The Fishing Widow eBook Release on 6 January 2013!

 

Three years in the making, and it’s nearly here! I’d like to take this opportunity to invite EVERYONE to the eBook Release of The Fishing Widow on Sunday, January 6, 2013. How will this work? Well, there’s a Fishing Widow eBook Release Facebook Event and then there’s also going to be a Google+ Hangout at 1:00pm Alaska Time (that’s 5pm on the East Coast of the US, and 10pm in Ireland and the U.K.). The address to join me, A.K. Marshall, is that there embedded in my user name. I will admit, the whole Google+ Hangout thing is new for me, and we’ll see how the bandwidth at the coffee shop in Craig, Alaska supports it!

If you happen to find yourself in Craig, Alaska on that date, head over to The Waterstreet Café (801 Water Street) for a cup of the good stuff and cake! You’ll also be able to use the WiFi to download the ebook for free. Actually, the codes will all be posted on the Facebook event page and here that day. Download it from Amazon, Smashwords, iTunes, or Barnes & Noble.

And, whether you’re here, on Facebook, or in Craig, let me know you’re out there somewhere and interested. Join the Facebook event, hashtag a post on Twitter #thefishingwidow, or leave a comment here. Folks who join the Facebook event and/or post a comment here on January 6th (or are at Waterstreet Café) have a chance to win PRIZES! Alaskan-themed prizes; kinda like The Gift of the Magi, but with a twist. I have Raven’s Brew coffee, Moka (chocolate) Bars, Deadman’s Reach gear (including hoodies), and quintessentially Alaskan things that you’d be hard-pressed to find anywhere else. Yes, if you’re overseas, you can still win (as long as it’s legal to ship coffee and chocolate and hoodies).

What’s it all about? Check out The Fishing Widow eBook Release Trailer

 

Want more? Check out the NEW The Fishing Widow Book Trailer

Many thanks to Stuart Spencer for his more-than-awesome-and-I’m-not-worthy cover art for both the eBook and the pending hard cover release (Coming March 2013).

Days left …. Let’s get this party started!

 

♫On The Third Day of Creepfest, My True Love Gave to Me…♫

♫More un-named horror, a’contest reminder, and a hop you will never for-get!♫

I really wanted this to stay under 10,000 words so I could submit it to The Horror For Good Anthology. But, I have to face it, short stories never were my forte (or even within the bounds of my ability, really). I need practice, but this took on a life of its own, and, while I think I can get ‘er down in about 25,000 words, I’ll never bring it in under 10,000.

It’s another excerpt of Josh’s story of The Reach–now in creepy hey-I’m-getting-to-know-those-guys-and-UNHOLY-HELL-what-is-THAT-draped-across-that-tree-limb??? form. I may post that bit, when I get up the nerve to write it. My writing doesn’t scare me. I should say, my writing DIDN’T scare me before THIS. Sure, parts of In Dark Places sent me under the computer desk, but that was all psychological horror stuff. THIS, though. MAN, there are bits that are causing me to look at Alesio and say, “You’re… sure?” and he just smiles awkwardly and we go on. The bonus? He’s shut Ethan up. 0.o

Anyway… that last bit would make sense if you’ve followed the blog or had been on the NaNoWriMo forums since 2010 and were familiar with the boy who flops on my bed at 4am or sneaks up behind me in the shower with, “Yeah, well, I was thinkin’–” and then goes on (and on and on) for hours… or heard me moan that my muse is a twenty-three  year-old, skinny white boy from the Alaskan bush with Swedish ancestry and a mouth that won’t stop moving… I’ll forgive him, though, because his FarMor’s (that’s grandmother on his dad’s side for the non-Swedes out there) Blåbärspalt recipe is killer.  Yeah. I said Blåbärspalt. It came out in a character interview about favorite foods growing up, and both Colin and I said, “What? What in the HELL is THAT?” I’d never heard of it, so I looked it up–Swedish blueberry dumplings. FarMor’s recipe DOES rock. Psychotic? Yeah, well, blame Ethan, because the boy does exist somewhere (and I mean beyond the OTHER Ethan Lindgren who friended him on Facebook… 0.o)

So, back to Alesio and Lita … and how they first sorta-kinda didn’t really start talking, since he speaks only Spanish and she speaks only Tlingit. But sometimes words are unnecessary ….

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In late-August, the women arrived. They took a keen interest in the ceremonies of the Brothers, sometimes lingering in the back of the chapel as they sang through their rituals.

The women moved around the enclosure boldly. They had inquiring gazes that lingered on all the Brothers and their lay servants did.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

Alesio froze, unaware that one of the young women had followed him out into the forest. She spoke words he could not possibly understand, even as he presented her with the same conundrum. Alesio turned and attempted a smile. It was a smile she returned and, with a thrill of dread, Alesio recognized her. She was the young woman who had been in the canoe off their starboard bow as their ship had approached San Angelo Island. She was the woman who had gazed up at him and his brother as they conversed at the rail. Alesio swallowed the lump that had risen in his throat.

“What are you doing?” she asked again as she gestured toward the basket slung across his shoulder.

“I-I’m sorry,” he started lamely. He hesitated as she drew close beside him and looked down into the basket.

“You’re picking berries,” she said, her voice filled with shy laughter. She leaned closer. “Men don’t pick berries.”

“I’m,” Alesio started awkwardly as he put his hand to his chest and bowed slightly, “Brother Alesio.”

Her brow furrowed and he watched as she parroted the gesture. “Alé,” she said simply.

“No,” Alesio replied. “I’m Alé.”

Her expression brightened. “Alé,” she said and nodded enthusiastically. “Alleluia.”

Alesio felt his cheeks redden. “No,” he faltered, “Alesio.”

She would not be dissuaded. “Alleluia!” she laughed again and poked at him. “Alleluia!” Alesio started as she grabbed at his hand. “You’re missing the best spot for berries,” she laughed as she pulled at him.

“I really need to finish–”

She shook her head, pulling insistently at his hand. “This way!”

Alesio stumbled after her. “I don’t know if–” Alesio faltered as she led him further on, further into the cedars, away from the enclosure.

“Keep up,” she smiled as she pulled him over a large root that buckled across their path.

They moved deeper into the forest, the ground mossy and soft beneath their feet. He stole a glance at her; she moved easily among the roots, stepping gracefully down the twisting game trail. Alesio’s brain raced. Her hand was soft in his, the warmth of it alive and welcomed in the early autumn chill. He stumbled slightly as she stopped abruptly, still not releasing his hand, and looked around.

“This way,” she laughed, and he felt her tug again at his hand, pulling him more gently as she slowed to a walk.

Alesio looked around at the cedars; they were larger trees, more widely spaced, the ground beneath them nearly desolate save for an overlarge patch of bushes covered in plump, red berries. His breath caught as she drew him close beside her, her fingers twined around his as she reached for a berry.

“These are the best,” she continued as if he could understand every word she spoke. In his heart, he wished he could understand, but merely the sound of her voice reassured him. He gazed down at her silently, his mouth agape. She looked up at him and laughed quietly. “Taste,” she said, and he started as she popped a berry into his open mouth. Alesio blinked.

“Good,” he said. He nodded. “These are much better.”

She held his hand as she picked berries from the bush and dropped them into the basket. “I’ll help you. You can say you were with me to protect me,” she said conversationally. Alesio hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to withdraw his hand. He watched as she continued to pull berries from the bush. She dropped another handful into the basket. “Help you,” she said again, “not do it for you.” She gestured to the bush with a toss of her head.

“Oh,” he said quickly, snapping back to himself. He smiled awkwardly at her as he began to pluck the berries from the bush.

“Better you should hunt,” she said, her hand twisting easily within his as she reached for some of the berries higher up on the bush. She hesitated. “Or fish. My brother could teach you to make halibut hooks.” She continued to speak easily. He nodded politely, his fingers continuing to pull at the berries. “This is women’s work.” Alesio did not reply, he merely enjoyed the sound of her voice. He started as she turned suddenly placed a warm, berry-stained hand against his cheek. An electric shock surged through his every synapse. She smiled, and her voice became softer. “I do not believe you are a woman.”

 

“You were alone in the forest with her.” Alesio lay on his back, gazing up at the rafters of the dormitory he and the other Brothers shared. Around him, the soft snores of Rafael and Ezer were so familiar that they melded into the background noise of night. Outside, a high wind teased at the tops of the cedars, more a sigh than a moan as it climbed up and over San Angelo Island. Alesio drew a breath and rubbed at his eyes. Behind his eyes, he could see Father Rodriquez pacing the breadth of the chapel. Worrying.

“She followed me, Father,” Alesio replied, not lifting his head. “I only went to find berries for Brother Anicet’s pigments. He’s fond of that red.”

“Santiago is fond of that red,” Father Rodriquez replied without hesitation, referring to the Native boy who had taken to their scribe completely, “and Brother Anicet is fond of encouraging the boy’s talent with a quill.”

“Yes, Father,” Alesio replied meekly.

Father Rodriquez sighed. “You must understand the delicate nature of our mission here, Brother,” he started, his voice softening. “Lita is Aaron’s sister–”

“Father,” Alesio began earnestly in his defense. Michele held up his hand.

“And she is a truly beautiful young woman,” Michele continued. Alesio bowed his head. “I would not have you fall into sin–”

Alesio felt his heart hammer against his chest; his eyes closed. “No, Father,” he managed, sure that his master knew his every thought.

“I trust you, Brother,” Michele assured him softly. Alesio felt his heart twist suddenly.

Upon his mat, Alesio shifted slightly, his hands clasped tightly against his chest as he continued to blink sleepily up at the rafters.

“I trust you, Brother….” Alesio heard the words again, more distantly, echoing from somewhere far away as his brain began its slide toward sleep.

“I’m sorry, Father,” he heard himself say.

Alesio sighed and settled back beneath his blanket. He felt the warmth of a hand against his cheek.

“I trust you, Brother….” Father Rodriquez’s voice was more distant as Alesio yawned.

The warmth slid to the side of his neck, began to prickle toward his chest.

“You will need to work hard to remember those newly-made vows….” Lucas’ voice was a low, cold snarl against his ear.

Alesio’s breathing became ragged as pressure bore down against his chest, pinning him to his mat. He looked up as Lucas leaned in close. “I’m not like you,” Alesio gasped, his lungs suddenly aching with the effort of filing them. Lucas’ dark eyes flashed savagely and Alesio let out a startled cry as he felt Lucas reach for his sword. Alesio winced, folding his body in upon himself as Lucas drew the blade across him from his groin to his shoulder, cutting him deeply.

“You bleed as other men,” Lucas hissed suddenly, his eyes gleaming brightly.

Alesio’s hands flailed against the wound, his eyes wild as he stared up at his brother who continued to regard him quietly. He heard the bright rasp as Lucas sheathed the blade and leaned closer. Alesio writhed as sharp hands closed on him, prodding him, probing him, stretching his skin, assessing him.

“You feel as other men,” Lucas hissed. He leaned suddenly closer. “Is it true the Brothers use each other like women?”

Alesio’s eyes grew wide as he stared at Lucas. “What–?” he faltered.

Behind Lucas’ dark eyes, a glimmer of green escaped. Alesio began to tremble as the green brightened suddenly. “We have not witnessed it,” Lucas’ voice became a low growl. “Show us–”

Alesio struggled to back away. “It’s not true,” he said, finally finding his voice, his hands still flailing, bearing down pressure on the cut that had laid the muscles across his abdomen open.

It drew back. Alesio trembled, realizing not the shadow of his brother, but of a formless thing. “I trust you, Brother,” it hissed, its voice falling lower.

“What?” Alesio breathed. his heart pounding in his chest.

It nodded, bending low to wrap itself around Alesio; it pressed at him like a constrictor, its presence smooth and moist, cooling the wound. “You are most like us….”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Don’t forget CONTEST #1 of the 12 Days of Creepfest!  I’ll be posting 4 total, so there are four chances to WIN BIG! Contest #1 is for a Deadman’s Reach ball cap!  Look below for the prompt!  Contest #2 will go out tomorrow (all contests run until the end of the hop — and because you have less time to be more creative later on, the prizes get BIGGER!)

♫On the Fourth Day of Creepfest, My True Love Gave to Me…♫

Yeah, well … you’re gonna LOVE this…

KEEP HOPPIN!

♫On The First Day of CreepFest, My True Love Gave to Me…♫

…♫An Excerpt from a new Work-in-Progress that has yet to have a title, but that’s all right, because sometimes the titles come later!♫

Okay, so the tune and meter are lacking, but you get the idea…. HAPPY 12 Days of Creepfest!

Once Upon A Time…. Josh Padgett stood on the deck of the F/V The Case in Point during The Fishing Widow and terrified me and all the other characters (although Ethan wouldn’t admit it, but we all saw him freak out a bit about it) by telling a story of a haunted shoal in Southeast Alaska called The Reach. In The Fishing Widow‘s universe, The Reach got its reputation by being the final restless place of 40 lay servants who fled a mission on San Angelo Island after they and the Franciscan Brothers who established the mission were treated to a feast of shellfish by the villagers to whom they were ministering after a terrible series of events. Now, I’ll tell you… what’s been so much fun about writing this is that it explains even MORE of what was happening in the original story. And it looks like Ethan may actually get his wish for a sequel….even though I cannot fathom why he wants such a thing because … well … you’ll see….

This is an UNEDITED excerpt. I offer it to keep my “you’re-just-insane” status with Chris Baty and others at NaNoWriMo (that anyone would just fling something out on the internet or an email and smile and ask for comments). By this time in the story, strange things have started to happen. Brother Anicet is a scribe who continues his work on the island, and Santiago is a 13 year old boy from the village who has taken to the art of illumination, but in his own way. The Spanish (really) did not record the personal names of the people they encountered in Southeast, they simply gave them Christian names. Santiago, Aaron, and Lita are three such characters. As with others the Spanish encountered and wrote about (If you love history and have not read Through Spanish Eyes: Spanish Voyages to Alaska 1774-1792 by Wallace M. Olson, you’re missing a real treat), their real names are lost to history. This story is set in ca. 1793, a full 42 years before The Covenant‘s encounter with the creature in The Fishing Widow. Timing is everything. This is a turning point in the story. And much is lost in translation…..

Enjoy….

Father Rodriquez approached Brother Anicet’s hut quietly and hesitated in the doorway. The latter was seated at his rough hewn table, a quill in his hand, and his brow furrowed at the parchment upon which the quill rasped rhythmically. He chanced a glance across the table at the boy they had christened ‘Santiago,’ the boy who had shown so much eagerness when he had first encountered Anicet, who had marveled at the quills and the art of it. Santiago’s feet kicked in time to the scratching of Anicet’s quill on the parchment; his own quill made longer, larger strokes, more a brush than merely a feather.

Father Rodriquez watched as Anicet drew back from his work and gazed down at it, chewing against his lip as his eye criticized what it saw. Across the table, Santiago scrambled up for a better view, leaning far over the table and assessing the drawing. He looked up, meeting Anicet’s eyes for a moment as his hand felt among the pots of pigment at the side of the table. He glanced over and pulled one of the pots from its place and set it on the parchment. Anicet smiled.

“Yellow,” he said as he gestured to it. Santiago nodded seriously.

“Yellow,” he said perfectly in Spanish. He gestured at the drawing. “Too much darkness,” he continued, his Spanish failing and falling back to his own language, his hand closing into a fist as if to convey his meaning.

“Yes,” Anicet agreed with a nod. “It does need light…” Anicet chewed at his lip for another moment and nodded distractedly. “I believe you’re right,” he muttered. Anicet glanced up and noticed Santiago was looking past him, toward the doorway in which Father Rodriquez had hesitated.

“Your father,” Santiago said as he gestured toward the door with a nod of his head. Santiago looked seriously at Anicet before he slipped back to his stool and picked up his own quill. Anicet glanced back toward the door before he got to his feet. Santiago continued to to scratch at his parchment. “It’s important.”

“Father?” Anicet’s voice was quiet, and he did not speak until he had approached Michele. He glanced back furtively at Santiago. “Is there trouble?”

Father Rodriquez gently took hold of Anicet’s sleeve and drew him out of the hut.

Santiago continued to scratch at the parchment. His feet continued to swing rhythmically. He reached toward a pot of pigment to refill the nib. He glanced furtively at the doorway, watching clandestinely as Anicet and Father Rodriquez continued to converse just outside the hut in low tones. Anicet began to reply. Santiago filled his quill again, his eyes fixed on the scribe who spoke. making large strokes in the air with his hands, as if his very speech were somehow an extension of his art. The boy continued to scratch at the parchment. He mindlessly stabbed at the pigment pot beside him, watching as Father Rodriquez set a hand on Anicet’s shoulder, drawing nearer to him, still speaking in low tones. Still Santiago scratched at the parchment, still his feet kicked rhythmically, still his gaze fixed on the two men beyond the doorway.

Santiago felt his heartbeat quicken, felt himself jerk slightly with Anicet as the scribe drew back abruptly from Michele and shook his head in protest. Anicet took over the conversation again, gesturing toward the cliff path and shaking his head. Santiago blindly filled his quill and continued. His brow furrowed as he watched Anicet draw back further, his eyes wide. He started as Anicet turned suddenly to face him. Santiago quickly shifted his gaze down to the parchment. His eyes widened in terror.

Santiago struggled to raise the hand that held the quill. A dark form swirled beneath his hand. It began to spread languidly across the table, began to drip toward the floor. Santiago’s breath caught as he stared down into it. Deep within the darkness, two green eyes slid in and out of view. Santiago trembled, the cold searing his skin. He struggled against the pull as the eyes drifted closer.

“Anicet..,” he breathed.

The shadow crawled across the floor, began scaling the walls of the hut. Santiago’s gaze was panicked as he looked around, the darkness closing in. He let out of yell and yanked at his hand, desperate to remove it. Santiago’s gaze fell on the yellow pigment pot.

Santiago twisted wildly against the darkness. The cold was unbearable, crystallizing the cells within his hand and arm. He rose from the stool and lunged for the yellow.

“Light of light,” he whispered, his fingertips brushing painfully at the pigment pot, desperate to spill it. His arm sank deeper into the darkness as he strained for the yellow. Santiago closed his eyes, let out a yell, and stretched as far as he was able, his fingertips scrabbling madly for the pigment.

He drew back abruptly, pulling his arm from the darkness as the yellow spilled across the parchment, sank against the darkness, obliterating it. Santiago fell back, cradling his frozen arm close as the darkness retreated. He watched the green eyes narrow suddenly. Santiago’s heart raced; he trembled as the eyes dissolved, spinning into nothingness, before he fell.

“Santiago.” The boy heard Anicet’s voice distantly as the latter pulled him from the floor, his grip gentling as he cradled him in his arms.

“Take him to Brother Ezer,” Michele said seriously.

Anicet, his eyes still startled, nodded in agreement. “Yes, Father,” he breathed, his gaze switching to the trembling boy in his arms. He swept past Michele on his way out the door.

Michele hesitated for only a moment before he moved toward the pachment. He looked down, his eyes scanning the bright illumination that flowed across the page. Santiago had been working at the letter “K,” the red, blue, and black of his own art twining sinuously around the letter. Father Rodriquez’s eyes narrowed at the right edge of the picture; a copper colored claw reached from the edge of the illumination, scrabbling madly for the letter, catching it, and wrapping itself around it.

 

“You’re sure?” Anicet started skeptically as he gently tightened his grip on Santiago’s hand. The boy lay, writhing, on a sleeping mat.

“Frostbite,” Ezer said again as he turned to prepare a remedy. Anicet shook his head as he gazed down at Santiago.

“How is that possible?” he asked.

“I’ll need Brother Christian,” Ezer continued as if he had not heard Anicet. “I’ll need Aaron here, as well. Please, Brother–“

“Y-yes, of course,” Anicet faltered, only reluctantly releasing Santiago’s hand before rising, still trembling, to his feet. Ezer turned, his eyes softened.

“He’s in no danger of death, Brother,” Ezer offered. Anicet took a shuddering breath.

“I wonder, Brother,” Anicet replied before he turned and hurried from the hut.

“I assure you, Aaron, Brother Ezer’s ministrations will help the boy,” Michele continued through Christian’s interpretation as the men burst into the room in which Santiago lay. “Certainly, they will do him no harm.”

Aaron ignored them and dropped to his knees beside Santiago, gathering him into his arms. The boy smiled as Aaron began to speak to him in low, urgent tones. Aaron turned abruptly as Lita’s voice entered the hut before she did. Breathless, she pushed past Anicet and Ezer and dropped beside Aaron, pulling Santiago from his arms and clutching him tightly.

Christian listened quietly to their conversation, his eyes switching back and forth between the speakers. Aaron’s voice began to calm even as Lita became more agitated. Christian leaned closer to Father Rodriquez. “Their speech is like that of parents,” he whispered.

Michele watched as Aaron smiled faintly at Lita and smoothed back her hair before reaching to kiss at her forehead. Lita flinched and continued talking, ignoring Santiago’s protests. She watched as Aaron gestured to Santiago’s arm. The boy dutifully held it out to her. Lita’s eyes widened in horror and she grasped at the boy’s arm, kissing it fervently and rubbing roughly at it.

Ezer, unable to stop himself, swept closer. “Gently!” he admonished quickly.

Lita shot him a filthy look and jerked as Ezer reached for her hand.

“Gently,” he said again, his voice quiet as he took her hand and moved it softly across Santiago’s arm.

Lita’s expression softened. She nodded and kissed at the boy’s forehead as she and Ezer continued to rub the circulation back into his arm.

Michele watched as Aaron got to his feet and turned to face him. “What happened?” he asked, his tone even.

Christian drew a breath and glanced at Father Rodriquez before he translated Aaron’s question.

“I’ve seen this injury before,” Aaron continued as he gestured down to Santiago. “But never in summer.”

“We are not quite sure of the circumstances,” Father Rodriquez replied truthfully. “I was hoping the boy could shed some light on what happened.”

Aaron waited, his expression unreadable.

“I wonder, now, if you will pardon me, Aaron, is this your son?” Father Rodriquez continued carefully.  Christian hesitated. He drew slightly closer to Michele.

“Are you sure of your question, Father?” he asked as he glanced at Aaron.

“Curiosity on my part, Brother,” Michele replied.

Christian glanced down at Lita and Ezer who both continued to speak softly to Santiago, reassuring him. Christian struggled to form his next question. “We have not asked about their relationships to one another before, Father,” Christian said in a whisper. “It was Aaron who volunteered that Lita is his sister.”

Christian glanced back at Aaron as he spoke. “What does he want?”

Christian drew a breath and tried to smile. “Your concern for the boy touches us,” Christian began carefully, diplomatically, “and my master wonders if the boy is more meaningful to you beyond the other children–“

Christian drew back as Aaron’s expression darkened, the anger palpable in the room. Lita looked up, her eyes wide as if Christian had mis-stepped to his own mortal peril. She switched a panicked gaze between Aaron and Christian as she instinctively felt her brother’s hand feel for the knife in his belt. She drew a breath.

“The Christian has misspoken, brother,” she said quickly, her arms tightening around Santiago, pulling him away from Ezer suddenly. “His meaning is tangled–” Lita let out a startled shriek and fell back as Aaron pulled Santiago from her arms and rose, cradling the boy. Aaron pushed past Michele and Christian, leaving the hut, calling over his shoulder for Lita to follow. Father Rodriquez watched as Lita struggled to her feet, her green eyes boring into Christian. “What was your meaning, Brother?” she demanded, her voice shaking.

“I-” Christian faltered, his chest heaving, “My master only wondered if the boy is Aaron’s son–“

Lita’s eyes teared. “Son?” she whispered. “That was your meaning?” Lita’s voice caught. “You are a foolish man who twists words to no purpose! Ask directly and you will know!”

Aaron yelled again for her to follow. She blinked and looked out past the hut, into the chaos of the villagers departing.

“Is he your brother’s son?” Christian asked directly.

Lita shook her head. “That is his question, Christian,” Lita replied, breaking into sobs. She pushed past the men and rushed from the hut, “and none of my own…”

Michele looked up as Rafael and Epicuro hurried toward him. His dark eyes followed the last of the villagers who moved to the cliff path, not turning, but following as they were bidden. The silence left in their wake was deafening.

“Father, what has happened?” Rafael asked breathlessly after he stopped and bowed slightly to his master. Epicuro and Rafael watched Christian slip to his knees beside Father Rodriquez and bow his head. Epicuro’s brow furrowed.

“My error, Father,” Christian said, his voice soft. “And my eternal apologies.”

“What did she say to you, Brother Christian?” Michele asked, still watching the now-empty cliff path as if willing the villagers to reappear.

“That my meaning was tangled,” Christian replied in a whisper. Rafael watched the younger brother wring at his hands. “That I should have asked the question directly. That by some implication, I asked –” Christian’s voice caught and he bowed his face into his hands. “Oh, Father,” he whispered miserably, “forgive me…”

Father Rodriquez finally glanced down at the interpreter who began to sob at his feet. He closed his eyes and set a gentle hand on Christian’s head. The gesture sent Christian to the ground and he covered his head with his arms.

 

More horror and mayhem awaits!  Click the link above at right and check out more stories, guest bloggers, reviews, and contests during the 12 Days of Creepfest!

♫ On the Second Day of CreepFest, My True Love Gave to Me…♫

(Come back tomorrow and see…..)