Sacrifice

[Macey Wuesthoff]

Introduction
You may or may not have learned from my bio that I had a horror novel published two years ago. The name of it is SACRIFICE, and it was published by Amber Quill Press. To self-market, as we writers are encouraged to do by small publishing houses, Amber Quill Press allows me to display the book's blurb (back cover summary), a teaser (excerpt), prologue, first chapter, and any reviews. So for me, that means a little shameless self-promotion here, and for you, some free reading and hopefully, encouragement to pick up the book. If you like what you see here, you can e-mail me at [email protected] to purchase an autographed copy, which comes with a complimentary bookmarker. Or you can buy it from my publisher, Amber Quill Press (http://www.amberquill.com/Sacrifice.html), but you won't get my autograph or the bookmark that way.

Please excuse any weird spacing in this version. It is nearly impossible to copy and paste from MS Word to the Internet without encountering a few spacing issues. These problems are NOT part of the book. Thank you for your understanding and patience.

I am going to post these samples in bits so that I don't overwhelm anyone with too much information at once.

Without further ado, here's SACRIFICE, starting with the blurb (back cover summary) and the teaser (excerpt)...

Blurb
In a small southern town called Grimshaw, fourteen-year-old Angel Fallow lives in misery. Her Bible-quoting stepfather beats her if she dares break his fanatical rules. Her mother is cold and distant. Angel's only outlet is trips to the woods for secret, forbidden meetings with classmate Peter St. Thomas, her best and only friend.

Angel has always believed that her natural father died right after her birth. So when she learns he actually disappeared and was presumed dead, she's instilled with hopes of finding him and a chance at a normal life. When Angel and Peter begin searching for Angel's father, they discover two forces more powerful than any they ever imagined possible—the light of a beautiful first love, and the darkness that has caused so many of Grimshaw's children to suddenly die or disappear. As their relationship deepens, they unearth evidence of a local Satanist cult, its sacrifices of innocent children, and its horrifying connection to Angel's father. That same cult conducts its gruesome rituals with children who fit their physical profile, within the same woods where they meet. And they realize their discovery could cost them everything—including their lives...

Teaser
…Feeling confused, threatened, and in general, upset all over again, Angel began to run toward home, a fresh geyser of tears erupting down her face.

When the house came into view, she spotted Grandma rocking in a chair on the front porch. As sick as Grandma had been, Angel had expected her to be in bed. Certainly, she hadn't anticipated having to face her before she even got in the house. If she didn't get real cool real quick, she knew Grandma would pick up on something being wrong. Slowing to a walk, she sniffled, took a few deep breaths, and rubbed her hands across her cheeks to wipe away her tears.

"You're back early today, child." Angel nodded and climbed the steps. Grandma caught sight of her face. "And you're awfully flushed."

"It's just from running home to try to get out of the rain."

"Then why the dreary face?" Grandma leaned forward. "You're upset over what was in that box, aren't you?"

"No, Grandma. Peter forgot to bring my father's stuff, is all. And he's in trouble with his folks, so he had to go home early and can't come back today." It was a partial truth, anyway.

Grandma raised a wary eyebrow. "You're sure he really forgot and can't come back? Or do you think maybe he left everything at home deliberately? To try to do what's best for you and protect you, like I am?"

The same idea had crossed Angel's mind. But she was too upset and exhausted to think about that anymore, much less discuss it. In fact, she wanted nothing more than to peel off her wet clothes, soak in a bath, and cry. Shrugging, she placed her hand on the doorknob.

Grandma sighed. "I suppose it doesn't matter much one way or the other. Least it won't if I decide to come forward with what I know. That's what I'm thinking about doing."

Angel whirled around. "You mean you're going to tell me what's in that box? What you've been hiding?"

"I'm not sure I'm going to tell you directly. It's something that would be very hard for me to say to you. What I mean is I am thinking of going to others, others who can do something about it. It'll cost me everything. But I'm an old woman. I don't have much longer to live now. At least I can die knowing I tried to do the right thing. Besides, maybe it could actually help you somehow, too."

That statement made Angel believe more than ever that her father was still alive. She decided to try one further plea. "You know, Grandma, by this time tomorrow, I will have found out the truth from Peter—at least most of it. So why don't you go ahead and tell me what you know and how it could help me?"

"No more questions, child. I'm just thinking about this. I haven't decided for sure."

During the conversation, Angel's eyes fell upon the grove of trees across the road. That's when she spotted something black among the leafy green foliage. The top of it narrowed into a point, like the top of a hood. Then it moved. A person.

She pointed across the road. "Grandma, look!"

"What, child?"

"Don't you see…?" The shape had disappeared.

"See what, Angel?"

"Someone was out there, Grandma." Her voice trembled. "I think they were watching us."


<b>More to come soon! Thanks for reading!<b>

[Macey Wuesthoff]

Okay, here's the prologue:


This is the story of how the town of Grimshaw sold its soul to the
Devil.



What happened in Grimshaw could have happened—and still could
happen—in virtually any small American town. Yet it happened in
Grimshaw perhaps because the town was enduring extreme hardship at
the time, which naturally causes weakness in man.


* * *

1973

A deep recession was sweeping the United States. That recession
especially devastated small towns like Grimshaw, which offered its
peoples few industries and sources of income. The majority of the
sparse sources of income in Grimshaw—factories, warehouses,
restaurants, cafés, and various mom-and-pop businesses—closed their
doors forever, leaving most of Grimshaw unemployed.


A rural town in the Deep South, Grimshaw was able to fall back on
farming—until a drought followed the recession. Grimshaw, the
smallest town in the affected region, the town with the fewest
businesses open, the town that relied most heavily on farming, suffered the most. Day after day, farmers lugged buckets of water to their thirsty fields, only to have their crops mock them by withering and browning into premature deaths.



Weeks extended into months. The drought and recession went
on…and on…and on…

With no end in sight to the tribulations, with money and even food
scarce, Grimshaw’s population began to die out along with the
economy and crops. Some who lived through it moved, a few
abandoning their homes and property. Others couldn’t leave due to lack of education, finances, personal strength, or various other inhibitors. Thus, they were stuck in Grimshaw to suffer and await the end of the drought, the recession, or themselves.


The hearts of those remaining overflowed with dark, bitter pain.
They were starving. They were thirsty. They were weary. They were
angry. Most of all, they were desperate.


The most desperate of all was a farmer named John Weekly. Nine years
before, when John and his high school sweetheart Gay were seventeen,
they had dropped out of school to get married. Over the next seven
years, they had three children. Together, the family lived a life that was humble yet full of love and happiness. That love and happiness ended during the latter part of John and Gay’s eighth year of marriage, when Gay died due to complications in childbirth.


Gay had given birth to twin boys. That left John the widowed father
of five at only twenty-five years of age. Just weeks after Gay’s death came the recession, followed by the drought. The factory where John worked closed, and the crops on his farm began to die. As a single parent, he found it harder and harder to care physically and financially for his children. He had no living relatives to help, and his friends and neighbors had too many troubles of their own to offer aid. Like his own old tractor, worn and rusted from too much weather and use, John Weekly’s spirit simply “broke down”—broke down worse than the spirit of anyone else in Grimshaw.


That is probably why he was chosen.


It happened on a Friday night, when John was in the modestly
furnished bedroom he had shared with Gay. It was late, so John wore
his usual sleepwear of a sleeveless undershirt and boxers. He looked at his reflection in the dusty, cracked mirror of the bureau and shook his head. His skin was pale and his body gaunt from lack of nourishment, for he had been eating a little less so his children could have a little more. The hard times that year had marked him with worry lines and patches of premature gray in his thinning, brown hair. Appalled by his reflection, he switched on his bedside lamp and switched off his overhead light, trying not to face the shell of a man he had become.


John slumped onto the bed. On the nightstand lay a folded piece of
paper and a framed photo of Gay, smiling and beautiful, taken just
before she died. John picked up her photo and longingly poured over it. God, how he missed her, how he needed her now! In a way, though, he was glad she wasn’t around to suffer through these hard times, to see how they had left him unable to support his family. He dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief to stop the tears that threatened to seep through his lids.


That was it. Looking at Gay’s photo and thinking about her hurt too
much. John put down the picture, picked up the paper, and unfolded it.
Printed across the top were the words, “Mortgage Foreclosure, Final
Notice.” He shook his head again. So now he’d not only lost his wife, his job, and his crops, he was going to lose his home and land, too. Where would that leave his family?


“Daddy?”


John raised his eyes from the mortgage notice. His oldest daughter,
eight-year-old Sarah, stood gazing at him from outside the open
doorway. She was the only of the five children who had her late
mother’s blonde hair and blue eyes, but her facial features were almost identical to John’s. He had once been quite proud of his daughter’s face being so like his own. Now, seeing that similarity hurt him, for Sarah’s countenance had recently taken on the pale, sickly color that he’d just observed in himself.


John asked, “What’re you doing up, hon?”


“I’m hungry,” Sarah replied. “Everybody is. The twins are crying
and pointing at their tummies and saying ‘hun-ry, hun-ry.’ And
Gaylette and John Jr. are in my room, saying they can’t sleep ’cause
their tummies are growling.”


“Oh,” John said distractedly, returning his attention to the mortgage notice. “There’s a loaf of bread in the breadbox.”


“Nuh-uh. That’s gone.”


“Gone?”


“Yeah. We ate it all at dinner.”


“Any crackers in the cabinet? Fruit in the fridge? Canned soup or
vegetables in the pantry?”


Sarah answered each question with a shake of her head. “There’s
nothing in the house to eat.” Her features brightened with an idea. “Hey, let’s get some vegetables out of the garden!”


“There ain’t none. The drought’s killed the whole push of them.”


“Oh.”


An awkward silence followed. Sarah lowered her eyes in the same
defeated expression that John had also observed on his own face a
minute before. It pained his soul. He tried to say something comforting.
“I’ll go into town tomorrow and get a few things. For now, why don’t
you have a glass of water, and get one for your brothers and sister, too?
It’ll make y’all feel full.”


His statement had the opposite effect. Sarah contorted her features
and said resentfully, “I already did. We’re still hungry!” Scowling, she
pivoted and disappeared from the doorway.


John maintained his composure long enough to put the mortgage
notice on the nightstand, crawl under the covers, and switch off the
lamp. But once he flipped onto his side, facing away from the door and
the extinguished light, he allowed his tears to flow. He cried for his
land, for his children, for his late wife. Mostly, though, he cried for
himself.


“John.”


At first, his name was spoken so faintly, so unexpectedly, that he
assumed he had imagined it and kept crying.


“John,” it repeated, low and gravelly, with a hissing undertone.


The third time the voice sounded, John knew for sure it was real,
because he heard it speak an entire sentence: “I can make it all better,
John.”


John’s lids flew open. He bolted upright in bed. “Who’s there?” he
called, groping for the switch to his bedside lamp.


The voice came again, now angry. “Don’t turn on that light!”


John dropped his hand but demanded, “Who are you?”




Prologue to be continued in the next post

[Macey Wuesthoff]

Prologue Continued:

Calm once more, it replied, “I am known by various names. The
Prince of Darkness, the Antichrist, Lucifer, Beelzebub, Satan—”


Aw, horse shit!” John sputtered. He reached for the lamp a second
time.


The voice became deeper, louder, and more forceful. “I said, don’t turn on that light!”


John searched the darkness. His heart began to pound. Just beyond
the foot of his bed, in the corner between the bureau and the bedroom
door, two red eyes flashed on like lights. They glowed bright as fire.
Down the middle of each eye, where a pupil should have been, there
was instead a black, snake-like slit.


Now more afraid than he’d ever been in his life, John squeezed his
eyes shut so he could no longer see the bestial ones blazing back at
him. He began murmuring, “Oh please, don’t hurt me, please don’t let
him hurt me, Jesus—”


“Jesus?” The voice broke into loud, hysterical cackling. “What has
He done for you lately?”


“Huh?” Awestruck, John opened his lids.


“Brought you this endless recession? Given you this drought that
has killed your crops and those of your friends and neighbors? Stolen
your wife and the mother of your children? Left you and your family to
starve to death? Fat lot of good He’s been to you.”


It paused, and then, seeing that John was listening, repeated, “I can
make it all better, John. I can give you back your home, your land, your job. I can make your crops grow once more, and ensure that you and your children never go hungry again. I can make it so that you, your friends—-the entire town of Grimshaw—-prosper.”


It paused once more. John timidly whispered, “How?”


“Simple. I do something for you, you do something for me. I give
you your lives back, and you give life back to me.”


“I don’t understand.”


“You will repay me through sacrifice.”


“Sacrifice? What sort of sacrifice?”


“Life sacrifice. Sacrifices of pure minds and hearts, of pure bodies
and souls. Sacrifices of blood.”


“You mean, like animals or somethin’?”


“Yes, sometimes goats and rams and such,” the voice replied.
“Other times, I will require the sacrifice of a child.”


“What?!” John cried. “We’d have to kill children?”


“Heed my words, John. The whole town is perishing. What
difference will a few children here and there make if it will save so
many others from oblivion?”


John was reaching for the bedside light yet a third time when he realized that, sadly, this sounded like a logical proposition. He hesitated. “Children from where?”


“Children from Grimshaw only, of course. It would be foolish to do
otherwise. If you venture outside town for your sacrifices, you will
attract more attention and likely get caught.”


John could scarcely believe the grotesque proposition. Nor that he
was considering it. As his stomach began to rumble, though, he heard
himself ask, “Which ones? Just any of them?”


“Oh no, not just any. Those with what some mortals have called
‘angelic features.’” Seeing that John didn’t understand, it added,
“Features like those of your daughter Sarah.”


“No.” John began to shake his head. “You can’t mean you expect
me to…”


“It would set a good example, a convincing example for the rest, if
your own daughter were the first to be given to me.”


John clenched his hands, ready to leap off the bed and pound the
demon with his fists. “You ain’t layin’ a finger on my daughter!”


“No, I won’t,” it confirmed. “You will. You will sacrifice her to
me.”


“No!” John cried, appalled. “I can’t—I won’t—kill my own
daughter!”


“What’s the difference?” the voice asked coolly. “You have more
mouths than you can feed now, anyway. Besides, you’ve got two girls,
and I’m asking for only one. She won’t be able to offer you nearly as much help as your boys in tending your fields, which will grow in
abundance if you bow to me.”


John had heard enough. He couldn’t believe he had listened to as
much as he had. “You’re an abomination!”


The voice began to race. “She’s only going to die anyway of malnutrition or disease! They all will! Or you can give her to me and save…”


John cut off the voice, yelling, “An abomination against humanity,
Christ, and everything that I believe in, and I want you out of here,
now!” With that, he switched on the lamp.


When the light fell upon the monstrous apparition behind the red
glowing eyes, John began to scream. Like an amalgamated animal, it
had a gigantic dragon’s head, complete with pointed ears, an alligator-like snout, and long, sharp fangs. Its body and neck were the shape of a serpent’s, the body piled on the floor in lengthy, thick coils, the neck arched upward, like that of a snake about to strike. The entire head and body were covered in scales, and the scales were black with soot, as if the creature had just come out of fire.


Sarah heard John screaming and came running through the hall,
crying, “Daddy! Daddy!”


Before Sarah could enter the room and see the thing in the corner,
the bulb in John’s lamp burst. His bedroom door slammed shut. The
knob spun as Sarah struggled with the door, which had somehow
locked from the inside.


John absorbed all of this in the split second before the thing’s
colossal mouth opened and roared, “I TOLD YOU—-”


With John still screaming, the creature thrust forward its snake-like
neck, over the foot of the bed and toward his face.


“—-DON’T TURN ON THAT LIGHT!”


As the creature spoke, huge flames shot from its mouth and hit
John directly in the eyes. He snapped his lids shut, but their thin flesh was inadequate protection. His screaming never ceased, but only grew louder, his cries of terror becoming cries of pain. The fire ate away at his lids and corneas, melting them into a fleshy mass of goo and sealing his eyes shut forever.


The fire stopped. In two audible snaps, the creature clamped shut its jaws and retracted its head. John clapped his hands over his eyes, fell backward, and rolled in a ball about the bed, howling and writhing.


"Fool!” the voice cried. “Where was your God then?” When John
continued to squirm and cry, the voice went on, “If you want your life back, then go forth within the next three days and tell others what you have witnessed. Approach only a few people whom you are certain you can trust, people without flapping jaws and loose tongues. And remember, keep it within Grimshaw only. Form an alliance of people in my name. Together, you shall journey forth into the Grimshaw woods and seek an obscure place in which to convene in secret, out of range of prying eyes and ears. A place where even the bravest, savviest, most adventurous soul is unlikely to venture.”


With great pain, John whined, “Then what?”


“That is all for now. Soon, I will designate a man to show you the
way. He will lead you in my name. In the meantime, simply go about
your daily routines. Make sure you keep doing so even after your leader is revealed. The more ordinary and unchanged that things appear, the more inconspicuous your activities will be.”

Prologue continued in next post...
* * *

[Macey Wuesthoff]

Prologue Continued...

* * *

Monday morning found one of John’s buddies, Reggie Sayers, who
looked a lot like Goober from The Andy Griffith Show and was about as
stupid, too, sitting at the bar inside The Feed Trough, Grimshaw’s one
remaining café. John’s other three buddies, Doyle Fell, Tim Bowers,
and Sam Farmer, sat on each side of Reggie.


Between chews and spits of smokeless tobacco, Reggie concluded
the latest story he’d heard about John. “A freak accident Friday night, I
hear! Burnt John’s face real bad! Don’t know for sure what happened.
Don’t think nobody does. Hear it was a kitchen fire or something. Now
I’ll tell you what: John’s oldest baby Sarah’s gonna be livin’ with a rich
uncle to take a little pressure off of poor John because that accident just
plain left him with more than he can handle, what with five kids and
all, I hear.” Reggie paused to spit a stream of tobacco into a Dixie cup.


“John ain’t got no living brothers or sisters,” remarked Tim. “So
reckon that must be on Gay’s side.”


“No, that can’t be, either,” said Doyle. “When we were little, Gay’s
family and my family lived next door to each other, and Gay and I
played together every day. She was an only child.” He scoffed,
“Reggie, it sounds like you ‘hear’ wrong.”


“Nuh-uh!” insisted Reggie. “I’ll tell you what, I know it’s true
because I live next door to Beauford Hicks, and his baby Kathy Sue’s
best friends with Sarah. Sarah stayed the weekend with the Hicks
while John was getting all doctored up at Woodland County General,
and I heard John and Sarah both talking to Beauford about it when John
come to pick Sarah up Sunday. There they was, all standing around
Beauford’s old truck when I heard it.” Reggie smirked at Doyle.
“Shows what you know, Mr. Smart-Ass-I-Grad-je-ated-Val-a-victoria-
So-I’m-Better-Than-The-Rest-Of-Y’all-Dumb-Old-Rednecks.”


Sam put in, “Why’s Sarah got to go? Ain’t John going to get back
on his feet eventually?”


“Nope,” said Reggie. “He’s damaged for g-o-o-o-o-d. See, that fire
got his eyes. Now I hear he’s blind as a bat.”


The café door opened behind them. “You hear wrong.”

The four men turned and found John leaning on a walking stick in
the doorway. The skin immediately surrounding his eyes was red
and charred. His eyelids were a deeper red, having taken on an almost
brownish tint. They were closed and still, like they would be if he were
soundly sleeping, but were far too grotesque for him to actually appear
at peace. The bottoms of the shriveled lids had melted into the skin


beneath his eyes and sealed themselves shut. Everyone could tell that, even after the layers of dried blood, blackened scabs, and pieces of charred flesh healed, John would never be able to open his eyes again.


Yet as the rain at last began to pour around him, John insisted, “I
was blind, but now I see.”


* * *

Grimshaw, 1975

A group of people dressed in identical black hoods and cloaks
circled Ansel, who stood next to the campfire in the circle’s center, his
hands in the air. Four other cloaked figures surrounded him, each
pointing guns at his head.

Just hours ago, Ansel had been driving to the Sheriff’s Office to
deliver valuable evidence of the existence and criminal activity of this
bloodthirsty cult. His brakes had gone out, and he’d crashed his pickup
into a roadside tree. One of the men holding a gun on him, George, had
“happened along” and picked him up. Ansel had willingly gotten into
George’s truck, and during the ride, confided to George what he’d
learned about the cult. He had thought he could trust his best friend…

They took the 10” x 13” manila envelope that held Ansel’s evidence
and tossed it into the fire. Helplessly watching the flames devour the
envelope, Ansel silently thanked God it didn’t hold the only evidence
of what he knew. Although now he wasn’t so sure he’d live to tell
another soul where the rest of it was.

He knew his life was in the cult’s hands. Still, he could not hide his
disgust with them, especially George. “How can you be a part of this?
You who supposedly work by day to save animals, yet slaughter them
by night! And children! Let’s not forget you slaughter children, too!
You have a child of your own, for God’s sake! How would you feel if
he were used as a sacrifice?”

“Honored,” replied George.

Ansel spat in his face. “You sick bastard!”

George pulled out a handkerchief and calmly wiped his face. “Look
around, Ansel. You might be surprised how many people you know—
or thought you knew—who share the same sentiments.”

During the previous evenings when Ansel had witnessed the cult
performing gruesome rituals, distance and darkness had prevented him
from seeing the faces behind the hoods. While Ansel had suspected a few
Grimshaw citizens might be involved, he had presumed the cult was
made up mostly of strangers who convened in the Grimshaw woods
because of its seclusion. The idea of the participants actually being
people he’d known throughout his entire twenty-five years of life…that
had seemed too horrifying to be possible. Nonetheless, when one after
the other dropped their hoods, Ansel learned that George was right; all
of them were from Grimshaw.

The cult members included his mailman, local farmers, teachers,
morticians, doctors, and even clergymen and officers of Grimshaw’s
county, Woodland! No wonder the Woodland County cops hadn’t
wanted to talk to him about what he knew! With each hood that
dropped, Ansel’s jaw also dropped, farther and farther.

George remarked, “Consider the recent achievements of all of the
people you see here, Ansel.”

Indeed, Ansel realized these people had experienced a variety of
unexpected successes in the last two years, just after the recession and
drought had ended. For several of them, the gains had been economic;
their incomes had surged, mostly via their supplemental farming.
Others, such as the county officers, had been hired or promoted into
positions of prestige, authority—power. And a few of them, who
previously had not fit in well anywhere because they were different
from “normal” society, had recently found social acceptance among all
of Grimshaw’s community groups. Even George had received a
promotion at work, and his farm was flourishing more than ever.

George went on, “We are all reaping the everlasting rewards that
allegiance to Satan brings. Wouldn’t you like to reap those rewards,
Ansel? Don’t you find yourself wanting something more out of life,
financially, vocationally, physically, socially?”

“No,” Ansel replied with firm sincerity. “Even in hard times like the
ones two years ago, a body can do well enough on his own, or with
God’s help as opposed to Satan’s.” When George snickered, Ansel
retorted, “I’m living proof! I survived all right, and I’m not greedy for
anything else. I have everything I want now.”

“You are the typical blind Christian fool,” George said. “You think
you are blessed with everything, when really you have nothing.”

George nodded at the cult members still wearing hoods. Again the
hoods began to drop, one by one. Each face was hauntingly more
familiar to Ansel than the last.

After the final hood fell, Ansel shook his head and said softly, “My
God, how could you?” Then he looked at them and yelled, “Any of
you?”

From deeper within the wooded shadows, another cloaked figure,
this one gigantic, stepped forward, carrying a machete. Everyone
turned expectantly toward the figure. George and the other men inside
the circle kept their guns pointed at Ansel, but the rest of the cult
members fell to their knees, as if some sort of god had entered their
presence. Their leader.

“You have only two choices, Ansel,” George said. “You can either
choose the oh-so-noble and self-righteous road less-traveled and die at
our hands with nothing, as a few men and women before you already
have. Or you can choose the golden, traveled road of alliance with
Satan, a path to a better life.”

Ansel looked at the townspeople, George, and the approaching
leader. Mostly he looked at the newest face that had been revealed to
him. A silent tear ran out of his eye. “Oh God, no,” he said in a whisper
of fading faith.

The leader closed in. His fiery breath burned down upon Ansel’s
upturned face. For the first time, Ansel could see the shadowed
countenance beneath the hood but did not recognize the man. Yet his
face was so sinister, so frightening and evil, Ansel could have sworn he
wasn’t a man at all, but the Devil himself.

And Ansel did swear that this wasn’t a man when the being’s pupils
narrowed into tiny slits, and his eyes began to glow red.

“Join us,” the leader ordered. He raised the machete. “Or even God
can’t save you now!”

End of Prologue
Next Post: Chapter 1