The Claiming

By Glenn Williams

"Great read. I felt the story was very original and the characters were real and easy to root for. I've read or seen a story about witches but they usually feel the same but this was fresh. There's love, magic, horror and a ticket into the underworld.
- E."

"I absolutely got swept away in the dark tale and was not able to predict what was to occur, which is always a true sign of a good read for me. Just fabulous and I Hope book 2 keeps me just as enthralled!
- P. Hays

Kendra Garrity's twin brother, the only person she has ever loved, will be dead at dawn. Gwydion has done the unthinkable. He has triggered The Claiming, an ancient ritual that can turn an ordinary person into a witch. But gaining power comes with a terrible cost.

Now he hovers in a state near death, trapped in the underworld. At sunrise, he'll be lost forever. And something dark and unnatural will rise in his place.

Kendra is the only one who has any hope of saving the brother she loves, the brother who once gave up everything for her. But in order to rescue him, she must enter into the underworld herself, a place populated by ghosts, nightmare creatures, and demons.

If she fails, she will be trapped there forever. And if she succeeds, it might mean giving up everything she has ever known.

Warning: Please be advised, this novel contains two scenes dealing with an attempted sexual assault and may be triggering for some readers.

The Port Hollow Witches is a paranormal thriller / dark fantasy series of connected novels and short fiction, featuring witches, ghosts, vampires, werewolves, haunted houses, demons, witchcraft, and other supernatural elements.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Glenn Williams
• Release date: Oct 24, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463805718

Glenn Williams

So who am I?Let's start with some common ground. I'm probably a lot like you. I love a good story. I especially love reading (and writing) stories that prominently feature supernatural elements, such as witches, vampires, and ghosts. Personally, one of the things I love the most about these sorts of stories is the way that looking at the inhuman allows us, maybe paradoxically, a deeper exploration into the human condition.Plus, they're fun.I also enjoy fiction that has a strong female lead and features positive portrayals of the LGBTQ community. You'll generally find both of these things in my stories.I grew up the Pacific Northwest and I currently live in the breathtakingly beautiful Puget Sound region of western Washington with my three cats and my partner.

Book preview

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

From the Author

WARNING: The Claiming contains content dealing with an attempted sexual assault. Readers who are struggling with similar issues may wish to avoid reading chapters two and the second half of chapter twenty-three or avoid this work altogether. Please know that I deliberated long and hard on whether to include this kind of content in book 2 at all. Ultimately, I concluded that it was essential for Kendra’s character. Please know, that writing this was not a light-hearted choice on my part and that I consider myself deeply sensitive to these issues. For those who ARE struggling, there is help available for you 24 hours a day via the National Sexual Assault Hotline. [phone].

Copyright © 2019 by Glenn Williams

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

without the express written permission of the author

except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printed in the United States of America

First Printing, 2019

Cover Design by WarrenDesign

www.glennwilliamsauthor.net

For my mother, who never stopped believing in me.

And for Jacob, who reads all of my terrible first drafts, gets excited with me about new story ideas, and puts up with my craziness. I never could have done this without you.

Words came back to me, as clearly as though they had been spoken in my ear: They're afraid of the light; they won't come near it. Just stay on the path and you'll be fine.

And then my question: What happens if I do go into the fog?

You don't want to know.

Around me, I heard excited chittering. Movement.

Whatever the creatures in the fog were, they were coming for me. They were getting closer.

I sprinted to the pool of light on the other side of the road, twenty feet ahead. I turned to look behind me. I could see shapes moving, but I couldn't make them out.

Chittering again. It sounded angry.

The light above me dimmed, then went out.

I moved to the next light, on the right side of the road. Another twenty feet.

It went out almost immediately, with a small popping sound. Exactly the way that a light bulb sounds when it blows out.

Behind me, I could hear the sound of dozens of — feet? Paws? Claws? — moving across the pavement. Something in the fog ahead chittered excitedly.

There were answering chitters from right behind me.

I sprinted again, towards the safety of another pool of light.

Another small pop! It went out.

I moved to the next light and the next. They all went out, so quickly that I couldn't stop at all.

I knew that I wouldn't be able to keep this up for very much longer. There was a stitch in my side and my chest was burning. I had to rest, to catch my breath.

I forced myself to keep running, but my body wasn't used to being pushed like this. I was losing speed.

I wanted to stop so badly that it was all I could think about.

More chitters, louder and more insistent. This time, hundreds of them answered.

They're everywhere, I realized.

My body finally forced me to a stop in the pool of light parallel to my destination.

Panting with fear and exertion, I looked around desperately for some sort of weapon. I just needed a light source. Like a lantern or like a —

I broke off in mid-thought, relief crashing through me.

Or like a flashlight.

I reached for my phone, praying that it still worked.

Around me, the chittering noises drew closer again. There were only a handful of nearby streetlights that hadn't gone out yet.

I turned my phone on. The glass was cracked beyond recognition, but the screen lit up. I let out a sigh of relief.

Thank you thank you thank you —

All of the streetlights on the road went out at the same time. The sound was similar to the small explosion that a transformer makes when it blows out.

Apart from the soft illumination of my screen, I was plunged into near-total darkness.

Around me, the chittering grew closer…

CHAPTER ONE

I didn’t plan on dying that night.

The beginning of the end started with a whisper of unease and nothing more. I was perched precariously on the edge of an uncomfortable wooden stool. Behind me, bar patrons were trickling in through the front door. The bar was strangely quiet for a Thursday evening. Most bars have a crowd they cater to, but not The Boozy Mermaid. Usually, there’s a hodge-podge of rough types, truckers, tourists, twenty and thirty-something professionals, groups of friends, all of them crowded together, occupying every available table and open spot at the bar. Tonight, however, the room was more than half-empty. I found myself staring glumly into the depths of the neon-blue cocktail my best friend Melanie had placed in front of me. It was one of her newest concoctions. I took one sip of it and decided that it was sure to make me regret my life choices in the morning.

I already regretted my choices. It had been a long day and I'd thought that unwinding a bit before going home would cheer me up. I should have known better.

The last client I'd met with, Tyler Conwell, hadn't spoken to me at all. He'd just played with the battered blocks in the red plastic milk crate in the corner of the too-cheerfully decorated room, amid dollhouses, crayons, and tattered board games. Every so often, he'd looked at me and I would glimpse the pain behind his luminous brown eyes. Mostly, however, he kept his gaze trained on the wooden blocks in front of him as though they were the most important thing in the whole world. He built them into walls and then, suddenly, and without warning, he wordlessly knocked them down. But he barely spoke to me and I didn't push it. Establishing trust is the most crucial step in developing a therapeutic alliance, and without that, everything else is useless. If this is true for adults, it is doubly so for children.

The entire side of his face was covered in deep purple bruises that were rapidly turning yellow around the edges and tiny white butterfly bandages were the only things keeping the deep cuts in his face closed. His own mother had very nearly beat him to death with an iron after he'd knocked over a pile of clean clothing she had just folded. She had a long history of mental illness that she’d refused treatment for. And then, inexplicably, she had just snapped. Tyler was still alive only because his mother’s live-in boyfriend had pulled her off of him before she could really get going. The only mercy in the entire situation was that the iron hadn't been plugged in. The injuries on Tyler's face would heal in time. The less visible wounds wouldn't heal so easily.

The mother was hospitalized and she was going to lose custody. I had no doubt about that. But, according to the kid's file, there was no one else to take him. He was going to go into foster care. I felt a pang at the thought.

He hadn't spoken since that night.

Before you assume that I'm someone who hates her life, let me assure you that I signed on for this. It’s all a part of the gig. I’m a trauma counselor — I’m on call at both the Port Hollow sheriff’s department and the local hospital. Since I’m one of the only trauma counselors in the county, the work keeps me surprisingly busy. It's not that I like listening to the pain and suffering of others – I'm no sadist. It's the off-chance that maybe I might be in a position to help someone through the worst moments of their lives, to help make things right for them somehow. Most of the time it doesn't happen that way, but every once in a while it does.

Kendra, Melanie said, interrupting my thoughts. She sounded bemused. Did you hear what I just said?

I gave her a blank look.

I was telling you that the guy behind you is checking you out, Melanie said in a carrying stage whisper. Don't look, he's on your six.

Immediately, I turned to look. I saw a young man seated at a table against the wood-paneled wall. He had a drink in front of him — untouched — and was staring directly at me. It wasn’t the kind of ‘I’m-undressing-you-with-my-eyes’ stare you typically get in these situations. It was colder than that, appraising. I saw immediately that he was attractive: short-cropped black hair, brown eyes, caramel-colored skin, well-proportioned features. He had a friendly sort of face, but the expression he wore wasn’t friendly at all. It was icy and remote, almost predatory.

Our eyes locked for an instant. Unease coiled deep within me, from a place that was primal and instinctive. I resisted the urge to shudder.

An instant later, his gaze slid away from me. The feeling of alarm fell away from me as well, so quickly that I might have imagined it. A flicker of a smile crossed the man’s features, but he didn’t look back up.

Strange, I thought. Very strange.

Dismissing it as unimportant, I turned back and rolled my eyes at Melanie. I felt a rush of emotion that was part affection and part exasperation. Melanie has been my best friend for years. She knows I don't ever actually care when there's someone checking me out. It doesn't stop her from trying, though. Since I've come back to Port Hollow this past summer, she's appointed herself to the task of fixing my love life. I've tried to explain to her that there's no need. There's nothing to fix.

You seemed like you were somewhere else, She said. She hesitated, her expression growing more serious. Do you want to talk about it?

I studied Melanie for a moment, trying to decide how much of my day to share. Her warm brown eyes were concerned and steady. Her brow was furrowed, but it didn't mar her beauty. She was wearing an orange and white floral-print dress that stopped at mid-thigh, cinched at the waist with a white belt. If I wore a dress like that, it would have been loud and obnoxious to the point where the people around me would have questioned my sanity, my eyesight, or both. On her, however, with her smooth brown skin and her perfectly shaped body, it was stunning and effortless. Her silky shoulder-length black hair was expertly styled, not a strand out of place. She wore a tear-drop shaped quartz crystal around her neck on a delicate gold chain.

When we were younger, I had felt out of place next to her, like a thin and unremarkable field mouse standing next to a budding Goddess. That feeling had mostly, but not quite, faded into the background of our friendship. I was wearing my work clothes. A simple charcoal blouse, pale gray pants, and sensible black pumps. My straight and unremarkable brown hair was pulled back in a hasty ponytail and I knew that more than one strand was out of place.

Briefly, I replayed the last maddening encounter I'd had with Tyler in my mind, trying to see past the bruises on his face. And yet, I couldn’t help but notice that he had a mop of sandy blond hair that reminded me so much of my brother's. All of my cases were hard in their own ways, but the cases involving kids were the hardest. They usually brought back the memories I preferred to avoid.

It's just been a long day, I said. Reluctantly, I added, My last case involved a kid.

Oh jeez, Melanie said, grimacing. Is the kid going to be okay?

I hope so, I added, trying to keep the doubt out of my voice. It's a domestic abuse case.

Kendra, is that a good idea? Melanie asked quietly, frowning at me. There was concern in her eyes. She paused, then added, I thought you swore you weren't going to take those kinds of cases anymore?

I hesitated. She was right, of course. But as much as I wanted to, I couldn't say no to them. If there was even a small chance I could help, I had to try. But I couldn't explain that to her. She hadn't lived through it the way that I had. She didn’t know how early trauma could change someone’s life forever. Not the way I did.

I'll be okay, I said finally, not quite meeting her in the eyes. It's hard, but it's getting a little easier every time.

It was a lie and we both knew it.

I'm worried about you, Melanie said. With your history...

I know, I said, more sharply than I intended to. More softly, I added, I'll be fine. Promise.

Feeling suddenly uncomfortable, I looked back down to my drink. Telling her had been a mistake, even though on some level I knew that she was right to be concerned.

I felt Melanie's concerned gaze on me a moment longer. She was quiet for another long moment.

I had a dream about you, She said finally. She dropped her voice, "It was one of those kinds of dreams."

I was grateful for the sudden subject change, but I fought the urge to roll my eyes anyway. Melanie believed that she was psychic. She even moonlighted at the flea market on the docks as a tarot reader during the summer months, when tourist season was in full swing.

In my dream, you were scared, Melanie continued, sounding far away. I read your cards when I woke up.

And? I couldn't quite keep the note of skepticism out of my voice.

Something big is coming. I couldn't see exactly what it is, but it scared me. She hesitated, faltering. She took my hand and gave it a squeeze. I'm worried, Kendra. I don't want anything to happen to you.

I met her warm brown eyes. Despite myself, I felt strangely touched.

I'll be careful, I assured her, giving her hand another squeeze. I added, I should probably go. It's been a long day.

She nodded, giving me a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Her concerned gaze never left me as I exited the bar.

I had no idea that, as I left the bar, my fate was already sealed.

The drive home was when it happened. When everything changed. My mind was full of Tyler's bruised face, so much like Gwydion's had been.

I wondered if I should call my brother when I got home. I hadn't heard from him in days. I felt a familiar dread build up in me at the thought. It wasn't like him to just vanish. Not anymore.

If he was using again...

I noticed it first out the corner of my eye, a man standing by the side of the road. He was stationary, watching me drive past. I noticed him mainly because he seemed so pale, almost ghost-like. He arose so suddenly in the field of my vision that I jumped in my seat.

He wasn't walking. Instead, he was just standing there, watching steadily as I drove past. Though wind and rain beat against my windshield and the gathering darkness obscured the road in front of me, I saw him clearly and something told me that even in the darkness, he saw me clearly as well. He looked sad, almost desperate. He was dressed in a pair of faded blue jeans and a white t-shirt. No jacket. He was barefoot.

I couldn't stop myself from glancing in the rear-view mirror. Almost reflexively, I fought the impulse to pull over and see if I could give him a ride somewhere. The Port Hollow Catholic church, maybe. They ran an overnight shelter from their basement and someone like him, someone walking through the rain along the side of the road in the darkness, wearing nothing but a t-shirt and jeans, probably didn't have anywhere else to go. However, when I looked in the rear-view mirror, he wasn't there anymore.

I spent several moments alternating between looking in the review-view mirror and the side-view mirror, confirming what I'd seen the first time: he had vanished into the darkness. I let out a long breath and turned my attention back to the road. Fat droplets of water beat against the windshield. I wondered if perhaps I'd somehow imagined him.

People don't just vanish into thin air.

Then, slowly, I became aware that there was someone sitting in the passenger's seat, quietly and steadily staring at me. It came in stages: first I became aware of the fact that I was being watched, the pins and needles hair-raising sensation that eyes were upon me. It's a sensation we've all experienced when we're alone, but seldom around others. Perhaps its a result of too many scary stories about psychopaths in our backseats and bright headlights in our rear-view mirrors. Except that this time, it happened to be real. I slowly became aware of the fact that somehow, impossibly, I was no longer alone.

You're being crazy, I told myself. There's no one there.

Fighting with fear, I saw him first in my peripheral vision.

He leaned towards me, as though he were about to whisper something in my ear.

My heart skipped a beat and for a moment, I froze in stunned disbelief.

I turned to look at him.

A young man gazed at me quietly and steadily. He was wearing a white t-shirt and blue jeans. I didn't see his feet, but if I had, I'm certain that he would have been barefoot. But that wasn't what caught my attention. His face looked wrong somehow, like partially melted candle wax.

I screamed.

Or, at least, I tried to. Instead, I let out a horrified squeak.

I jerked the wheel reflexively, causing my car to momentarily cross the double-solid line into the oncoming lane. Thankfully, there was