Genre: Historical
Fiction
Release Date: October
2nd, 2018
Publisher: Harlequin’s
Graydon House Books
Format: Digital
eBook / Print
Digital ISBN: B077MKGQLR
Print ISBN: 9781525833014
Two centuries after the Salem witch trials, there’s still
one witch left in Massachusetts. But she doesn’t even know it.
Take this as a warning: if you are not able or willing to
control yourself, it will not only be you who suffers the consequences, but
those around you, as well.
New Oldbury, 1821
In the wake of a scandal, the Montrose family and their
three daughters—Catherine, Lydia and Emeline—flee Boston for their new country
home, Willow Hall.
The estate seems sleepy and idyllic. But a subtle menace
creeps into the atmosphere, remnants of a dark history that call to Lydia, and
to the youngest, Emeline.
All three daughters will be irrevocably changed by what
follows, but none more than Lydia, who must draw on a power she never knew she
possessed if she wants to protect those she loves. For Willow Hall’s secrets
will rise, in the end…
Excerpt:
Copyright© 2018 The
Witch of Willow Hall
Hester Fox
Hello readers, I’m so
excited to share an excerpt with you from my debut novel, THE WITCH OF WILLOW
HALL (on-sale October 2, 2018). My name is Hester Fox, and hailing from Boston,
I’ve always been fascinated with the rich and oftentimes dark history of this
period. My novel takes place in a small New England town over 130 years after
the infamous Salem Witch trials, and features a Gothic, melancholy atmosphere, restless
spirits, and of course, resilient women. I hope you enjoy this excerpt I’ve
pulled for you.
~*~
Gingerly, I get up, my legs full of pins and needles from
sitting on the floor so long. Just like the night of the woman in the garden,
I can’t stay in the library knowing that someone might be there. I must go and
look for myself.
Even with the sun coming through the windows, illuminating
the wood floors and catching the light of the crystal lamps, I feel as if I’m
making my way through a dark, murky passage. My feet are heavy, as if they know
something that my mind does not.
The door to the dining room is closed. It beckons me, yet
repels me, exuding a sense of silent occupation. My ears buzz. A singsong
chorus of whispers grows as I approach.
Are you ready?
I am here.
You attract them.
Are you ready?
Prepare for what lies ahead.
Prepare.
Prepare.
They mount and mount into a dizzying jumble of sound and I
run the rest of the way to the door, my heart in my chest, my eyes squeezed
shut. Grasping the knob, I fling open the door. The voices die away.
I knew it would be there. But it doesn’t stop me from gasping
as every part of me curls back in on itself in horror. My blood turns to ice.
Seated at the table is a woman, or what used to be a woman.
She sits as if she has every right to be there, as if she has always been
there. A veil covers her face, but it is gauzy and threadbare, and I can see
the contours of the features beneath. Her dress is old, black as night yet
opalescent as the moon through a cobweb. Paralyzed with fear, I watch as it
moves about her of its own accord, a soft undulation as if she were underwater.
And though I can see her as clear as day, the veiled woman in our dining room,
there’s a translucence to her, and the panoramic wallpaper is just visible
behind her. She is like nothing and no one I have ever seen before, and yet she
is familiar, as if I have always known her.
“Come, child.” Her voice comes from everywhere and nowhere,
and when her words are finished, I have the unnerving feeling that they weren’t
spoken aloud at all, but came from within my head.
She beckons me with a knobby finger, more bone than flesh.
I can’t drag my gaze away from her face, the sunken holes
where there ought to be eyes, the lipless mouth, all teeth and blackness. The
cold pie that I just enjoyed churns in my stomach and threatens to come up.
She beckons me again, and I imagine those long, terrible fingers closing around
my neck and choking the life out of me. I imagine them raking me across the
face until ribbons of skin flutter from my skull. I stand my ground, unwilling
to deliver myself up to her. She is the stuff of my novels, a grotesque horror
that titillates on the page, but sends terror into my heart when in the same
room as me.
She gives something like a grunt, and as if able to read my
thoughts, says, “One hundred and thirty years of death is not gentle on a body.
Come, do not gawk.” I dare not disobey her, so I force my leaden feet to move a
few steps closer.
The smell of decay and death fills the room, sickly sweet
and putrid at the same time. My stomach clenches at the memories the odor
brings back of Emeline in her coffin. My throat is tight, my mouth cotton, but
somehow I’m able to gasp out, “W-who are you?”
She makes a noise, something between a snort and a laugh, a
scraping, rattling sound, though it’s devoid of humor. “Do you not know your
own forebear?”
The blackness of her dress curls around her like a snake,
but she sits as motionless as if she were carved of stone. Her stillness is
suffocating, it dares the house to be silent, and punishes the sunlight for
filtering in through the window.
Warily, I come to a halt at the edge of the dining room
table. I don’t know what she’s talking about. “Forebear?”
“Have you not looked upon me since you were a babe? Do you
not recognize in me what flows through you?”
“I…” But then it comes to me. The lace collar, though tattered
and black as her dress, is unmistakable around her neck. “You’re the woman in
the painting. Mother’s ancestor.”
The inclination of her head is small, barely perceptible.
Praise for The Witch of Willow Hall:
"Fox’s spins a satisfying debut yarn that includes
witchcraft, tragedy, and love, set in 1821 New England... The inclusion of
gothic elements adds a visceral feel that fans of historical fiction with a
dash of the supernatural will enjoy." -
Publishers Weekly
"Hester Fox's THE WITCH OF WILLOW HALL offers a
fascinating location, a great plot with history and twists, and characters that
live and breathe. I love the novel, and will be looking forward to all new
works by this talented author!" --Heather
Graham, New York Times bestselling author
"Beautifully written, skillfully plotted, and filled
with quiet terror, readers will devour this absorbing, Gothic tale of romance
and suspense. Perfect for fans of Simone St James and Kate Morton." -- Anna Lee Huber, the national bestselling
author of the historical Lady Darby Mysteries
"Beautifully written, with an intriguing plot full of
suspense and mystery, The Witch of Willow Hall will cast a spell over
every reader." -- Lisa Hall, author
of Tell Me No Lies and Between You and Me
"I was entranced by this intriguing and spellbinding
novel with its messages of love and loyalty and being true to who you really
are. I hope Hester Fox goes on to write many more such novels--I for one will
be buying them." -- Kathleen
McGurl, author of The Girl from Ballymor
"With its sense of creeping menace and chilling
undertones, this compelling story had me gripped from the first page. The
vividly drawn characters cast their spell so convincingly, I couldn't stop
reading until I discovered what happened to them. A wonderful debut novel.”--Linda Finlay, author of The Flower
Seller
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About Hester Fox:
Hester Fox has a background in the museum field as a
collections maintenance technician. This job has taken her from historic houses
to fine art museums, where she has cleaned and cared for collections that range
from paintings by old masters to ancient artifacts to early American furniture.
She is a keen painter and has a Master's in historical archaeology, as well as
a background in medieval studies and art history. Hester lives outside of
Boston with her husband and their two cats.
