The Devil’s Bride: Chains of the False Saint

By Mark Bishop

When love arrives on the balcony, it feels like destiny — until it becomes a nightmare.

Freya grows up cherished and sheltered, the pampered only daughter of a cultured family. But after a cascade of tragedies — her cousin's death, her father's paralysis, and her mother's desperate visits to a notorious "saint" named Abigail — she withdraws from the world, nursing her grief on a moonlit balcony.

There she meets Michael, a handsome stranger who claims to be a childhood friend returned from abroad. His tender words and secret meetings seem like the answer to her prayers. Against her parents' wishes she marries him, imagining a new life of romance and security.

Instead, she is drawn into a dark labyrinth of deception and superstition. Michael's moods turn violent, her parents die in a mysterious fire, and the apartment across the street where he first appeared proves to be long abandoned. Unbeknownst to her, Michael is a man enslaved since childhood by Abigail — a false saint and sorceress whose schemes have ruined countless lives. Now Abigail has marked Freya herself for a grisly ritual, convinced her blood can unlock a buried treasure.

Torn between his love for Freya and the crimes he's been forced to commit, Michael risks everything to free them both. As police, priests and villagers converge on Abigail's underground lair, a deadly explosion tears open the truth. Out of the wreckage, Freya must decide whether to trust the man who saved her or flee the shadows forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Bishop
• Release date: Sep 11, 2025
• ISBN: 9798232174767

Mark Bishop

From a young age, I dreamt of becoming a writer, a vision sparked not by-passing fantasy, but by a profound and lasting connection to words and the worlds they build. As a child, storytelling was more than play; it was purpose. That enduring passion became a driving force, shaping my identity and serving as the sacred lens through which I understand life. Today, I strive to be a thoughtful and incisive writer whose work draws from the depths of psychological inquiry, spiritual symbolism, and supernatural intrigue. Writing isn't simply a craft it is the heartbeat of my existence, the reason I persist, question, and create. Every page I write is a testament to the belief that stories can reveal hidden truths and awaken transformation. All I want is a chance, a chance to prove the talent I've nurtured since childhood, and to share the voice that has waited patiently to be heard.

Book preview

Chapter One

How frightening are those moments we live through without knowing they will be our last meeting with someone before their death?! How does the moment arrive that contains the last laugh, the last joke, the last story?!

Freya stepped out onto her balcony and—true to her habit—gazed at the sky, contemplating the stars and the moon. She had spoken to it, complained, and wept many times, waiting for a response. Today’s surprise came when, after barren years of silence, the moon finally answered her:

Yes, I am the moon, a phantom of stone to all, yet I am gentler than the cruelest of hearts among humans. Years have passed as I have listened to everyone and wept with them each night. Many have sung my praises and likened their beloveds to me. I give them light and companionship, yet all I see are their tears and their return as disappointed lovers from those who once called me the moon! It is never my fault; I am merely a witness to their love and parting, their joy and sorrow. I watch in a silence that nearly kills me, and now I have come to watch over much for you. Do not be astonished or deluded—I am the moon, and I have come to tell you: do not weep or grieve, but lift your eyes, for God is with you. The heart that endures such pain for you will guide you to a glorious reward. Joy will surely come, but be patient!

Freya snapped out of her endless daydreams. Every night, she sat on her balcony, reading and reflecting until sleep overtook her.

The next morning, she awoke in terror to her mother’s scream. She rushed from her room in a panic toward her father’s sickroom, only to find him lying calmly in bed. Her fear ebbed slightly. Looking to her mother for answers, she asked through tears, and her mother gasped, Noah, your cousin, is dead!

Overcome with panic, Freya wept uncontrollably and threw herself into her mother’s arms. Together, they went to her aunt’s flat on the back street. The shock had hit her aunt so hard that she collapsed unconscious, and everyone around her was plunged into fear.

Days of mourning passed amid sobs, screams, and tears. Noah’s mother remained bedridden, unable to speak or move her gaze from his photograph. She could not face the painful truth, and life without him felt unbearable. Darkness fell over their home, turning it into a desolate forest of sorrow and specters draped in black. Grief permeated every corner, and Freya’s heart sank between the loss of Noah and her father’s illness. This is how Freya came to see life.

Freya spent long nights sleepless, sorrowful, and crying over Noah’s death and her father’s condition. She had been close to him and could not bear his unchanging illness as months passed with no improvement. Her spirit darkened, and she turned inward. After Noah’s passing, she abandoned her once carefree life and withdrew into isolation, tending only to her father at home.

She remembered her past: a happy childhood under her parents’ loving care, their pampered only daughter. She had everything she could wish for—luxury and a dignified life. Despite her striking beauty—soft black hair, alabaster skin, wide hazel eyes, and a graceful figure—she was known for her simplicity, kind heart, and generosity. She had many acquaintances she never truly cherished, a playful spirit, a love for late nights, music, books, and romantic films, and she dreamed of her prince charming and an ideal love story. Though she longed for love, she refused many marriage proposals and imposed strict conditions on any suitor, angering her father—and especially her mother, Evelyn, a matron of high society. Evelyn resembled Freya in features but was fuller-bodied and nearing fifty, her face softened by the tenderness she lavished on her husband and only daughter. Her deepest wish was to see Freya married, so she followed a relative’s advice and visited fortune-tellers to uncover why her daughter refused marriage. Freya merely laughed scornfully at the idea and deplored her mother’s actions.

Months passed and the mood shifted from joy and happiness to misery and sorrow. Her father was struck with paralysis after a strange accident. He was examined by top physicians, but his condition did not improve and there was no hope for treatment.

Evelyn went again to the sorcerers and brought back an amulet, placing it under her husband’s pillow in hopes of his recovery. The moment he discovered it and learned of the magic, he sighed in distress: You went to sorcerers, Evelyn?! Woe to you—only now do I understand why this happened to me. God is angry with us because of what you did.

Her heart nearly dropped with fear. She fell silent for a moment before replying, She isn’t a sorceress; she’s a Saint who heals with the Qur’an.

He slapped his palm against his other hand in disapproval: Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?! What kind of remedy is this?! Don’t you know that God is our best guardian? Seek forgiveness from your Lord, Evelyn, and promise me you will never do such a thing again, or else—

He left his threat unfinished, and she interrupted him: Don’t be angry with me. Calm down for your own health. I promise I will never go to her again.

Her father took Abigail’s address from his wife and informed a friend in the police about her, once he was certain she was scamming and practicing fraud on citizens.

Years passed since that incident. One night, Freya went out to her balcony to breathe the fresh air, hoping it would lift the sorrow and worry inside her. She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them, she saw a man standing on the balcony of the abandoned apartment opposite hers, looking at her with a smile. Terrified, she spun to retreat into her room, but he motioned for her to wait, repeating, Wait, Freya.

She froze in fear and leaned back, saying, How do you know my name?! Who are you?! This apartment is deserted! Are you a thief?

She nearly screamed in terror, but before she could, he called out, Wait, don’t make a fuss. I’m the owner of the apartment—don’t you recognize me?! He stepped back a little, and suddenly the moonlight brightened, revealing his features. He appeared handsome, nearly thirty, tall, with slightly wavy hair, a whitish complexion, and a dimple on his left cheek that showed when he smiled.

He moved closer, and she recoiled, asking in fear and confusion, Who are you?!

He looked at her with a smile, sensing her astonishment, and said, Don’t be surprised. I’m Michael. We used to play together in our childhood before my family traveled to the Gulf. Do you remember me?

Her memory stirred, and she replied cautiously, Is it really you, Michael? When did you return? The silence and the night sounds disoriented her, and doubt overwhelmed her. She added, Where is your father? And what were you doing in the Gulf?

He fell silent, and her fear of him grew. She stammered, Good night. She hurried inside and closed the balcony door.

Freya did not tell her mother what she had seen, as she was absorbed in her father’s illness and didn’t even go out to the balcony for several days. Yet he waited for her every night at the same hour. When she finally stepped out again, she found him standing there without a word or a sound. She trembled and asked, What are you doing here?!

He said in a sad tone, Didn’t I tell you? I returned days ago and this is my apartment. She shook her head in denial, That’s not what I mean. I mean—why are you on the balcony?!

He smiled, leaning his