Monday, April 10, 2023

Now On Tour Ghosts of a Coven Past by Peter J. White #Horror #ExclusiveExcerpt

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Ghosts of a Coven Past
Peter J. White

Genre: Horror
Date of Publication: 12/12/2022
ISBN: ‎ 979-8368383125
Number of pages: 249 
Word Count: 62,000
Cover Artist: Martina Sutter-Dalton

Tagline: A powerful witch with a mission to bring the child of Satan into the world lies dead and buried under an 1885 rowhouse. When Roger Nimanator moves in, the old witch discerns in him an open door to the spirit world.

Book Description: 

A powerful witch with a mission to bring the child of Satan into the world lies dead and buried under an 1885 rowhouse in Allentown, Pennsylvania, held in place by a combination of hex and the spirit of the young woman she had impregnated. But when Roger Nimanator and his family take possession of the house, the old witch discerns in him an open door to the spirit world.

The old witch gets a grip on Roger and begins to move in the world again, her spirit hungry for vengeance and for the coming of the Dark Lord. But Roger has awakened to his abilities and has gained a powerful ally in a modern-day witch and healer. Together they are determined to put the old witch to rest for eternity.

But the witch is wily and she has found allies of her own—a legion of them. Including one of Roger’s twin boys.

A master of manipulation and deceit, with Satanic powers growing, the old witch is on the verge of bringing her vision to reality. All she has to do is feed Roger’s doubt and the world—and his soul—are hers and the Dark Lord’s for the taking.

Bewitching Exclusive Excerpt


Violetta Dunphy clutched her stomach as her gut spasmed and the pain dropped her to her knees. The woods swam around her, spinning, tilting, the world akilter. Sweat rolled down her brow, trickled under her arms and between her swelling breasts.

Sounds of pursuit echoed through the trees: snapping branches, heavy footfalls, hoots of the pursuers sounding like demented owls.

Get up, she urged herself. Keep going.

She’d been locked up in the old woman’s shack for six months, watched over by members of the coven. As the child grew in her belly, so did her dread.

It’d been fun, in the beginning. Sneaking out at night, making her way through the woods by the light of the moon to the clearing where the coven gathered, the ceremonies with their chanting and dancing and drinking by the light of the bonfire sending thrills through her body.

Until the night it changed.

She’d noticed something off about the hard cider, a bitter taste, but hadn’t thought anything of it until the woods glowed phosphorescent around her, shapes gathering at the periphery of the light of the fire.

A huge creature, seven-foot tall at least, had edged its way through the circle to stand by the fire. The creature had the body of a man: muscular, broad shoulders jutted out over a tapered waist, abdomen rippling with muscle, thick arms the size of small trees bulging, huge hands with long, spidery fingers ending with fingernails long and sharp as knives.

And the head of a goat.

Huge, black horns jutted from the creature’s brow, and his eyes glowed red, orange fire reflecting in their depths.

Four members had broken away from the circle and dragged Violetta to the stone altar at the base of the fire. They’d lifted her and set her down on the hot stone amidst the disemboweled remains of the evening’s sacrifice, blood still warm.

The circle closed around them as the coven members rejoined hands and renewed the chant.

Violetta tried to resist, but whatever they had given her separated her from her body. Try as she might, her body would not obey her commands.

The four held her in place by her arms and legs. The two at the foot of the altar spread her legs and stepped to the side, holding her legs wide.

The creature laughed, a thick, guttural sound like a choking bear.

It grabbed its penis, a huge, curved thing with the tip like that of a dog’s and stepped between her legs.

The chanting grew in volume as the creature placed its hands on Violetta’s hips and thrust himself into her.

His penis burned like fire and despite the pain and the paralysis, Violetta cried out.

This excited the coven and the chant redoubled, echoing through the clearing and off the trees.

The pain grew, a burning inside her that felt like it reached up to her throat.

Violetta tried to fight, but again, her body refused.

The pain grew to a point where she thought she would die, a dim part of her mind horrified at the damage the thing inside her must be doing to her.

The pain peaked, and she felt the creature stiffen, then redouble its efforts and its seed spilled into her like pellets of molten lava.

The clearing darkened around her, her last vision of the full moon directly above, and she passed out.

To awaken in the old woman’s shack, tied down to a bed in the corner, a huge black cast iron pot in the center of the shack over a fire, bubbling with some foul-smelling concoction, the old woman puttering around, muttering, occasionally casting something into the kettle.

She ignored Violetta, for the most part. Fed her. Emptied her bedpan.

Once a month, on the night of the full moon, the coven gathered at the shack. The men held her as the old woman poured a foul-tasting brew down her throat. The walls of the cabin took on a phosphorescent glow, glistening a ghostly yellow-green, and the paralysis would spread through her and the men would pick her up and carry her to the clearing for the ceremony.

By the third month, Violetta felt the child in her belly growing, a little knot of fire that burned. Each move sent shivers of agony through her, sweat pouring from her pores.

As the seventh full moon approached, Violetta lay with her swollen belly in agony, watching the old woman through a film of pain and despair.

The old woman was tossing things into the kettle: a live frog, ash, the head of a pig. She uncorked a vial, and a putrid smell filled the tiny cabin.

The old woman stiffened, and the vial fell from her gnarled fingers into the kettle. Her eyes went wide, and she clutched at her chest and fell with a thump to the dirt floor.


For the first time since the beginning of the ordeal, Violetta was alone. She tugged at the strip of herb-soaked cloth that bound her right wrist to the corner post of the bed.

It stretched.

She tugged harder and angled herself on the bed, reaching for the cloth with her teeth.

Pain shot through her as the child in her belly kicked and squirmed, seeming to understand she was trying to free herself, doing what it could to stop her.

She grimaced, relaxed, then pulled hard and angled her chin.

Her teeth found the edge of the cloth strip and she seized it and twisted.

It tore loose.

She managed to loose herself from the restraints, all the while the child in her belly protesting, each movement red-hot agony.

Violetta pushed the pain from her mind and sat up.

The child spasmed and the room grayed around her.

She staggered to her feet, walls spinning, and made her way to the door.

She pulled the rickety wooden door open and stepped onto the path leading into the woods, headed for the clearing.

The moon above was nearly full and lit her way with a silvery glow, sparkling off the dew that lined the grass and trees.

She’d not gotten far when she heard a cry behind, from the old woman’s cabin.

She stepped off the path, into the woods, aiming for what she thought was the river. The river would lead her to town.


The cry from the cabin came again, and another voice echoed through the trees. Soon, there was a bevy of cries and the sounds of pursuit drew near.


About the Author:

Peter J. White was born in Colorado and raised in SE Alaska. He has degrees in Education, French, and an MFA in Creative Writing. He taught ELL in Bangkok, Thailand for six years, and currently teaches high school English in Washington State. Hobbies, past and present, include writing, bicycling, mountain climbing, kickboxing, MMA, and yoga.



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