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 addictive historical
debut about strange power, fierce love, family secrets, and how the past haunts
us in ways that demand to be seen.
The Witch of Willow Hall by 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
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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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
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.
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