Title: Abby Normal
Series: Abby Normal
Author: Samuel Thomas Fraser
Genre: Urban Fantasy, Horror
Release Date: 1st March 2020
BLURB supplied by Silver Dagger Book Tours
Abby Henderson
has lived her whole life under a dark cloud. When she was born, a demon called
the Deacon claimed her family as his property. When she turned 13, she was
traumatized by an ominous psychic vision. When she turned 14, her dad had a
psychotic breakdown and tried to kill her.
She’s just turned 25, and now people are dying all around her.
This is all according to the Deacon’s plan. He believes that Abby is the key to
a ritual that will unleash an ancient evil on the world, and he will stop at
nothing to make sure that ritual succeeds.
Now, Abby is in the fight of her life against an enemy that defies all reason.
Together with her pious girlfriend, her magic-slinging ex-teacher, and a
hotheaded Amazon with a machete, Abby will have to use every trick in the book
to outlast the Deacon. Because if she can’t, her next birthday is going to be
Hell.
PURCHASE LINKS
EXCERPT
CHAPTER
1
RENDER
UNTO CAESAR…
Another
match failed, and Don’s cigarette remained stubbornly unlit.
He
cursed, insinuating that the match had had improper carnal knowledge of a
family member. He threw a hard look at the matchbook, trying to intimidate it
into cooperating with him. He promised the matchbook that this really was his
last cigarette, honestly, and wasn’t a man’s last cigarette more than enough
reason to give him a light?
And
it was going to be his last one, too. For real this time. He had sworn to Karen
he would quit when the baby arrived, and he’d already cut down to only two or
three smokes a week.
But.
But, but, but. He
had said “when the baby arrives” and not a split second before. And Karen had
been in labour nearly eleven hours now.
Jesus.
Eleven
hours in the worst storm to come up the coast of BC in 15 years. Don had heard
of natural births before, but this was fucking ridiculous.
They’d
all told him it had to be this way, Karen included. Something about ley lines
and chaotic energies and ancient traditions. Something about imbalance in the
mystic equilibrium, which would alter the electric potential in the atmosphere
and wreak havoc on the complex mechanical systems in a hospital.
In
Don’s opinion, the whole thing had a pretty pungent odour of bullshit.
He
finally got his cigarette lit and took a walk around the beach. The island was
a half-mile of rock and trees, with one log cabin stuck in the middle of a
clearing on the nearby hill. It was what Don’s father-in-law would have called
‘a real strip-of-piss’. As lightning struck the next island over, Don told
himself there wasn’t anything to worry about. Really, there wasn’t. That 200
pounds of rugby muscle wasn’t just for looks: he knew how to handle himself in
a fight. So did Karen, if it came to it.
Not
to mention the retinue of freaks, said a voice in his head. Then, Holy shit,
there’s a Word of the Day for you.
“Lovely
night for it, eh?”
Don
turned and saw a man approaching him from the cabin. Enter Freak Number One,
said the voice.
The
man shouted at Don over the howl of the wind, and his long Inverness coat
billowed behind him. “I said, ‘lovely night for it, eh?’”
Don
didn’t answer as the man in the Inverness coat drew close to him. He was
shorter than Don’s six-three, and much thinner, with goofy oversized ears and a
square chin, but there was something about him—some presence in his bright
green eyes—that was naturally, effortlessly commanding.
One
of the green eyes winked, and the man in the Inverness coat whispered, “Oh, to
be in Canada now that autumn’s here.” He spoke with a soft English accent and a
cheeky, joking note in his voice.
Don
wasn’t in much of a joking mood, and he looked straight past the Englishman to
the log cabin. “How is everything in there? I mean… is she here yet?”
The
Englishman shook his head. “Not quite yet, but I’d say she’s very near, going
by the state of things.” He glanced at the sky as he said this, as if the
‘things’ in question would suddenly blow down from one of the dark clouds
above.
Don
turned back toward the water, and the Englishman closed his eyes like he was
meditating. It was several minutes before the Englishman gripped Don’s shoulder
and whispered, “She’s here.” As the wind died away, Don heard an infant crying
in the distance. He threw his cigarette into the waves and charged toward the
cabin, excited and terrified in equal measures. He could hear the calm,
measured footsteps of the Englishman jogging after him.
Inside
the cabin, Karen Henderson was lying on a creaky twin bed in one corner, trying
to soothe what looked like a very noisy pile of old dishrags. She was a small,
round-faced woman, like a child’s doll come to life. Not at all, then, like the
two women flanking the bed, who could both have passed for angry villagers in a
Universal monster movie.
The
woman on the right was a tall, muscular Haitian with a lot of dark hair pulled
back in a tight ponytail. Natalie Arnaud wore a bulky, dirty trench coat over
an equally dirty tank top, khaki pants, and heavy steel-toed boots. The whole
ensemble suggested that she’d been working nights in either a munitions factory
or a slaughterhouse.
The
woman on the left looked like an older version of Karen. Stout of frame and
straight of back, ‘Grandma’ Meg McAllister had a glass of single malt scotch in
her hand. It was not her first one of the night.
Don
stood with his back to the door for a moment, staring at the squirming, noisy
bundle in Karen’s hands, until the Englishman gave him a nudge. “I think some
introductions are in order, Donald.”
Karen
looked up and nodded, beckoning Don over to her. As he approached the bed, she
glanced at the Englishman and said, “You too, Simon.” The two men huddled
around the bedside as Karen gave the child a gentle pat on the back and said,
“Don… say hi to your daughter.”
Grandma
Meg put down her Scotch and gently placed the child in Don’s arms. His whole
body froze as the baby’s weight settled against him, and he imagined that the
slightest tremor would offend her. Only his mouth moved as he whispered, “She’s
gorgeous…”
This
was, of course, a clever lie. She was a newborn baby, and all newborn babies
look like flesh-shaped balloons filled with prune juice and raspberry jam, but
as far as Don was willing to admit, the child was perfect.
“So,
what do we call her?” Simon asked. “Only I feel like ‘Small Human-in-Progress’
is a tad wordy.”
Karen
smiled and shook her head. “We call her ‘Abigail’.”
Grandma
Meg nodded and took a sip of her scotch. “Aye,” she said, in a broad Yorkshire
accent, “Abigail Margaret ‘enderson.” Then she smirked and added, “My
suggestion, of course.”
Don
nodded and rocked the child in his arms. “Abigail. Abby, for short.” He leaned
in close to his daughter and whispered, “Do you like that? Do you like ‘Abby’?”
Abby
made a gurgling noise of assent and reached for Don’s nose with a fat, sausagey
arm. As her eyes opened and she took a first look at the room around her, the
party went quiet and just watched her, forgetting that there was a world beyond
their log cabin.
So
it came as a huge shock when somebody knocked on the door.
Knock-knock-knock.
For a
second, nobody moved. Then Natalie pushed aside her trench coat, letting her
hand rest over the hilt of the long machete she had strapped to her leg.
Knock-knock-knock.
Grandma
Meg reached for the Webley revolver she’d holstered at her hip and thumbed the
hammer nervously.
Knock-knock-knock.
Simon
closed his eyes and nodded once. “It’s him.”
The
door crashed against the wall as a rush of freezing wind howled through the
cabin. Don held Abby close to his chest and turned his back to the chill, while
Natalie and Grandma Meg trained their weapons on the figure in the doorway.
The
newcomer was not quite a man, nor was it quite a monster. It was human in
shape, but it was cloaked in a set of white floor-length robes, with gold at
the sleeves and collar, and a purple hood that hid its eyes.
The
thing in the robes glided into the cabin, hands folded in front of it, heedless
of the venomous looks it received. Behind it, the door slammed shut and locked
itself. The thing whispered, “The weather is… pleasant, is it not?” Its
voice was like the crunch of dead leaves underfoot, and the way the corners of
its mouth twitched upward suggested that it was attempting irony.
Natalie
stepped forward and touched the point of her blade to the creature’s throat.
“What the hell do you want, you son of a bitch?”
The
robed figure raised its hands submissively. “Such language,” it wheezed,
“and in the presence of a child…”
Natalie
leaned in and pressed the blade harder. The robed figure winced as the tip of
the blade bit into its neck, and a thin track of blood seeped into the collar
of its robes. “I’m warning you, Deacon,” she hissed.
The
Deacon flicked one of his raised hands and the machete sank to the floor like a
lead weight, taking Natalie with it. He moved his hand again, and the weapon
leaped out of Natalie’s grip and flew toward Grandma Meg. The Deacon made a
fist and the machete screeched to a halt, its tip inches from Grandma Meg’s
heart.
“Do
not test me, woman,” the
Deacon hissed at Natalie. “I do not come here to quarrel with any of you.
But, if I am met in the spirit of war, I will take steps to… defend myself!” He
opened his fist, and the machete jumped forward another inch. Grandma Meg
retreated back against the wall.
Simon
raised his hands. “All right! Everyone just take a deep breath. This is not a
fight we wish to have.” Then, pointedly, to Natalie, “Any of us.”
With
a curt nod to Simon, Natalie backed away from the Deacon and raised her hands.
Behind her, Grandma Meg dropped the Webley and kicked it across the floor. The
Deacon flicked his hand again, and the machete veered right, sinking into the
far wall.
“Cooler
heads prevail…” the
Deacon whispered, glancing at Simon. “And the wisdom of the ages shines
bright.” He turned and glided toward Don, extending a hand. Abby whined and
kicked as the Deacon’s slender fingers brushed against her swaddling clothes. “Please.
I wish to consider my… investment.”
Don
shook his head. He didn’t realize it, but every muscle in his body was
vibrating with fear and fury. “She’s a baby…” he whispered. “She’s just a
baby…”
The
Deacon’s thin lips stretched into a grin. His teeth were like piano keys: shining
white and perfectly straight. “Soon,” he vowed, “she will be much,
MUCH more.”
Before
Don could respond, the Deacon tore Abby from her father’s arms and rearranged
her swaddling clothes, smiling the whole time. Don looked back at Karen, who
was struggling to rise from the bed. But the labour had left her exhausted, and
she sank back into the pillows.
The
Deacon bowed his head over Abby and opened his mouth. Don and Karen both gagged
as the Deacon pressed his tongue to Abby’s pink flesh, right over her heart,
then tracked it up her chest, her throat, all the way to the top of her head.
Abby began to sob and Don’s hand curled into a tight fist. But he dared not
move. Not against the being that had saved his life.
When
the Deacon was finished, he licked his lips and hissed, “I can taste it on
her already. I can feel the energy crackling and burning within her. She will
have great power before long…” The Deacon passed Abby back to her father,
and he tried to calm her down. “You see? I have no ill intentions toward
you, Hendersons.” He bowed low in an exaggerated gesture of mock-respect. “I
will, of course, honour our arrangement, so long as you do me the same
courtesy.” He straightened up again and pointed a thin, bony finger toward
the wall behind Karen. “Use your time wisely, for it is short.”
Scritch-scratch-scritch.
Wood
chips sprinkled onto the bedspread as an invisible knife carved a number into
the wall, right above Karen’s head. “Render unto Caesar,” the Deacon
rasped, “that which is Caesar’s… and render unto God…” He pointed at
Abby and loosed a short, devious laugh. “The things that are… God’s…”
Nobody
heard him. They were too fixated on the number above Karen’s head, which glowed
bright red like a fireplace ember. In the howling storm outside, a bolt of
lightning struck the shore opposite the tiny strip-of-piss island.
The
following thunderclap made Abby cry again and snapped everyone back to reality.
Don looked back and saw the Deacon had vanished. The door of the cabin was
still locked tight, and the only sign that he had ever been there was the mark
carved into the wall.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Samuel Thomas Fraser is a writer and
actor from the rainy mountains of Vancouver, BC, Canada. A lover of medieval
literature and truly weird fiction, Sam holds a BA in English and a Certificate
in Creative Writing from Simon Fraser University. His short fiction and poetry
has appeared in outlets including The Macabre Museum and Unleashed: Monsters Vs.
Zombies Vol. 1. As a performer, he has inhabited such memorable stage roles as
Algernon Moncrieff in The Importance of Being Earnest and Charlie Cowell in The
Music Man. Abby Normal is his first novel.
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