London, 1677. A house with a dark secret. A lawyer in pursuit of magick. A witch, dead for fifty years.
Israel Cutler, dealer in second-hand goods, discovers the journals of Doctor Winter. Detailing the doctor’s relationship with a hanged witch, he recognises an opportunity. Seeking out a lawyer he knows with an interest in the occult, Cutler tries to sell the journals, but soon finds himself involved in a terrifying ritual—one that could bring black witch Lizzie Pickin back from the dead. Again.
Forced into a dangerous partnership, the witch leads Cutler on a trail of murder and revenge.
In this horror series set in London, Shadow of the Witch is book #2 in the Black Witch Saga.
Purchase Links
AMAZON https://geni.us/r4kqMtb
SMASHWORDS https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1480253
Colin Garrow grew up in a former mining town in Northumberland. He has worked in a plethora of professions including taxi driver, antiques dealer, drama facilitator, theatre director and fish processor, and has occasionally masqueraded as a pirate.
His short stories have appeared in several literary mags, including SN Review, Flash Fiction Magazine, Word Bohemia, Every Day Fiction, The Grind, A3 Review, 1,000 Words, Inkapture and Scribble Magazine. He currently lives in a humble cottage in Northeast Scotland where he writes novels, stories, poems and the occasional song.
He also makes rather nice vegan cakes.
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~Extract~
Cutler and the lawyer arrive at the derelict house on Cateaten Streete. It is after midnight. Letting themselves into the house, they climb the ladder to the upper storey and make the necessary preparations to contact the witch…
Excerpt:
Fletcher eases himself down into a kneeling position on the floor and unties the handkerchief, revealing its contents. ‘Draw a five-pointed star on the floor,’ he says, handing Cutler a lump of white chalk.
‘Where?’
He waves a hand, indicating the centre of the room. ‘Around there. Wide enough to accommodate the two of us standing.’
Cutler moves the lantern to one side so he can see what he’s doing. Using his coat sleeve to brush away the worst of the dirt, he begins marking out the lines that make up the image of the pentagram. As he does so, Fletcher lights six candles, placing each one at a point of the star, keeping the last one for himself. Picking up the book, he struggles to his feet and steps into the centre of the image.
‘What now?’ says Cutler.
‘Turn down the lantern.’
Cutler feels a shiver run up his spine. He’s never been afraid of the dark, but the thought of standing in this place with barely a light, fills him with trepidation. He picks up the lantern and turns down the wick to a tiny glow, then places it next to the ladder. If they need to leave quickly, he doesn’t want to do it in total darkness. Stepping into the centre of the pentagram, he stands, hands balled into fists at his side.
Fletcher passes him the candle. ‘Hold this and don’t let it go out.’
Cutler holds it as steady as he is able. He watches as Fletcher opens the old book and flicks through its pages. Each one appears to be handwritten in a barely legible scrawl, with weird illustrations to accompany the text.
‘Do I have to do anythin?’
Fletcher bends forwards, peering at the book. He shakes his head.
Cutler takes a deep breath and holds it for a few seconds in a bid to slow his increasing heartbeat, but the thumping in his chest only grows worse. He glances around the room, weird shadows seeming to slide out from every corner. He focuses on the open casement, the fluttering fabric shifting this way and that in the breeze, so slowly and deliberately, Cutler thinks it must be controlled by some unseen hand.
He coughs, rubs his face, blinks.
‘Hold still, can’t ye?’ says Fletcher, running a finger down the page. ‘Here. This is it.’
The lawyer straightens up. Holding the book in one hand, he raises the other, fingers curled into a sign of some kind. He begins to chant, at first barely audible, then louder. His usual wheezing adds another layer of eeriness to the ritual.
The words make no sense to Cutler, but immediately he becomes aware of movement. His gaze swivels to the window and the still swaying fabric. Except now it has stopped moving and hangs straight down, as if held in place by weights. Cutler swallows hard and tells himself the wind has dropped, nothing more. The candles around the star flicker, and something shifts close to the wall. He turns and peers into the darkness with Fletcher’s mumbling words echoing in his ears. Another movement but this time from near the staircase. A shadow—the same one?—slides across the floor and now Cutler is certain this is no trick of the light, no wild imagining. The shadow broadens, the blackness within it too dense, too complete to be cast by the light of the moon or one of the candles. This is something else, creeping across the floor, covering each inch of space until only the area within the pentagram remains untouched by its blackness. Cutler feels himself stiffen, cold air engulfing his feet, rising up his legs like the claws of some dreadful beast.
‘What’s—?’
‘Hush!’ says Fletcher. ‘She is here.’
Cutler’s head jolts up and for a moment all he can see is darkness. He blinks, striving to clear his vision and—thank God—the candle is there again, flickering madly. But the cold creeping thing is at his waist, clawing its way up his chest towards his face. He lifts his chin, stretching his neck in a bid to keep it at bay. His eyes close, forced shut by the freezing air. Flustered, his free hand jerks upwards, frantically wiping his face, rubbing away whatever is keeping his eyes shut. Then they’re open and he sees the glow of the candle in his other hand, shimmering in the darkness, just as it should be.
But then, the stench of something nasty, like rotting meat, wafts over Israel Cutler’s face, blowing out the candle. On impulse, he drops it, and in the seconds before he automatically closes his fist, cold fingers slide over his skin, gripping his hand. For a long moment, there is no sound, no chanted mumblings from Fletcher, no rattling breaths, not even the thumping of his own heart. Cutler looks up. In front of his face, inches away and staring right back at him, is the witch.
