Just survive September

The walls of the house were bleeding again. That was to be expected: after all, it was September. In their old age, the Hartmans fulfil their dream – they finally buy their own house, and not just any house. The Victorian building on Hawthorn Street captivates them with its picturesque, old-world charm, so they cheerfully ignore the estate agent's subtle mentions of its dark past. They are therefore unpleasantly surprised by certain, ahem, ailments that accompany life in their new home, such as blood gushing from the walls, nocturnal moans that turn into unbearable screams... and of course, all the ghosts. Fortunately, they only have to endure most of these spooky attractions during September. After some time, Margaret Hartman has practically grown accustomed to this month-long frenzy. She's discovered that even these matters have certain rules and that with a little preparation, anything can be survived. However, her husband Hal does not share his wife's stoicism and one day, he simply disappears. After years of a less-than-idyllic life with him, this wouldn't be such a disaster for the pragmatic Margaret – if it weren't for the arrival of their adult daughter, Katherine, whom she had tried to protect from both her father's dark side and the perils of the cursed house. And if the calendar didn't happen to read September… A remarkable debut novel telling a multi-layered ghost story about family ties and the meaning of home, which transcends genre boundaries in its execution and message. “Carissa Orlando is the Sam Raimi of horror cinema. She can be gruesome in her bloody scenes, as well as terrifying in her unspoken details. The crux of the matter, however, is her ability to play with genre rules, subvert expectations at the right moment, and push the boundaries of established clichés.” – from reader reviews on Databazeknih.cz “This original haunted house story is a joy to read.” – Publishers Weekly “In a wonderfully spooky debut, the secrets hidden by a house and its inhabitants surface with truly terrifying force.” – Library Journal “Carissa Orlando’s debut offers a chilling psychological tale about the victims of unimaginable violence.” – Booklist Father Cyrus, beside me, raised his hand to the cellar door handle. My gaze flickered to his hand, then back to Fredricka. Her expression was as horrified as mine. She shook her head, and I pushed myself off the wall to face him. “Father–” I began. But he was already pressing the handle. “Good Lord, we beseech you, keep that unclean creature far from this house, and grant all who dwell here peace in their days.” The door creaked open, and I flinched back a little behind Father Cyrus. The bible pages taped to the inside of the door fluttered slightly as it moved, their edges already frayed. “We pray that the light and love of our Lord Jesus Christ may rest upon this house.” I could feel it now, the intoxicating air rising from below, heavy and slow like blood. “May we have no reason to fear the devil, for our Lord Jesus Christ is with us.” Behind me, Fredricka was shaking her head furiously. “He who lives and reigns with You in the unity of the Holy Spirit, for ever and e–” At that moment, Father Cyrus's body went rigid in a way that resembled rigor mortis. His arms froze and dropped to his sides like iron bars, the aspergillum fell to the floor, and the holy water spilt across the beautiful wooden floor. The priest's head snapped back, his eyes wide, his mouth open, the final syllables of his prayer erupting from his lips with a deafening loudness. This was new. – excerpt from the book