The Skinwalker: Resurrection

By Dedra Stevenson

In Dedra L. Stevenson's first horror thriller, a young woman unleashes a terror in the form of a dark entity upon her life. Unlike Stevenson's work in Fantasy Fiction and Courtroom Drama, The Skinwalker: Resurrection promises psychological thrills like no other—a dark spirit, a possession, a hidden identity, a love story, the mighty tribe of the Navajo, and a finale that will surprise you.

 

Shortly after the discovery of a mysterious book of witchcraft spells in her home, Carmella unknowingly invites something sinister into her world, a long-deceased Navajo skinwalker, and this skinwalker wants to walk the Earth in human flesh again. The witch's faithful servant follows each step that Carmella takes as he serves his Mistress.

 

Slowly but surely, she falls prey to the darkness, and only the tribe is left to help her. With the support of her friends and the man that she loves, she is taken to the reservation and a traditional ceremony ensues. Carmella becomes the mortal captive of Haseeya, the Skinwalker witch, and the tribe must ask for the help of an ancient force from the stars.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blue Jinni Media
• Release date: Feb 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9781942735304

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Book

BOOM!

Carmela’s shoulders flinched as the power failed. What the fuck was that?

She stopped typing at her laptop and grabbed the afghan from her chair to throw over her sheer nightgown. She slipped into some fluffy bedroom slippers and peered down the street to see if there was any commotion.

There was undoubtedly a disturbance down the street. A transmission line caught fire and snapped from the transformer. Oh God, no. This electrical work will take all night.

Sleeping was seemingly out of reach for Carmela these days, and she looked beat. It wasn’t that she was afraid to be alone. She’d been alone for a long time now. After her mom passed away, her dad tried his best to be a good father and everything she needed. Sadly, when she was twelve, she lost him to lung cancer. That’s when Carmela moved into the foster system. Kids were always around, but that didn’t stop her from feeling lonely. Lonely and misunderstood.

She lazily strode back into her home and looked at herself in the living room mirror. She rolled her eyes. Girl, you look like a ginger on skid row. You need sleep, pronto.

She closed her laptop. This presentation will have to wait. She made herself a cup of chamomile tea, lit a candle, and sank into her comfy sofa. Thank God, my stove is gas. No electricity is needed. Thank you.

She’d taken to sleeping more on the sofa lately. She never felt comfortable in her bedroom. Almost every night, she experienced strange anxiety in that room. But who would believe her? And who would she even tell? She knew no one in Window Rock yet.

As she sipped the tea, she felt warm and cozy. The candlelight helped with creating the perfect sleep environment. Finally, Carmela closed her eyes, hoping to dream of simpler times.

She dreamt. Carmela walked along the edge of a pioneer settlement in the dead of night—simple homes with chimneys, smoke wafting into the cold night air. No lights. Then, a raging fire. One house, away from the others, was going up in flames. As she walked closer, she heard them, the babies. Screaming babies. No! What was this? She moved so close that she felt the searing heat of the fire. Tears ran down her cheeks. Who would do this to babies? As she moved closer, their screams tore at her heart. She sobbed and screamed for them. She ran to the door of the inferno. It flew open. A woman’s anguished scream turned into a roar—red burning eyes stared through the flames.

Carmela’s eyes flew open. Startled, she touched her neck. Did something scratch me?

She went to the mirror to look at her neck and saw a red scratch mark. Did I scratch myself? Oh my God. This bullshit has to end. I won’t be scared to sleep in my own damn house anymore!

The following day, she determined that all her problems started the night of the rainstorm. She was cleaning her living room when her broom batted an old book under her chair, the same chair Carl had sat in that night. The book appeared bound in scuffed leather and very old. She opened it and read from it out of curiosity, and ever since then, her life hadn’t been the same. I have to get back to normal. This chaos can’t be absolute.

She grabbed a pen and paper to make a list. She’d always been fond of lists, a real go-getter who believed in accomplishing as much as she could each day. No one could accuse Carmela of being lazy or passive. No, she was and would always be proactive. Reminding herself of her strength was something she did regularly. You are a badass. You’re a bad bitch, and there’s no such thing as ghosts or spooky crap. That must be why the realtor made me sign a non-refundable one-year lease. If I back out, I owe her a buttload of money. It’s funny how she never mentioned anything about a weird old book that causes nightmares. Did the owners leave the book behind?

She wrote on her paper,

Things to do to get my home back:

Call a priest.

Speak to locals in town about regional folklore.

Call a so-called paranormal expert.

Get your shit together right now.

The following day, Carmela managed to hold on to her strong attitude. She was always cheerful, looking for the silver lining in life.

She got ready for her noon meeting, brushed her teeth, combed her lovely red locks, and grabbed her laptop, purse, and the keys to her trusty Beetle that she’d lovingly called Bertha. She also poured herself a large travel mug of hot coffee, the only way she’d have the energy to get through the day, considering her lack of sleep.

Patting her dashboard, she declared, Come on, Bertha. Let’s go get ourselves a priest.

She programmed her GPS and followed Google Maps to St. Augustine’s Mission, one of the first Catholic missions to the Navajo. There, she managed to get an appointment to see Father Thomas, an 87-year-old priest. According to a local news story on Google, he was one of the most trusted citizens of the Navajo community. He’d done more masses, weddings, baptisms, and exorcisms than any of his diocesan colleagues.

She bounded out of Bertha, carrying a mysterious book in her hand. Her flaming red hair made everyone in reception turn to look at her. That was ok. She was used to it. Truth be known, she liked it now, the attention. She owned it.

A seminarian escorted Carmela to Father Thomas’s office. When she entered, he stood up. She liked the way he looked. Grey hair, black pants, and a shirt with the priest’s collar completed his ensemble. He had a tidy mustache with no beard but stubble. He looked like a father, a dad type. He smiled warmly, even though his brow furrowed when she yawned.

Sorry, she murmured. I haven’t been sleeping well lately.

Father Thomas smiled, nodded, and waved his hand to indicate it was no problem.

Dear girl, I haven’t seen hair that color since I left Inverness! God love ya, he said.

Carmela smiled. You are so sweet, Father. You’re just as nice as you sounded on the phone.

Come in. Sit down, the good father said.

She sat, making herself comfortable.

Have you been to Scotland? Father Thomas asked.

No, Sir, she replied, but I’ve always wanted to. My father was fully Scottish, from the highlands. A wonderful man. You would’ve liked him. She sat down, placing her bag and book beside her feet.

Father Thomas smiled warmly. His receptionist brought in a tray of tea and cookies. He motioned for her to help herself, which she did. Father Thomas also helped himself to a steaming teacup, breathing in the aroma of the Earl Grey.

What can I do for you today, young lady? Father Thomas asked, taking a sip.

She put her tea on a table beside her and pulled the book from the floor onto his desk. He choked on his tea. His breathing seemed to stop as he looked at her incredulously.

Why have you brought such a vile thing onto this property? Don’t you know what horrific evil that contains? he spat.

Why’s he so terrified of a book?

I don’t understand, Father, she replied, I found this in my house, a house I rent, and since then, I’ve been seeing strange things at home, frightening things. Please, I need your help.

You simply found it? As if by chance in your house? He asked, Surely, it’s not real. Has someone pulled a prank on ya?

Did that sweet, blushing old man leave this unwanted housewarming gift? Nah, he didn't seem to be malevolent.

She looked at Father Thomas’s expression and knew that, on the surface, he was trying to appear composed. In reality, he looked as if he were looking at a demon spawn. Tiny beads of sweat appeared on his brow, which he promptly dabbed with his handkerchief before taking a sip from a noticeably shaking teacup. He knew something. She was dying to learn more.

Tell me about what happened when you found it, he said, slumping back into his chair. I could at least hear you out.

Thank you, Father. It all started the day I moved to Window Rock. Do you remember the night of that colossal thunderstorm? she asked, I found it under a chair, on my floor. The book was dusty and seemed to be leather-bound?

Leather? he said.

Yes, Father. I don’t know what kind, she said.

It is old, perhaps antique, based on the outward appearance. It appears to be a journal, and I found an inscription."

She opened it, and he gasped; although she couldn’t understand what was so scary about this book, it seemed innocuous. Nevertheless, she wanted to respect the priest’s beliefs.

As you can see, there’s no title. But this inscription reads, ‘For my darling Edgar and my perfect twins.’

Father Thomas remained silent. Even when Carmela purposely paused for a response, he remained nearly catatonic. She sighed in dismay.

Well, here’s the passage that I found upsetting. It reads, ‘If you find yourself in a position that demands revenge, blood for blood, how are you supposed to react? How much punishment is enough for the ones who made my life a living Hell for so long? The ones who cost me everything? Death is too good for them, too sudden and too easy. I need to remember every step that I took to become the hand of justice so that one day, somebody will tell my story.’

She shivered as she remembered the icy chill that ran through her veins when she read that page the first night. She didn’t know what any of this meant, of course. Who was Edgar? Who was the author? And what could have happened to them to require such a ‘punishment'?

Still, Father Thomas remained silent except to stroke the stubble on his face and move his rosary beads. At least, he appeared to be thinking about it. Carmela showed him some strange ink drawings – symbols and motifs in the book.

"I tried to read the words that first night.

You read them? Father Thomas asked. His face reflected a man in great pain. He was almost wretched.

She reluctantly explained, The writing became a scratchy, handwritten script in an unrecognizable language. I’d spoken these words out loud, even though I had no idea what they meant.

Oh child… what have you done? He said, looking at her with pity.

Why? she asked, What did I do wrong, Father? I read from a book; I didn’t write this stupid thing. I didn’t even know it was evil.

How did that work out for you? Father Thomas asked sincerely.

Carmela blew out some air as she sighed hard. Not well.

She wanted to tell Father Thomas everything, so she continued,

I remember that crucial moment just after I read the book. The visions began almost instantly, dreams of a freakishly large figure with burning red eyes hiding in shadows. I’d see it from the corner of my eye and hear it in my room at night: the whispers, the howls, and the chanting. A smell of charred flesh permeates the house at odd times. My new home became a house of horrors, and ever since, I’ve been camped out on the sofa, hoping it would just stop.

She remembered her first week in her new abode as Father worked his beads in silent prayer.

"One night, as usual, the manifestation came to me, breathing heavily, scratching its long nails against the wall. My heart beat wildly, and I felt helpless like there was nowhere to run. I lay in bed, eyes open, like sleep paralysis, helplessly watching as this large shadowy figure wrapped its long, spiny fingers around my neck and squeezed. Every time I tried to scream, the fingers constricted tighter. Tears streamed down my cheeks. I tried to see the face of my would-be assassin, but there wasn’t one, only red eyes void of compassion. Surrendering to my fate, I closed my eyes to accept my death. Suddenly, I woke as if it never happened. Was it just a nightmare? Each occurrence left me in more doubt about my sanity. Every time it happened, my eyes would sweep the room for my assailant. I saw nothing but smelled the familiar stench of burning flesh and the copper scent of blood. I shivered to my bones. My skin crawled the way it feels when you know someone is watching you, you know? This creepy feeling would often cause me to jump out of bed and go downstairs to turn on all the lights, like a kid afraid of the dark. It wasn’t long before I started sleeping downstairs altogether."

Father Thomas reached out to take her hand, and she let him. The comforting warmth of his hand was pleasant, and she admitted to herself that she’d needed that. Perhaps a priest is like a father figure. He leaned closer.

Shall I pray for you?

Yes, Father. I’d appreciate that, she said.

All right then, he said, bowing his head, Heavenly Father, send your dear daughter protection through Archangel Michael and his army of angels. Send angelic sentinels to guard her property, body, mind, and spirit. Mother Mary, wrap her in your mantle, hide her in your loving embrace from this malignant intrusion in her life. God bless her with your protection, love, and peace throughout her life. In Jesus’ name, we pray. He paused briefly and added, Father, please help this young woman fight the entity in her home. Drive out this heinous presence and keep her safe from all trappings of the evil one. In the Lord’s name, we pray.

Amen, she replied.

Father Thomas gently squeezed her hand and released it. Somehow, she felt relieved. It could be the power of suggestion; nevertheless, it worked. At least, she hoped.

Thank you, Father.

You’re welcome, Child, he said, smiling, his eyes still reflecting his fear for her.

What should I do now, she asked.

Pray, for starters. You’ve grown up Catholic, have you? he said.

Yes, Sir. But I’m afraid I’ve let my faith fall by the wayside. I haven’t been very religious, she said.

We’ll change that if you want. I will come to visit soon to cleanse your house. Leave the book with me, and I’ll take care of it. This evil is too strong for a young girl like yourself.

Truly? she exclaimed.

Of course, he said, smiling. Oh, let me offer you these prayers to say in times of need, as well as some holy water, a rosary, and a St. Benedict medal for protection. You do remember these?

Yes. Thank you, Father. She replied.

Of course, my dear girl, he said. May I offer you the sacrament of confession? Would you like to get into good standing with the church again?

She shifted in her chair, feeling pressured, just as she felt when she was a child. Her father had been so insistent.

Another time, perhaps?

No pressure. You know where to find me.

She watched Father Thomas place the book into a wooden box with a strong brass lock.

This object is too dangerous for you to keep. I will inform the bishop of your situation. He wrote her details and told her he’d be around in a few days. She wished he didn’t have to go to such lengths to help her. Why does he need permission from a bishop? I guess with the book gone, I’m safe anyhow.

After running errands, she returned home, threw her keys on the side table, kicked off her shoes, and poured herself a glass of wine. Strangely, she didn’t feel much better even with the book gone. The hairs on her neck still prickled like someone was observing her.

She shrugged it off by the time she began getting ready for bed. As she brushed her hair, she heard a gust of wind from downstairs. She crept downstairs to investigate, hairbrush in hand, like a weapon. The wind blew through one of her windows, so she closed it. That must have been it. A window pushed open. Good to know, so at least I can lock it down properly.

She slipped into bed and drifted off immediately. She woke later from the smell of something on fire. Is something burning? Oh no, not again!

She went to the kitchen and flipped on the lights. Her heart skipped a beat. The book was on the kitchen table again. How? Carmela’s eyes watered in consternation. She didn’t know what she’d do now. How could this have happened? I saw him put it in the box with my own eyes!

Chapter 2

Belief

A week passed, and night after night, the apparition visited Carmela, terrorizing her. She wasn’t sleeping. It was terrible. Whatever devil this was, it was succeeding in wearing her down. At least, that’s what her state of mind was telling her. She tried to stay positive, but her light was growing dim.

The following morning, after almost no sleep, only a series of cat naps, Carmela anxiously hopped into Bertha to revisit Father Thomas. She wanted to find out why he hadn’t been around to see her yet. On the way, she spotted an occult and curiosities shop. Her conscience fought with her. Come on, hocus pocus? Really? Is that what it’s come to? Maybe later.

She got to the parish and approached the receptionist. A middle-aged, short, Southern lady looked up from her desk.

How can I help you?

I’m here to see Father Thomas, Carmela said.

The little lady hung her head down and put her dainty fingers over her mouth as she gently cleared her throat.

I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Father Thomas is no longer with us. He passed away a few days back, the receptionist said.

Carmela felt gutted. She’d just seen him recently. How? Why? In her heart, she felt a connection between her visit and the priest’s sudden demise, but how could that be? It would defy logic.

What happened to him? Carmela asked.

A very sudden heart attack, although… the receptionist paused.

Although? Carmela asked, probing.

The receptionist lifted an eyebrow and put her hand on her chin.

He had burn marks in a hand shape on his back. No one has explained it. How could that be explained when he was alone in his room?

Carmela couldn’t move. Her eyes drifted from the receptionist’s gaze and down at the floor. Was this a supernatural event? None of this felt real. She needed to leave post haste.

I’m so sorry for everyone’s loss. Goodbye.

She ran to her car as fast as her legs would carry her to old Bertha, something familiar. As she peeled out of the church parking lot and drove further away, she finally felt like she could breathe again. On her way to the office, she spotted the same occult shop. It's such a stupid idea, asking kooks.

Her curiosity got the best of her. She figured that checking it out couldn’t hurt, so she pulled over and parked the car. Slowly, she walked up to the door, mesmerized by all the esoteric paraphernalia in the window. Bubble, bubble, toil, and trouble. Am I so desperate to look into all this malarkey?

Tricks and Treats looked downright spooky, and Carmela felt a fluttering of nerves in her belly as she pushed open the door. Still, she kept reassuring herself that the world of the paranormal was non-existent, so how could witches do any harm to her? After all, spells only work if you believe, and I don't.

The clerk, a huge, burly, sour-faced woman with facial hair, a mole on her lip, and brownish teeth, stood behind the register and glared at her, looking her up and down. Carmela felt uncomfortable and shy as she sensed this gruff proprietor scrutinizing her.

Good Morning, Carmela said.

What seems to be the problem? The stern woman replied loudly.

The woman's breath was terrible; it was evident from the smell that she was a heavy smoker. Carmela tried to mask her dry heaves, but it was impossible. The woman chuckled, amused as a creepy smile spread across her face.

Go on, Honey. Tell us all about it. Got a ghost or something?

As a matter of fact, Carmela said, I think I do.

Carmela sat on a stool by the cash register. She brought the book up to the counter for the woman to examine. The woman was taken aback but nodded.

Go on with what you were saying, she murmured as she examined the book meticulously.

With all due respect, I don't believe in any of this, but it seems... I've got an angry spirit in my house. I can't explain this either, but I found this strange book after I moved in.

As the shop owner examined the book, her eyes widened. She turned the book over and ran her fingers across the surface of the cover. She touched the smooth surface with the occasional dips and uncannily smooth texture. She reached onto the counter, balancing the book in one hand, and produced a magnifying lens.

Carmela could only watch, wondering what she was studying. The more she examined, the more evident it was that the book was extraordinary. Carmela noticed that the lady never opened the cover to inspect the contents but lingered on the hide and its details as she examined it.

You don’t know what you’ve got here, do you? the lady asked.

Carmela cleared her throat, and before she could answer, the lady put the magnifying glass down and put two quick pumps of hand sanitizer into her hand.

Rubbing her hands together, a faint scent of Lilacs and rubbing alcohol filled the room. She asked Carmela another question -- having not received an answer to her first.

Child, tell me you didn't read it out loud!? she huffed.

Instantly, Carmela's eyes widened with fear as her gut wrenched. Her lips pressed into a hard line as she felt dread move up into her heart.

Yes, I'm afraid I did, she said timidly.

The lady grunted with disdain and shook her head in complete disbelief. Carmela felt the need to explain.

I, I, I… recited some of the words although I did not understand them. Some did sound familiar; I wasn't sure what language it was.

The clerk's mouth dropped open in shock as she tried to remain calm. However, the rapid eye movements between the book and Carmela indicated that she was anything but serene. The large lady with putrid breath exhaled a long, heavy sigh. Then she stared at Carmela, which made her squirm again under such intense scrutiny.

Carmela struggled to avoid gagging as the smoky, stale breath caressed her face from the other side of the counter. Boy, I guess she is a witch. Or am I just being poisoned with secondhand smoke? Who is she to be so judgmental?

The rotund, smelly woman declared, This book cover is skin.

Carmela went pale. Did she say what I think she said? Skin, like what covers our bodies?

The lady lit a fresh cigarette, and Carmela dry heaved in response to the new wave of nausea. No, she thought, as she was determined to know more. She couldn’t afford to offend this burly woman who could squash her like a bug.

Sorry, did you just say skin? So it isn't leather?

No, Dear, the woman replied. It isn't. Well, it's leather, alright, but human leather.

Carmela felt sick; as a result, she gagged at the mere thought of touching the nasty book. She couldn’t stop looking at the journal but no longer wanted to handle it.

I’m Maggie, by the way, the gruff woman said, attempting to be friendly.

Carmela reached out to shake her hand. Could I have been wrong? This lady may be trying to help after all.

Carmela, she said. Nice to meet you.

Since it’s a skin book, we can assume it’s part of a ritual, probably Native American or Mesoamerican black magic, that gives the book’s creator supernatural power. Maggie said, "Seeing all of the symbology and glyphs that decorate the cover, I would guess the creator was seeking the power of