Season of the WItch by Brian Moreland

Today we have Brian Moreland here telling us about his witches. You might remember him from Vampire Month. The cannibal story… “Dead of Winter”  (that I had to sit a side because it was way too scary) I’ve got these witch novels on my TBR list, but to tell you the honest truth….. I’m scared to read them. 😀 That’s how scary “Dead of Winter” is. Before I scare you all, I’ll let Brian take it from here.

Thank you Brian for being a part of witch month.

 

“Season of the Witch”

 

by Brian Moreland

They come from mythology, folklore and fairytales and go by names such as crone, conjurer, necromancer and witch. Male witches are called warlocks and wizards, although the archetypal figure is predominately depicted as an ugly old woman―the hag. Some live as hermits in hovels in dark forests. Others gather in secret places and form covens. They operate in the realms of magic and have the power to cast spells and charm us. They can tell our fortunes or curse us with the evil eye. Old, wicked, beautiful, seductive―witches of all forms have enchanted our stories since the dawn of storytelling.

I love a good witch story, especially when it’s scary, so I wrote three witch stories: The Girl from the Blood Coven, The Witching House and The Jack-o’-lantern Man. As a horror fiction writer, I like to combine history and legends with scary supernatural stories. The Jack-o’-lantern Man plays on childhood fears of the bogeyman during Halloween, while the second two stories allowed me to have fun creating my own legend about a coven witches living in the backwoods of East Texas.

My most recent witch story takes place on the night of Halloween. After trick-or-treating, Corey and his kid sister, Paige, listen to their father tell a ghost story about the legendary Jack-o’-lantern Man, a serial killer who stalks their town during Halloween. After going to sleep, Corey’s night turns to terror as he fears the bogeyman is inside his house. The Jack-o’-lantern Man is available through Amazon and all eBook sellers October 20, 2014.

 

The Girl from the Blood Coven is a short story prelude to The Witching House. It’s the year 1972. Sheriff Travis Keagan is enjoying a beer at the local roadhouse, when a blood-soaked girl enters the bar. Terrified and trembling, Abigail Blackwood claims her entire family was massacred at the hippy commune in the woods. Sheriff Keagan knows that Abigail’s “family” is a coven of witches that inhabit the Blevins house. They’ve been rumored to be practicing blood sacrifices and black magic. When the sheriff and his deputies investigate the alleged murders, they discover what happened at the Blevins house is more horrific than they ever imagined. You can read an excerpt at the end of this article and download the story for free wherever eBooks are sold.

 

The Witching House is a novella that unravels the mystery of what happened to the Blevins Coven. It’s forty years after the massacre at the hippy commune. My main character is Sarah Donovan, a young woman recovering from a bad divorce and boring life. She recently started dating an exciting, adventurous man named Dean Stratton. Dean and his friends, Meg and Casey, are fearless thrill-seekers. They like to jump out of airplanes, go rock-climbing, white-water rafting, caving and do anything that offers an adrenaline rush.

Sarah, on the other hand, is scared of just about everything–heights, tight places, the dark–but today she must confront all her fears, as she joins Dean, Meg and Casey on an urban exploring adventure. There’s an abandoned house set far back in the woods, they say. The Old Blevins House has been boarded-up for forty years. And it’s rumored to be haunted. The two couples are going to break in and explore the mysterious house. Little do they know the Old Blevins House is cursed from black magic, and something in the cellar has been craving fresh prey to cross the house’s threshold.

Writing these two stories allowed me to research the long history of witches, from Biblical times, to Norse and Greek mythology, Celtic Paganism, the Christian witch hunts, as well as the modern-day practice of Wicca. In fact, Sarah Donovan’s grandmother is a Wiccan who practices light magic and becomes Sarah’s voice of reason as she is confronted by dark forces. I also studied the differences between White Magic and Black Magic, even combed through a 17th Century spell book for conjuring evil spirits. As with my other books, I have interwoven much of the historical facts that I learned into my stories to offer readers a richer reading experience.

 

Below is an excerpt from The Girl from the Blood Coven:

 

June 21, 1972

As Sheriff Travis Keagan drove through the pine country of East Texas, he had two things on his mind: drinking a cold beer and watching the second half of the Rangers baseball game. On the radio, the announcer said it was top of the fifth and the Yankees were winning five to three.

“Come on, Rangers.” Sheriff Keagan felt absolutely beat and needed his team to lift his spirits. It was the end of another long, hot and balmy summer day of dealing with traffic accidents, drunken domestic disputes and escorting a wife beater to the county jail. Now the shadows of dusk were gathering in the forest, and judging by the flickering clouds, a stormy night was fast approaching.

A woman’s voice squawked on the CB radio. “Dispatch to Sheriff. Over.”

Sheriff Keagan sighed and picked up the microphone. “Yes, Connie. Over.”

“Earl Potter called and claims he saw the ghost of a girl cross through his pasture. Says she spooked his horses.”

“Ghost…” Keagan chuckled, shaking his head. “Last week it was flying saucers. Did he sound drunk?”

Connie laughed. “Like he always does. Over.”

“Tell Earl he needs to lay off the moonshine and go to bed. I’m calling it a night. Have a wonderful evening, Connie. I’ll be at the Armadillo if you need me. Over and out.” Keagan parked his police car in the gravel lot of the Lazy Armadillo. The roadhouse and connecting gas station were isolated on a wooded road just outside of the small town of Buck Horn. Inside the restaurant, the jukebox was playing a Willie Nelson song. A half-dozen townspeople acknowledged the sheriff as he entered the bar. He knew everyone here by name, where they lived, where they worked and their nighttime habits. He knew that Dale and Judy in the corner booth were cheating on their spouses. At another table, Tommy Green was studying to be a lawyer so he didn’t have to end up selling cars his whole life like his pops. And the sheriff knew that the Kincaid brothers, who were casually playing pool, would later get drunk and start throwing fists at one another. Just a typical night at the Armadillo.

Taking off his cowboy hat, Keagan sat at his favorite bar stool, where he had a perfect view of the Rangers game on the TV. “Damn, Yanks scored again?”

Sheila, the sexiest redheaded bartender in the county, put a frosty mug in front of Keagan. “Rangers’ pitching is terrible tonight.”

“Their bats aren’t hitting squat either,” Keagan said.

She pulled out her order pad. “Your usual tonight, Sheriff?”

“Nah, I’m in the mood for a steak. Tell Jorge to burn it.”

Sheila leaned against the bar. “You know all that red meat isn’t good for your colon.” The student nurse was always looking after his health. “How about the grilled catfish with some stir-fried veggies? You’ll thank me twenty years from now.”

“Fine. But you’re not talking me out of the pecan pie.”

“Maybe I’ll have a slice with you.” She winked.

Keagan’s cheeks flushed and he felt warm all over. Since his wife left him a few years back, moving to Houston with their daughter, he missed having a woman care about him. He admired Sheila as she delivered his order to the kitchen. If the college girl wasn’t half his age, he’d ask her out in a heartbeat.

On the TV, the Rangers hit a homer with two men on base, tying the game.

Keagan cheered and waved the runners around the bases. He raised his beer in celebration and was about to drink when he heard a commotion behind him.

A man shouted, “Holy shit!”

Keagan spun around in his seat.

Standing in the front doorway was a young woman covered head to toe in blood. Her soaked nightgown clung to her body. She walked into the restaurant, stiff and grimacing, as if her bare feet were walking on glass. The girl’s face was a mask of solid red and her eyes were wide with terror. She stretched out an arm. “Help me…”

Keagan reached her first and she collapsed in his arms. She was trembling.

So much blood. It covered his hands and stained his uniform.

A crowd of onlookers gathered around, and the sheriff shouted, “Everyone stay back. Sheila, call for an ambulance. And somebody get her some water.” Keagan walked the girl to a booth and sat her down. He examined her exposed skin for bleeding wounds, but found none. It looked as if someone had dumped buckets of dark red paint over her head. Her long hair was littered with leaves and pine needles. Her gown was slashed across the chest and he could see part of one of her breasts. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

The girl looked at him, her lips quivering, and made a croaking sound.

The waitress gave her a glass of water.

As the girl drank, Keagan said, “You’re going to be okay. You’re safe now. An ambulance will be here soon. My name is Sheriff Keagan. Can you tell me what happened?”

“Dead…” she managed. “They’re all dead.”

 

Download The Girl from the Blood Coven for free wherever eBooks are sold.

The Girl from the Blood Coven and The Witching House are also available in an audio book through The Audio Book Shop.

 

 

 

Brian Moreland writes novels and short stories of horror and supernatural suspense. His novels are Dead of Winter, Shadows in the Mist, and The Devil’s Woods. His novellas are The Witching House and The Vagrants. New stories coming soon: The Jack-o’-lantern Man, The Dealer of Needs, Chasing the Dragon, and The Darkness Inside. Brian lives in Dallas, Texas where he is joyfully writing his next horror books.

 

Follow Brian on Twitter: @BrianMoreland

Visit: http://www.brianmoreland.com/

Visit Brian’s blog Dark Lucidity: http://www.BrianMoreland.blogspot.com

 

Dead of Winter

I recently met Brian Moreland on Twitter (Twitter tag at the bottom of post). I’ve started reading his books and I have to say wow! Thank you Mr. Moreland for being a part of Vampire month. We have a giveaway at the bottom of the post. Without further ado, DEAD OF WINTER.

Dead of Winter

Brian Moreland

My novel, DEAD OF WINTER, is a historical horror thriller set in Canada during the blizzard season of 1870. The story is based partly on true events and an old Algonquin Indian legend that still haunts the Great Lakes tribes to this day. It’s also a detective mystery that takes place near the end of the 19th Century at an isolated fur-trading fort deep in the Ontario wilderness. Inspector Tom Hatcher, a troubled detective from Montreal, recently captured a deranged serial killer known as the Cannery Cannibal. Gustav Meraux is Jack-the-the-Ripper meets Hannibal Lecter. Even though the cannibal has been locked away in an asylum, the case still haunts Tom, so he has moved out to the wilderness, bringing his rebellious teenage son with him. At the beginning of the story, Tom has taken a job at Fort Pendleton to solve a case of strange murders by a cannibal more savage than Gustav Meraux. Some predator in the woods surrounding the fort is attacking colonists and spreading a gruesome plague—the victims turn into ravenous cannibals with an unending hunger for human flesh. In Tom’s search for answers, he discovers that the Jesuits know something about this plague. My second main character is Father Xavier, an exorcist from Montreal. The Vatican sends the priest to Ontario to help Tom battle the Devil’s Plague. Below is an excerpt of the first chapter.

“Dead of Winter by Brian Moreland is an exceptionally well crafted horror novel that tells a gripping story of dark religious doings, a horrific serial killer, and a sympathetic Inspector, in a dark and fascinating historical setting of 19th century Canada. The atmospherics are outstanding and the story offers plenty of surprises right up to its shocking and violent conclusion. Highly recommended.”
— Douglas Preston, co-author of The Monster of Florence and Cold Vengeance.
“Dead of Winter is a thrilling, wholly-engrossing read that masterfully crosses multiple genres and leaves the reader breathless. Moreland weaves one hell of a history lesson, rich with brilliant characters and incredible plot twists. Highly recommended!”

— Brian Keene, best-selling author of The Last Zombie and Ghoul
________________________________________

Part One
Predators and Prey

1

December 15, 1870
Manitou Outpost
Ontario, Canada
It was the endless snowstorms that ushered in their doom. Each day and night the white tempests whirled around the fort, harrowing the log houses with winter lashings. At the center of the compound, the three-story lodge house creaked and moaned. Father Jacques Baptiste chanted in Latin and threw holy water on the barricaded front door. Above the threshold, a crucifix hung upside down. No matter how much the Jesuit priest prayed, the Devil would not release its grip on this godforsaken fort.
Something scraped against the wood outside. Father Jacques peered through the slats of a boarded window. Tree branches clawed violently at the stockade walls. The front gate stood open, exposing them to the savage wilderness. It also provided the only path of escape. If by chance they made it out the gate, which way would they go?
The priest considered their options. Beyond the fort’s perimeter, the dark waters of Makade Lake knocked plates of ice against the shore. Crossing the frozen lake would be a dead man’s walk. Last week, two of the trappers fell through the ice. The only way out was through the woods.
Father Jacques shuddered at the thought of leaving the fort. The trappers had fortified the outpost to keep the evil out. They hadn’t counted on the savagery attacking them from within. He prayed for the souls of the men, women, and children lost in the past few weeks. Last autumn, the French-speaking colony had been twenty strong. Now, in midwinter, they were down to four survivors and not a crumb of food to split among them. How much longer before the beasts within completely took them over?
“Forgive us, oh Lord, for our fall from grace.” Father Jacques sipped the holy water. It burned his throat and stomach like whiskey. “Cast out these evils that prey upon us.”
Behind him, the sound of boots approached from the darkness. The priest spun with his lantern, lighting up the gaunt face of a bearded man. Master Pierre Lamothe, the fort’s chief factor, wore a deerskin parka with a bushy fur hood. His eyes were bloodshot. He wheezed.
The priest took a step back. “Are you still with us, Pierre?”
The sick man nodded. “Just dizzy, Father. I’m so damned hungry.”
Father Jacques knew the pains of hunger. Each passing day it pulled his flesh tighter against his ribcage. “We’ll find something to eat soon, I promise. Here, take another sip.” He offered the bottle of holy water.
Pierre took a swig and winced. Seconds later he stumbled back, rubbing his eyes.
“The burning will pass.” Father Jacques grabbed his wrist. “Remember our plan?”
“Yes… check on the horses.”
“We must hurry. Now may be our only chance.” They removed the barricade from the door. A long staircase led down from the second floor to the snow-covered ground. “Bless me, Father.” Pierre raised his shotgun and stepped out into the blizzard. He all but disappeared in the white squall. The only parts visible were his hood and the outline of his shoulders. Father Jacques nervously watched the fort grounds. At the surrounding cabins, wind howled through shattered windows and broken doors. When Pierre reappeared at the stables, the priest released his breath.
Please let the horses still be alive.
The chief factor pulled a horse out. The poor animal was so thin its hide sunk into its ribs. As Pierre threw a saddle on its back, he raised two fingers, signaling that a second horse was still inside the stable.
Father Jacques closed the door and clasped his hands. “Thank you, oh Lord.”
Someone tugged at his cassock. He looked down to see a small, French-Indian girl. Pierre’s daughter Zoé had tousled black hair and large brown eyes that had kept their innocence despite the horrors they’d witnessed these past few weeks. The girl held a tattered Indian doll to her chest. “I’m afraid, Père.”
Father Jacques touched her head and gave the most comforting smile he could conjure. “Don’t worry, Zoé, the angels will protect us. Here, you need to bundle up.” He fastened her fur parka, pulled the hood over her head.
“I want Mama to go with us.”
“I’m sorry, Zoé, but she’s too sick. She would die out there. You, your papa, and I are going to ride out to the nearest fort. Then we’ll send help back for your mother.”
The girl frowned. “Noël says you’re lying!”
Father Jacques glanced down at the Indian doll. One green eye stared back. The other eye was a ragged hole. Since Zoé had stopped eating two weeks ago, she suffered from dementia. She spent most of her days whispering to her doll. Father Jacques wanted to rip its head off. He squeezed his fist. “Noël is just afraid like the rest of us. Now, pray for forgiveness for speaking to me in that manner.”
“Sorry, Père.” Zoé crossed herself and bowed.
“Now, drink.” He gave the girl the last of the holy water. She drank it and winced as if it were castor oil.
Outside, the horses whinnied. A shotgun fired.
Father Jacques dashed to the window. He searched the fort grounds. A saddled horse ran in circles. Where was Pierre?
Behind the wall of whirling snow, more shots were fired. Then came a scream. Pierre stumbled out of the mist. Blood spouted from the stump of his shoulder. He was missing an arm.
Peering out the boarded window, Father Jacques screamed at the sight of blood gushing from Pierre’s shoulder. As the wounded man stumbled up the front steps to the lodge house, the white mist rolled in from behind and swallowed Pierre. His scream was cut short.
“Papa!” Zoé ran toward the barricaded door. “Let Papa in!”
“No, move away from the door.” Father Jacques grabbed her hand and backed away.
Outside, the storm wailed. Snow blew in through the cracks of the boarded windows. Footfalls charged up the staircase like thundering hooves. Something rammed against the front door. The hinges buckled.
Zoé shrieked.
“Back to the cellar!” The priest pulled the girl through the dark corridors of the lodge house. Behind them, the front door crashed open. Terror stabbed Father Jacques’ chest with icy pinpricks at the shattering of windows and splintering of wood. Growls echoed throughout the lodge.
They’re inside!
Zoé released a high-pitched shriek.
“Stay quiet, girl.” The priest led her down the cellar stairs. The swinging lantern slashed the darkness with a pendulum blade of light. Scratches and streaks of crystallized blood glistened on the steps and walls like a gallery of agonies marking the descent to hell.
They ran into the dark cellar. Father Jacques brought down an iron bar across the door and shoved crates against it. He took the child’s face in his hands. “Hide, quick.”
The girl crawled inside a nook stuffed with fur pelts. She hugged her doll to her chest. Father Jacques pulled a deerskin blanket down over the nook so Zoé was fully hidden. “Don’t come out no matter what you hear.”
A raspy voice whispered, “Father…”
The priest aimed his lantern at a row of beds. The storage cellar had been converted into a makeshift hospital. In three beds lay twisted corpses. In the closest bed, an Ojibwa woman was lying beneath the quilts. Wenonah Lamothe, Pierre’s native wife. She was too delirious to know that her husband was dead. Her skeletal head rolled back and forth on the pillow. Teeth chattering, she coughed clouds of frosty air. Her long, black hair now had streaks of white. Her skin, normally reddish brown, had turned fish-belly pale, with white scabs and ghastly blue veins. She looked to the priest, her bloodshot eyes pleading him. “Help me, Father.”
“I’m sorry, Wenonah.” God had failed her. Failed them all.
The Jesuit picked up a silver cross with a daggered tip. “I cast out all spirits of Satan.”
The woman tied to the bedposts growled like a wolfhound.
Father Jacques stood at the foot of Wenonah’s bed. Her thrashing body smacked the headboard against the wall. She laughed and moaned, blue tongue licking her lips. She kicked off her quilts, thrusting her hips upward, spreading her bony legs for him. Remaining steadfast in his prayers, the priest raised the holy dagger over the Ojibwa woman’s chest.
Wenonah glared with fiery eyes.
Zoé yelled, “Mama!”
“Stay hidden, child.” Father Jacques stumbled back as a wave of emotions coursed through him. Anger. Fury. Rage.
Hunger.
His stomach ached for something meaty. Raw and bloody. He sniffed the air, his keen sense homing in on the nook where the girl was hidden. Beyond the scent of animal furs, Father Jacques inhaled the salty aroma of blood pumping through a heart.
Eat the girl! growled a voice inside the Jesuit’s head. Eat the lamb’s sweet meat.
“No. No. No.” He slammed the cross-dagger into a post. “I am a disciple of God. He gives me strength! Lead me not into temptation, oh Lord.” The wave of hunger passed. He chanted faster.
Shrieks echoed from beyond the cellar door. Feet stomped down the stairs. The doorknob rattled. Nails scraped the door, clawing to get in.
Father Jacques backed away, praying the barricade would hold. Even if it did, without food and water they couldn’t last another day in the cellar. We have to escape.
He went to the back wall, climbed up a stack of crates. With a crowbar, he tore planks off a tiny window. Snow blew inward, stinging his face. The mist had cleared. He could see the stables and the open front gate. The square portal was too small for Father Jacques, but not the girl. Tears welled in the priest’s eyes as he realized his last hope had come down to the fate of a nine-year-old girl. “Come, child, now!”
She climbed out from her hiding place, hugging the doll to her chest.
The priest kneeled, taking Zoé’s hands. “There’s still a horse in the stables. I need you to ride out to Fort Pendleton.” He pulled a small diary from his coat pocket. “Give this to Brother Andre.” He stuffed the journal into a trapper’s fur-skinned pack along with her doll.
“No, I’m not leaving…” She started to cry.
“You must, Zoé! We won’t survive down here another day.” He pulled the pack onto her back, fastening the straps around her waist.
“But what about you, Père?”
“You’ll have to go on your own.”
From the bed Wenonah rasped, “Zoé, wait…” Her wrist stretched one of the ropes. “Come here, my child.”
“Mama.”
“No, Zoé!” Father Jacques grabbed the girl just short of her mother’s gnarled fingernails. “Don’t touch her.” He carried Zoé to the back wall. She sobbed and jerked in his arms, reaching for her mother.
He stood her on a crate and shook her. “Listen, child! We need you to be strong. Go now, or you’ll never see your mother again.”
“But I’m afraid to go out there.”
“Remember the story about the lost children who came upon an angel?”
She nodded, sniffling.
“There are angels in the woods, and they will protect you, but they are leaving now, so you must hurry.”
The beasts wailed inside the cellar’s stairwell. An axe blade chopped through the door, cracking it.
The girl screamed and ran up the crates.
Father Jacques helped her out the window. She dropped down to the snowy ground.
“Hurry, Zoé!” He watched her run across the snowfield.
The axe blade smashed through the door. Dozens of white fingers tore at the hole. The priest held up a cross. “God is my savior!”
Another growl issued, this one from inside the cellar. He circled, searching the shadows until he spotted broken ropes at Wenonah’s bed. She now moved in the darkness just beyond the lantern glow. Her bones made popping sounds. The last stage of the change.
The priest stepped toward the row of beds. He barely made out the woman’s spindly shape hunched over, feeding off the flesh of a dead man. The crunching and tearing sickened Father Jacques and at the same time beckoned him to join Wenonah in the feast.
No, stay righteous! The Jesuit coughed. He stumbled to his altar and opened his holy book. The words blurred. His vision spiraled. Inside his stomach, the hunger grew, cold and burning, clinging his flesh to bone, filling him with a hollow emptiness, then turning—Yes!—spreading through him with a sweet rapture known only to saints and angels. “I am a shepherd of death…”
The cellar door crashed open.
Father Jacques raised his arms and smiled as he turned to face the ravenous horde.
———

DEAD OF WINTER is now available in paperback and e-book.

Author Bio: Brian Moreland writes novels and short stories of supernatural horror and dark suspense. His books include Dead of Winter, Shadows in the Mist, The Girl from the Blood Coven, The Witching House, and The Devil’s Woods, and The Vagrants. Brian lives in Dallas, Texas where he is diligently writing his next horror stories.

Website: http://www.brianmoreland.com/
Follow on Twitter: @BrianMoreland
Like Brian’s Facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/HorrorAuthorBrianMoreland
Brian’s blog: http://www.brianmoreland.blogspot.com
Find Brian’s books at Samhain Publishing: http://store.samhainpublishing.com/Brian-Moreland-pa-1662.html

Mr. Moreland has agreed to give a ebook copy of “Dead of Winter”
a Rafflecopter giveaway

Vampires Vampires Vampires

As the sun sets tonight, I’ve crawled from my coffin. Um, I mean, I’m sitting here after a long day of writing and researching….

We’re starting a little late, but I have some vampire fun for you this month. I’ve got a crypt full of writers chatting, goblets of Sangria in hand. Dylan J. Morgan is here talking about “Blood War”, he’s agreed to a giveaway! Nina Mason, is here to talk about “The Queen of Swords”. Brian Moreland is here to talk about “Dead of Winter” not vampires. . . cannibals!! He has a giveaway too. Caris Roane, is here to talk about “Embrace The Passion” the newest book in “The Blood Rose Series” she’s also got a giveaway for you. Jeanie Grey will be here with the last book in “The Lilly Frank Series” “Awakening 3” I’m so sad to see Lilly go, but I’m so excited for her. We also have Daven Anderson and his second book “Vampire Conspiracy”. I’ve also got Karen Soutar, I couldn’t do anything vampire (or witch for that matter) without her. Peter Davis-Parker is here, with an awesome poem!

I’ve asked some other authors, but these ladies and gents are being fashionably late.

So grab your crystal goblet and some red or O+ for those of you so inclined. Sit back and enjoy Vampire month.

***UPDATE*** Juliette Kings, aka Vampire Marman is here, she was lurking in the shadows. I think she was enjoying the calm atmosphere. She has teenage vampires at home, they can get noisy, believe me I know. I’ve sent my fledglings away for the month.

Salud