The Witches Of Denmark
The Witches of Denmark
by
Aiden James
Acclaim for Aiden James:
“Aiden James has written a deeply psychological, gripping tale that keeps the readers hooked from page one.” Bookfinds review for “The Forgotten Eden”
“A variety of twists, surprises, and subplots keep the story moving forward at a good pace. My interest was piqued almost immediately and my attention never wavered as I forced my eyes to stay open well into the night. (Sleep is overrated.) Aiden James is a Master Storyteller, whose career is on the rise! Out-freaking-standing-excellent!” Detra Fitch of Huntress Reviews, for “Immortal Plague”
“Aiden James’ writing style flows very easily and I found that Cades Cove snowballed into a very gripping tale. Clearly the strengths in the piece were as the spirit's interaction became prevalent with the family…. The Indian lore and ceremonies and the flashbacks to Allie Mae's (earthly) demise were very powerful. I think those aspects separated the work from what we've seen before in horror and ghost tales.” Evelyn Klebert, Author of “A Ghost of a Chance”, “Dragonflies”, and “An Uneasy Traveler” for “Cades Cove”
“The intense writing style of Aiden James kept my eyes glued to the story and the pages seemed to fly by at warp speed…. Twists, turns, and surprises pop up at random times to keep the reader off balance. It all blends together to create one of the best stories I have read all year.” Detra Fitch, Huntress Reviews, for “The Devil’s Paradise”
“Aiden James is insanely talented! We are watching a master at work….Ghost stories don’t get any better than this.” J.R. Rain, Author of “Moon Dance’ and “Vampire Moon” for “The Raven Mocker”
BOOKS BY AIDEN JAMES
CADES COVE SERIES
Cades Cove
The Raven Mocker
THE TALISMAN CHRONICLES
The Forgotten Eden
The Devil’s Paradise
Hurakan’s Chalice (with Mike Robinson)
THE DYING OF THE DARK SERIES
With Patrick Burdine
The Vampires’ Last Lover
The Vampires’ Birthright
(Coming 2015)
Blood Princesses of the Vampires
(Coming 2016)
Scarlet Legacy of the Vampires
(Coming in 2017)
THE JUDAS CHRONICLES
Immortal Plague
Immortal Reign
Immortal Destiny
Immortal Dragon
Immortal Tyranny
Immortal Pyramid
Immortal Victory
NICK CAINE ADVENTURES
With J.R. Rain
Temple of the Jaguar
Treasure of the Deep
Pyramid of the Gods
Aiden James only
Curse of the Druids
Secret of the Loch
River of the Damned
WITCHES OF DENMARK
The Witches of Denmark
Witch out of Water
(Coming 2015)
WITH MICHELLE WRIGHT
The Judas Reflections
Murder in Whitechapel
Curse of Stigmata
Maid of Heaven
(Coming 2015)
WITH LISA COLLICUTT
The Serendipitous Curse
Reborn
Reviled
Redeemed
WITH JAMES WYMORE
The Actuator: Fractured Earth
The Actuator 2: Return of the Saboteur
(Coming in 2015)
Published by Aiden James
Manor House Books
Copyright © 2014 by Aiden James
Cover concept and artwork: Michelle Johnson
All rights reserved.
Ebook Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to your favorite ebook store and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
***The town of Denmark and its characters in this story are completely fictional. Any similarity to any actual town or people, living or dead, or in the process of dying, is strictly coincidental***
Table of Contents:
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
The Witches Of Denmark
Chapter One
The day we left Chicago was the day I became homeless.
Might as well have been sentenced as a vagabond.
Chicago had been my home during my entire life up until this past spring. But, as the school year ended, my family decided it was time to move on. So, we left our home in Wheaton, a quiet suburb of Chicago, to find someplace new. Someplace even less exciting than Wheaton, believe it or not. Someplace… down south?
Are you frigging kidding me?!
Maybe if it had been Nashville or Atlanta, or even Louisville, I could’ve coped with the move in terms of some comparability to what I’d lost. But Dad and Mom insisted on moving to some place far off the beaten path. Deep in the sticks. A place where they could chill out, lay low, and where my sister and I could experience a “different pace of life.”
Seriously, they said that.
Such a load of crap would be more apropos for my grandparents, who would soon join us in this insane venture below the Mason-Dixon line….
It was a move founded in desperation. To get away from the past. Our unfortunate, and deeply regrettable, past.
But you know what they say about trying to run away from one’s problems, right?
Yeah, well, there will be more about that in the coming pages of whatever this thing should be called. A diary or a journal? A book, perhaps? I like the sound of ‘journal’ best, since I can write as much or as little as I please, and be as detailed as I want or don’t want to be…. So, that’s what I’ll call it. My journal about the good, the bad, and the absolutely absurd shit that has visited me and my family in a place called Denmark, Tennessee. You should picture the twang to go with that, Chicago deep-dish style.
My name is Sebastian. Sebastian Radu, and my family and close friends call me ‘Bas’. I come from a proud Romanian family that has resided in the United States since 1801. We were New Yorkers in those days, or immigrants who pretended to be New Yorkers, doing their best to fit in with every other European embracing what was, at that time, a land of incredible opportunity. Maybe it’s a little corny. It certainly was easier to make a life and name for oneself back then.
But if you want a history lesson, my parents and grandparents are the ones to ask about that. As for Alisia, my younger sister, and me, we’ve always preferred to focus more on the present. We have our reasons, as you will soon learn.
We left the day after my graduation. May 22nd. My parents wanted to make this sort of a farewell/family vacation/graduation road trip. But all I wanted to do was get to wherever we were going, so I could begin my
internment without the fanfare.
“Hey, at least you don’t have to go to school anymore,” Alisia told me, as we finished loading up the Escalade with the last of our stuff deemed too sacred to transport in the moving van that had already departed for Tennessee. “I’ve still got, like, forever before I graduate.”
I almost felt sorry for her. But schooling for a Radu had never been an easy, or traditional, thing.
“Let’s go kids!”
Dad and Mom stood by the SUV. They gazed at our old cape cod longingly, maybe enduring a moment of nostalgia while looking back on the deserted house. Our home, now abandoned and left to die. But despite my sister and I remaining glum after piling into the back seat, once we merged onto Highway 41 and headed south to Dixie, our parents seemed relieved. Running from a death threat can even bring a level of euphoria, I’m told. But we had never run from our troubles before.
In the meantime, while they seemed to exhale all their fears and worries from decades of uncertainty, I felt like heavy iron bonds and chains had been applied to my wrists and ankles. Even around my neck. Like a free man returned to the old south as a fugitive runaway. It didn’t seem to be as bad for Alisia, though she was far from experiencing the falling confetti and balloons going on in the front seat.
Dad said the trip would take less than nine hours to reach our destination—and less than eight if we drove straight through without stopping for lunch and/or dinner. But the drive seemed longer. Much longer. I ignored most of the scenery my mother pointed out, which honestly didn’t get interesting until we neared the Kentucky border. The hills got bigger and were covered with trees for miles on end. It inspired a nasal rendition of “Dueling Banjos” from the movie Deliverance, bringing an abrupt end to Mom’s efforts as our tour guide. But, hell, at least I got a giggle from my sis.
“Quit acting like an insolent ass.” My father pulled me aside, after we stopped for a bite in Murray, Kentucky. “You’re making this much harder than it needs to be, son.”
He regarded me wearily, and annoyance fueled his hazel irises to a brighter shade. Maybe the exodus south wasn’t easy on him either. Maybe he saw a younger version of himself, when he and Mom were forced to leave New York with my grandparents long ago. His face was the same one passed down for generations, or so I’ve been told, with only slight alterations. Nearly all of the Radu males in our clan have sleek pilgrim noses, thick dark hair, and some variation of green eyes—hazel or emerald.
My mother’s blue eyes and blonde hair have tainted that pattern slightly; giving Alisia blonde hair and both of us blue eyes. My sister’s features are softer than what Mom calls the ‘rugged Romanian comeliness of the Radu’. But everyone else, aside from Mom and Grandma, carries our traditional family traits.
I see myself as sort of a Kerouac beatnik figure, taller than most of my clan at six-foot four with a lanky build, shoulder length hair and often hiding my eyes behind a pair of dark Ray-Bans. Since my father sees it as supremely disrespectful to wear sunglasses when being chastised by him, I pulled them down until he finished.
“I’m not happy about the move, Dad,” I said. “Not at all.”
He regarded me a moment longer and sighed.
“If not for me, can you tone it down for your mother?” He grasped my shoulder, and though it was done affectionately, the strength of his grip prevailed most. An effort to coerce a truce? “It will make the transition easier.”
“I’ll try.”
“See that you do.”
So I tried. It was easy enough during dinner, since my raging hunger being satisfied brought a moment of contentment. I fought to hold on to that feeling as we resumed our trip south. After Murray, we soon reached a very small town called Hazel, Kentucky, where my mother and sister remarked favorably about the prospects of antiquing. Both sides of the road were lined with stores specializing in the merchandise of yesteryear. In fact, the stores seemed to be all that existed of Hazel, other than a restaurant or two, and a filling station.
Dad seemed pretty intrigued about returning to the little antique-hoarding town, too. As for me, I had never cared much for trinkets from bygone eras. Only the bigger items, like the stately and ostentatious furniture of the Victorian age. Something I grew up with.
“Can we come here again, like, maybe tomorrow?” Alisia asked, causing me to whip my head in her direction. She whispered, “Sorry!” when I eyed her accusingly. This wasn’t the agreed upon plan between us, and she was making things too easy on our parents.
“Sure, sweetie,” said Mom, sounding quite pleased to have one kid wavering toward the dark side. “I’d love that.”
I had officially been betrayed. This royally sucks!
Left to continue my protest alone, I scarcely noticed we had crossed the Tennessee border, less than a minute beyond Hazel. After moving through another small town on the Tennessee side, we reached the outskirts of Denmark.
“I know how you both detest long road trips,” Dad said. “But, at least you got to see the same scenery your mom and I enjoyed when we came down here to close on the house last week. Southern Kentucky and Tennessee are certainly as beautiful as advertised.”
“We didn’t get to see Kentucky Lake, despite your promise, Dad,” I said, determined to keep the conversation objective. “An aerial view would’ve been better for that. Much better, in fact.”
Another glint of annoyance flashed in his eyes as he regarded me through the rearview mirror. Surely he knew what I was getting at. He looked away to view the road ahead and to exchange a loving glance with Mom, whose irritation I could almost feel the warmth from, radiating toward me through the back of her seat. Though I couldn’t see her expression, I could clearly picture it. The fire in Dad’s eyes was usually nothing compared to her sapphire flames, whenever she’s had enough of either Alisia’s or my sassiness.
Alisia grinned at me, mouthing “Way to go!”
“It’s located to the east of us, son,” Mom advised, releasing a low sigh that extinguished much of her ire. “But what you’re getting at, we discussed thoroughly last night. Remember? We can no longer afford to be frequent flyers. It’s important to fit in with the people of Denmark as much as possible. And, once we get settled, your father and I have discussed purchasing a nice boat for the lake. There is much to do there in the way of fun, from what our real estate agent told us. The lake is enormous.”
“The largest manmade lake in North America and the second largest in the world.” Dad sounded impressed. “The fishing is supposed to be comparable, if not better, than Lake Michigan.”
“Oh, really?”
Not that I expected him to expound further, since we had reached Denmark’s city limits. At least I assumed so, judging from the huge frog smiling at us from the side of the road. A frog wearing a cowboy hat, no less. That, and a big neon “Welcome to Denmark” above the frog sign.
“Yes, it’s true, Bas,” said Dad, resuming our conversation. “As you can see, we’re here.”
At first, ‘here’ looked like any other small town we had seen since reaching southern Illinois. A few salvage yards and building supply companies, an auto repair shop, and a drive thru ATM for the First Bank of Denmark. Next came a bar-b-que pit, a run down Mexican restaurant, and at least five beauty shops lining both sides of the road—three of them situated between a Farm Bureau insurance agent, Edward Jones Investments, and the offices of the local Denmark Gazette.
“Well, at least the square looks pretty cool,” said Alisia, drifting further from our alliance as we came upon Denmark’s version of downtown. The place that Dad claimed they held the ‘World’s Biggest Frog Leg Fry’ every spring. Thank God April’s already behind us! “Hey, Mom, look—there’s a fashion boutique!”
She pointed to a quaint shop sitting next to what I assumed was the town’s lone Chinese restaurant, “The Sanchuan Dragon”. The restaurant was framed in red lattice with a gold-leafed dragon straight out of San Fran’s China Town.
“Much of the arc
hitecture has been restored to what the square looked like shortly after the Civil War ended,” Dad told me, when Mom joined Alisia’s fixation with the discovery of new places to explore and shop. “The courthouse sitting in the middle is the oldest building to survive a pre-Civil War fire, and was expanded to its current size during the last railroad boom around 1890….”
Admittedly, he lost me after that. My attention, and soon my sister’s, was drawn to an old white guy making a political statement along the walkway in front of the courthouse.
“This place is loaded with history… interesting history at that,” said Dad. It appeared he noticed my fixation with the old man parading back and forth like a proud peacock.
“We had plenty of interesting history back home,” I told him, glumly.
“This might be home for awhile, son,” he advised, this time not bothering to look at me in the rearview mirror. Instead, he appeared anxious for the light to change and for the slowpoke in front of us to get out of the way, so my father could turn right onto a narrow two lane street taking us away from the blip of downtown. “You should try to make the best of it.”
He’s really in a hurry to get someplace…. The new house?
“Yeah, well we’ll have to see about that,” I said, pleased when my comment drew a glance from him.
“Give it time…. Who knows? You might like it here,” said Mom, craning her neck toward me. “And, if you don’t, well, you might get your wish for us to try something else out west. Just depends.”
“On what?” Alisia stifled a laugh. “On the guy over there wearing the sandwich board that says ‘White Rights’?”
She pointed to the old white guy who had stopped to shout at passing motorists, more like an angry rooster now. It seemed that everyone within striking distance either ignored him or got out of his way. Even the blacks ignored him, as if they had seen his tired routine for so long his racial hatred had become invisible.