Two
centuries after the Salem witch trials, there’s still one witch
left in Massachusetts. But she doesn’t even know it. For fans of
The Rules of Magic by Alice Hoffman, A Secret of Witches by Louisa
Morgan and The Haunting of Maddie Clare by Simone St. James comes an
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secrets, and how the past haunts us in ways that demand to be seen.
Harlequin’s
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Witch of Willow Hall,
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Runners-up will receive an eCopy of The
Witch of Willow Hall.
To enter for your chance to win one these great prizes, please fill
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About
The
Witch of Willow Hall:
Author:
Hester Fox
Genre:
Historical Fiction
Release
Date: October
2nd, 2018
Publisher:
Harlequin’s
Graydon House Books
Format:
Digital eBook / Print
Digital
ISBN:
B077MKGQLR
Print
ISBN:
9781525833014
Synopsis:
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…
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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 sit ting 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, illumi nating 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 gasp ing 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 thread bare, 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 pan oramic 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 no where, 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 stom ach 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 memo ries 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 still ness 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 tat tered 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
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.