Two centuries after the Salem witch trials, there’s still one witch left in Massachusetts.
But she doesn’t even know it. For fans of The Rules of Magic by Alice Hoffman,
A Secret of Witches by Louisa Morgan and The Haunting of Maddie Clare by
Simone St. James comes an addictive historical debut about strange power, fierce love,
family secrets, and how the past haunts us in ways that demand to be seen.
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About The Witch of Willow Hall:
Title: The Witch of Willow Hall
Author: Hester Fox
Genre: Historical Fiction
Release Date: October 2nd, 2018
Publisher: Harlequin’s Graydon House Books
Format: Digital eBook / Print
Digital ISBN: B077MKGQLR
Print ISBN: 9781525833014
Synopsis:
Two centuries after the Salem witch trials, there’s still one witch left in Massachusetts.
But she doesn’t even know it.
Take this as a warning: if you are not able or willing to control yourself, it will not only be
you who suffers the consequences, but those around you, as well.
New Oldbury, 1821
In the wake of a scandal, the Montrose family and their three daughters—Catherine,
Lydia and Emeline—flee Boston for their new country home, Willow Hall.
The estate seems sleepy and idyllic. But a subtle menace creeps into the atmosphere,
remnants of a dark history that call to Lydia, and to the youngest, Emeline.
All three daughters will be irrevocably changed by what follows, but none more than Lydia,
who must draw on a power she never knew she possessed if she wants to protect those
she loves. For Willow Hall’s secrets will rise, in the end…
Excerpt:
Copyright© 2018 The Witch of Willow Hall
Hester Fox
Hello readers, I’m so excited to share an excerpt with you from my debut novel,
THE WITCH OF WILLOW HALL (on-sale October 2, 2018). My name is Hester Fox,
and hailing from Boston, I’ve always been fascinated with the rich and
oftentimes dark history of this period. My novel takes place in a small
New England town over 130 years after the infamous Salem Witch trials, and
features a Gothic, melancholy atmosphere, restless spirits, and of course,
resilient women. I hope you enjoy this excerpt I’ve pulled for you.
~*~
Gingerly, I get up, my legs full of pins and needles from sitting on the floor so long. Just like the night of the woman in the garden, I can’t stay in the library knowing that someone might be there. I must go and look for myself.
Even with the sun coming through the windows, illuminating the wood floors and
catching the light of the crystal lamps, I feel as if I’m making my way through a
dark, murky passage. My feet are heavy, as if they know something that my mind
does not.
The door to the dining room is closed. It beckons me, yet repels me, exuding a sense
of silent occupation. My ears buzz. A singsong chorus of whispers grows as I approach.
Are you ready?
I am here.
You attract them.
Are you ready?
Prepare for what lies ahead.
Prepare.
Prepare.
They mount and mount into a dizzying jumble of sound and I run the rest of the way
to the door, my heart in my chest, my eyes squeezed shut. Grasping the knob, I
fling open the door. The voices die away.
I knew it would be there. But it doesn’t stop me from gasping as every part of me
curls back in on itself in horror. My blood turns to ice.
Seated at the table is a woman, or what used to be a woman. She sits as if she has
every right to be there, as if she has always been there. A veil covers her face, but
it is gauzy and threadbare, and I can see the contours of the features beneath. Her
dress is old, black as night yet opalescent as the moon through a cobweb. Paralyzed
with fear, I watch as it moves about her of its own accord, a soft undulation as if
she were underwater. And though I can see her as clear as day, the veiled woman in
our dining room, there’s a translucence to her, and the panoramic wallpaper is just
visible behind her. She is like nothing and no one I have ever seen before, and yet
she is familiar, as if I have always known her.
“Come, child.” Her voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, and when her words
are finished, I have the unnerving feeling that they weren’t spoken aloud at all,
but came from within my head.
She beckons me with a knobby finger, more bone than flesh.
I can’t drag my gaze away from her face, the sunken holes where there ought to be
eyes, the lipless mouth, all teeth and blackness. The cold pie that I just enjoyed
churns in my stomach and threatens to come up. She beckons me again, and I
imagine those long, terrible fingers closing around my neck and choking the life
out of me. I imagine them raking me across the face until ribbons of skin flutter
from my skull. I stand my ground, unwilling to deliver myself up to her. She is the
stuff of my novels, a grotesque horror that titillates on the page, but sends terror
into my heart when in the same room as me.
She gives something like a grunt, and as if able to read my thoughts, says, “One
hundred and thirty years of death is not gentle on a body. Come, do not gawk.” I
dare not disobey her, so I force my leaden feet to move a few steps closer.
The smell of decay and death fills the room, sickly sweet and putrid at the same
time. My stomach clenches at the memories the odor brings back of Emeline in her
coffin. My throat is tight, my mouth cotton, but somehow I’m able to gasp out,
“W-who are you?”
She makes a noise, something between a snort and a laugh, a scraping, rattling
sound, though it’s devoid of humor. “Do you not know your own forebear?”
The blackness of her dress curls around her like a snake, but she sits as motionless
as if she were carved of stone. Her stillness is suffocating, it dares the house to be
silent, and punishes the sunlight for filtering in through the window.
Warily, I come to a halt at the edge of the dining room table. I don’t know what
she’s talking about. “Forebear?”
“Have you not looked upon me since you were a babe? Do you not recognize in me
what flows through you?”
“I…” But then it comes to me. The lace collar, though tattered and black as her
dress, is unmistakable around her neck. “You’re the woman in the painting.
Mother’s ancestor.”
The inclination of her head is small, barely perceptible.
Praise for The Witch of Willow Hall:
"Fox’s spins a satisfying debut yarn that includes witchcraft, tragedy, and love, set in
1821 New England... The inclusion of gothic elements adds a visceral feel that fans of
historical fiction with a dash of the supernatural will enjoy." -Publishers Weekly
"Hester Fox's THE WITCH OF WILLOW HALL offers a fascinating location, a great plot with
history and twists, and characters that live and breathe. I love the novel, and will be
looking forward to all new works by this talented author!"
--Heather Graham, New York Times bestselling author
"Beautifully written, skillfully plotted, and filled with quiet terror, readers will devour
this absorbing, Gothic tale of romance and suspense. Perfect for fans of Simone St James
and Kate Morton." -- Anna Lee Huber, the national bestselling author of the historical
Lady Darby Mysteries
"Beautifully written, with an intriguing plot full of suspense and mystery,
The Witch of Willow Hall will cast a spell over every reader."
-- Lisa Hall, author of Tell Me No Lies and Between You and Me
"I was entranced by this intriguing and spellbinding novel with its messages of love and
loyalty and being true to who you really are. I hope Hester Fox goes on to write many more
such novels--I for one will be buying them."
-- Kathleen McGurl, author of The Girl from Ballymor
"With its sense of creeping menace and chilling undertones, this compelling story had
me gripped from the first page. The vividly drawn characters cast their spell so
convincingly,
I couldn't stop reading until I discovered what happened to them. A wonderful debut
novel.
”--Linda Finlay, author of The Flower Seller
About Hester Fox:
Hester Fox has a background in the museum field as a collections maintenance technician.
This job has taken her from historic houses to fine art museums, where she has cleaned
and cared for collections that range from paintings by old masters to ancient artifacts to
early American furniture. She is a keen painter and has a Master's in historical archaeology,
as well as a background in medieval studies and art history. Hester lives outside of Boston
with her husband and their two cats.
Ann Swann was born in the small West Texas town of Lamesa. She grew up much like Stevie-girl in The Phantoms series, though she never got up the nerve to enter the haunted house. 
