducked behind the screen. I heard the protesting wood-on-wood groan of a window being opened. When she emerged from behind the screen, she invited me to stand and led me to the middle of the room. Next, she went to the corner to fetch a small, short-legged bench and set it before me. She then gathered her supplies from the reading table and arranged them on the bench. “Are you ready to begin?”

Still somewhat uncertain, but eagerly desiring to be rid of what I was sure was the spirit of a very evil woman, I simply said, “Yes.”

“Good.” She positioned herself in front of me, with the squat little table between. She stooped to pick up the jar of salt, then met my eyes earnestly. “The first thing I will do is cast a circle of protection. As I do so, I will offer up a prayer to the deities I serve, and I encourage you to do the same, either out loud or in your head. As you pray, try to envision a golden-white light descending from above to envelop you.”

I watched as Ione closed her eyes and took a deep breath before raising her hands above her head in supplication to whatever deities she called upon. As she lowered her hands slowly, I tried to imagine her drawing a shimmering dome around us. In one smooth motion, she then stooped to pick up the jar of salt and stepped away from the bench to walk in a large clockwise circle around us, using the salt to make a perfect ring on the floor.  When she started to speak, I shut my eyes and quickly bowed my head, feeling out of place and uncertain. The smell of the smoldering incense and the cadence of her chanting flooded my mind with memories of sitting through my cousin’s Catholic wedding ceremony when I was six years old. Now, as then, I wasn’t sure what to pray, and struggled to keep my mind grounded. Finally, I stumbled through the Lord’s Prayer and what I remembered from Psalm 23, all the while half-listening to her lilting voice as she prayed effortlessly:

“Creators of all living things,

Spirit guides that fly on golden wings,

Surround us now with purest light,

And keep us safe in your loving sight.

Now guide our hands, our thoughts, our hearts,

And may all negative energy now depart.

Protect us now; O, hear my plea.

As I will, so mote it be.”

When she finished casting the circle, she knelt to set down the jar of salt and took up the bundle of herbs. Pulling the lighter from her skirt pocket, she gave it a flick and held the flame to the bundle until the tips glowed orange and then began to smolder. Tendrils of smoke rose, and the pungent aroma tickled my nostrils, making my nose twitch with the urge to sneeze.

She placed the burning herbs in the glass bowl and picked up the feather. As she fanned the smoke around my feet, she began to chant in a low, reverent tone. “Air and fire, earth and water; cleanse, dispel, disperse.” Over and over again she spoke her incantation as she walked slow circles around me, fanning the fragrant smoke over my entire body.

At first, I was mindful of her purposeful actions and her soothing words, but by the time her ministrations reached my shoulders, my thoughts had drifted to Luther and my father, and what they would say if they knew I was here. The old familiar feelings of guilt rose within me as their harsh voices echoed from the depths of my memory, chastising me, judging me, condemning me for my blasphemous foolishness.

By the time Ione finished smudging the crown of my head, there was such turmoil in my mind that I was in tears, and I squeezed my eyes shut in a futile attempt to stem their flow. Seeming to sense my emotional state, she lowered her voice as she completed her ritual, and my ears zeroed in on her words of benediction. “By the sacred smoke of these fragrant plants, may this dear one be cleansed and free.”

The room fell silent as her words rained down into my thirsty soul. The words cleansed and free resonated deep in my spirit, and the image of chains falling away came to the forefront of my mind. I took deep, cleansing breaths, filling my lungs with the acrid-sweet smell of the smoldering herbs, and when I released the breaths, I imagined expelling my feelings of guilt and of being held down by my family’s rigid beliefs. By the time I opened my eyes, the tears that remained were tears of relief, and I felt freer and lighter than I had in longer than I could remember.

After saying a prayer of thanks to her gods, Ione walked counterclockwise around the circle, “to close the circle and end the ritual,” she told me. When she finished, she stood in front of me once more. She studied me for a moment and then smiled and nodded approvingly. “Kyr, you look like a different person. Your aura is clearer and brighter than I’ve ever seen it. How do you feel?”

I wasn’t at all surprised that she could see a difference in me; the change I felt was so great it was almost tangible, and I actually looked down to make sure my feet were still on the floor. “I feel amazing! I don’t think I’ve felt this good in years.” I laughed out loud, thinking I sounded like one of those elderly women on a late-night infomercial who had regained her youthful stamina just by taking some miracle supplement not available in stores. “If you could bottle that and sell it, you’d be a millionaire in no time.”

Ione’s laughter echoed mine. “It sounds as though you were long overdue for a bit of cleansing, although I firmly believe that some of your new lightness of spirit comes as much from confronting some of your personal demons as from my smudging. Now that some of these issues have come to light, you would do well to spend some time examining them rather than running from them.”

Even though I knew she spoke truth, hearing those words made me feel a bit less light. “I suppose you’re right about that.”

“Of course I am,” she joked, sounding annoyingly similar to Spook. “As for bottling a smudging, I can’t do that, but I can give you something you can use on your own.”

We left the Reading Room and made our way back to the main part of the store. Ione led me to the Herbal Magick section and quickly plucked a bag of crushed herbs from the shelf. This is a mixture of the herbs I used in my smudging ritual: white sage, cedar, and sweetgrass. You can perform your own smudging ritual at home just as I did here.” She briefly gave me instructions before handing me the bag of herbs. “I recommend doing this every so often in your home, as a preventative.”

Ione headed for the cash register, and I followed. When she rang up my purchase and gave me my total, I realized she hadn’t charged me for the Tarot reading or the smudging. “Wait, how much do I owe you for your services?”

She waved away my question. “That one is on me. I like to give one free reading each month, so I’ve just satisfied that requirement.” I was doubtful that was true, but she continued to refuse payment, telling me to pass along a kindness to someone else. “Also, I ask that you be very careful when you return to Willow Lake. Take precautions during your investigation, and be sure that everyone involved—you especially—watches their backs. Make sure you take along your tourmaline, these herbs, and anything else you find to be empowering.”

A chill ran down my spine as I realized that her warnings sounded much like Spook’s, only much more detailed. Still, I trusted her advice, and I knew I would take her words to heart.

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The Witch of Willow Lake Free Ebook

October Blog Hop Begins!

For those of you new to my little piece of the blogosphere, welcome. For those who have visited before, welcome back. For everyone who stops by, get ready for a week of ooky-spooky fun, some ghostly stories, and a giveaway or two.

Today’s post is Part 1 of a YA Halloween short story that I began and abandoned a couple years ago. I’m hoping to get it finished and posted on Wattpad in time for Halloween. But for now, enjoy Part 1.

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The Curse of Weatherly House

October, 1987

I came to the end of the lane and paused at the bottom of the long driveway that led up the hill and around the bend to Weatherly House. Casting a glance over my shoulder, I saw that my costumed companions gathered several yards away on the sidewalk in front of the property, their heads together as they laughed in certain victory that I would lose the dare. I turned to face the pathway once more, swallowing hard once, twice, to dislodge the lemon-drop-sized lump that had suddenly appeared in my throat.

Taking a deep breath, I pulled the sheet back down to cover myself once more, hoping it might hide me from the spooks they said haunted this hill, or at least make them think I was one of them. I ducked my head and started quickly up the long, sloping curve, stiff-legged in my haste, wanting only to get the dare over with and return home where I could sort my sugary stash from the middle school party and gloat over my victory.

I made it around the first curve before raising my eyes. Maple and oak trees made an alternating pattern of yellow and red as they stood guard the entire length of the driveway and obscured from view the mysterious abandoned mansion that crouched just on the other side of the hill. Their foliage was just past its mid-autumn prime, but enough of their flame-bright color remained to push back the quickly-gathering dusk enough for me to make my way towards the house. I felt small and conspicuous in my crisp, white ghost costume as my feet swish-swished through fallen leaves and crunched the occasional acorn.

A sudden breeze kicked up, whistling through the branches and surrounding me with foreboding whispers. “Beware,” they warned. “Turn back now. Come no further.” I froze in my tracks as something rustled loudly in the branches above me before launching itself from its perch. I bit back a cry and threw my arms up to protect my face before I realized it was only an owl. I watched it swoop close to the ground before ascending once more and making a wide arc through the trees.

I continued on my way and soon rounded the last curve. As the trees parted and I laid eyes on the fabled mansion for the first time, I stared speechlessly at the scene before me. Not for nothing had the old folks in town dubbed it the Fairy Tale House! The stately home seemed out of place among the later-built, cookie-cutter duplexes that lined the rest of the street. Its rich reddish-brown exterior with its ornate white trim called to mind the candy-laden gingerbread house of Hansel and Gretel fame. I swallowed hard, recalling who it was that inhabited that all-too-tempting abode.

Taking a deep breath, I inched closer. All I had to do was run onto the front porch and grab some random piece of evidence to prove I had actually gone the whole way up the house. The place had stood empty for so long that it was quite literally falling apart, so I reasoned that it wouldn’t be difficult to find a shingle or a piece of loose shutter to present to my friends.

I cleared the last of the trees and stood staring up at the imposing structure. As I took the first hesitant step towards the front porch, I stopped, my eyes widening in terror. Carved pumpkins sat on either side of the three steps leading up to the porch, as though someone lived there and had decorated for Halloween. In the upstairs window, I caught a glimpse of a faint, warm glow moving around, as if someone were walking about by candlelight.

I turned to run, but then stopped. Did I really want to go back to my friends empty-handed and face their taunts, as well as weeks of being the butt of jokes at school? For several minutes I stood frozen by my indecision—should I abandon my quest, or should I prove myself brave?

Finally making my decision, I dashed the rest of the way up the sidewalk and bounded onto the porch. I bit back a yelp as the rotten wood sagged slightly under my weight, and I froze for a second, hoping it would hold. When it did, I glanced wildly around, looking for anything I could swipe as proof that I had completed my task. My eyes landed on the rusted brass house number; the 5 in the middle had come loose and hung upside down. Perfect! I grasped it and gave one yank, then another. On the third yank, it came off with an eerie screech, almost as if I had hurt the house.

A series of thumps sounded from inside, as though someone were coming down from the second floor. Seized with fright, I turned and leapt from the porch, and then ran the whole way down the winding driveway back to my waiting companions. When I showed them the house number I’d taken, they ripped off their masks to stare at my prize. I had expected congratulations, a few pats on the back, and maybe a bit of respect. Instead, they stared at the rusty number 5 with horror and quickly turned to sprint off towards their respective houses.

I was left standing alone in the middle of the sidewalk, wondering what evil I had just gotten in to…

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There you have it. Feel free to leave a comment below. Since it’s still unclear how the story will end, let me know if you’d like a happy ending or a spooky ending.

Also, to check out the other authors in the blog hop, click on the little blue frog icon below, which will take you to Clarissa Johal’s blog where you’ll find links to the other participating blogs. Lots of spooky stories, giveaways, and Halloween fun to be had.