Excerpt 1:
I’d burned her bones, but she was back again.
And now she was pissed.
I fired my shotgun filled with salt rounds, but she vanished between when I pulled the trigger and when the shells fired. Then she materialized behind me and gave me a shove that sent me sprawling.
I’m a big guy, and thanks to a favor from a Slavic god, I’m immortal and pretty damned hard to injure. That doesn’t mean I like being tossed around by ill-tempered ghosts who have overstayed their welcome.
I rolled and came up with the shotgun locked and loaded, firing into the ghost’s midsection. That bought me a moment or two since salt fritzes ghosts’ ability to manifest, but I knew she wouldn’t be gone long.
I walked to where the tracks had been and stopped when the toe of my boot struck an old spike left from the long-ago rails. A scream reverberated through the forest. I pumped my shotgun and blasted her again before she could fully re-form. Then I set a salt circle around myself to keep her from knocking me around, dumped lighter fluid on the spike, and dropped a match on it.
People called the ghost the Lavender Lady. The stories said that she had been gathering the flowers back in the early 1900s when she was struck by a train—back before the tracks had been pulled up when trains still ran.
The town of Moonville was nothing but ruins now; the railroad was long gone, and the tunnel had fallen into disrepair, but the Lavender Lady still wandered the forest, surprising hikers and scaring thrill-seekers.
The Lady’s real name was Henrietta Austin, and while her body was found amid the flowers for which she was nicknamed, the evidence suggested foul play, covered up by the train accident story. Since the culprit was long dead, I couldn’t give Henrietta justice, but I might be able to give her peace.
But first, she would try her best to kill me.
Henrietta’s ghost hurled herself against the salt circle’s iridescent barrier, angry at fate and desperate to take it out on someone. Her corpse-pale face, marred by fury and decomposition, pressed against the scrim, and a terrible screech threatened to make my ears bleed.
“Depart from here, Henrietta Austin, and trouble the living no more,” I commanded. “Your time is long past, and your killer is dead. Let go and move on.”
The fire flared around the old rail spike, and I could see Henrietta’s spirit fading. The accelerant I’d poured on the metal stake wouldn’t melt iron, but I took the chance that flames would burn away enough of the coating to drive her off. Then I could pull the stake out of the ground, put it in the lead and iron box I’d brought, and make sure Henrietta never bothered anyone again.
Henrietta gave one last blood-curdling scream and vanished. I wasn’t foolish enough to believe her energy had dissipated that quickly after haunting these woods for a century, but perhaps she needed to recharge before attacking again.
By that time, I intended to have her anchor—the spike—out of her reach forever.
Roxanne Rhoads
Welcome to Roxanne's Realm, the home of author, book publicist, mixed media crafter, and lover of all things spooky- Roxanne Rhoads.
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I’d barely started working on my garden the following day when a servant in a crisp black uniform appeared at the archway entrance. Parzival cleared his throat, unwilling to risk the ire of my plants. Ten years ago, a new groundskeeper from a distant village made the mistake of entering my sanctuary without knowing the dangers. He’d brushed against one of the crunchertraps and lost a chunk of his thigh.
As he howled in pain, the other one snapped at his rear end. I heard the screams from above in my room and looked out my window to find several species of my flora had de-rooted to chase the poor man. It took me an hour to wrestle them back into their places. Once blood spilled within the garden walls, some of my plants became opportunistic and vicious.
I’d worried my uncle would be angry about his new groundskeeper getting maimed, but I should have known better. He found it amusing. It was one of the rare times he’d even seemed pleased with me, which nearly made me want to do away with the whole garden, but I loved it too much and couldn’t do that. I’d brought Briauna to heal the injured man. Feeling horrible about the incident, we found safer employment for him in a location far from here. Ever since, though, no one had dared enter the walled enclosure without my permission. That was exactly the way I wanted it.
“Yes?” I asked, setting my trimming shears down.
The tractvine I was tending primarily grew underground as it should, but the coiled top with a single yellow bloom could take over the garden if I didn’t keep it under control. If anyone upset it, the vines under the soil would shoot out and wrap around a person’s body, squeezing them to death and then slowly consuming them like a snake. All the while, it secreted toxins to break down the body faster.
It was a gruesome way to go. The plant typically grew in the thickest forests to the north and wasn’t easy to acquire. Thankfully, I had a natural affinity for flora, so I could coax the seedlings to leave their home. I also offered mice to keep them busy and content during transport.
“Lord Morgunn has requested your presence in his office.” The stuffy butler looked me up and down scornfully. “I advise you to wash and change into something presentable first, but do hurry. He does not wish to be kept waiting long.”
This was one elf I wouldn’t have minded tossing into my garden to feed my plants. Parzival wasn’t only a butler but also a close confidant to my uncle. More than once over the years, he’d caught me doing something “questionable” and snitched on me. Lord Morgunn was especially cruel in his punishment if his favorite servant told him about the offense.
One time, when I was fifteen, Parzival caught me sneaking out of my room at night. He had my ankle chained to a tree in the northeast orchard. The whole night, I had to fend off vicious night creatures by throwing stones and using my wind magic, which I wasn’t very adept at using then. While most fae parents used creative punishments to keep their offspring in line, my uncle was brutal.
“I’ll hurry,” I said, taking the trimmers to a lock box at the far end of the garden.
If I left them out, some of the plants couldn’t be trusted, and bad things might happen to my passive varieties that couldn’t move or fight back. I didn’t need another massacre to clean up after leaving out the shears last time.