With only ten days till Halloween, our Horror Anthology DARK VISIONS made number one on Amazon’s New Releases!
Thirty four twisted tales by twenty seven authors, three by me 🙂
Only 99 cents for Kindle download. CLICK HERE to get your copy today!
With only ten days till Halloween, our Horror Anthology DARK VISIONS made number one on Amazon’s New Releases!
Thirty four twisted tales by twenty seven authors, three by me 🙂
Only 99 cents for Kindle download. CLICK HERE to get your copy today!
With just twenty-five days to go before Halloween, I am pleased to announce the release of our second annual Horror Anthology, Dark Visions!
It will be available on Amazon on October 15. And I have a proposition for you.
We are looking for ARC’s (advanced-copy-readers) who would be willing to read a free download of the book and post an honest review on Amazon for the release date.
Such a deal! You’d be crazy to refuse.
I mean, like, really crazy.
As you may recall, last year I teamed up with author/editor Dam Alatorre and a group of very talented writers to bring you The Box Under The Bed.
This year, we have an even bigger and better anthology, full of spine tingling tales to haunt your dreams and nightmares.
If you are a horror loving loving lunatic like me, and would like to read this, please CONTACT ME through this blog.
I will need your email, but don’t worry, no one will see it except me. And I am sworn to secrecy. By Vito.
I will then send you a link for your FREE download.
Are you up for the challenge?
In case you’re wondering what you’ll get — here is a list of our stories. (Yes, three by me. Not one, three.)
Prologue: Now Comes Death, part one
Epilogue: Now Comes Death, part two
After you are finished reading, we ask that you post an honest review on Amazon on October 15. That’s it! Simple 🙂
But hurry! This promo is available for a limited time only!
Let me hear from you before the door of opportunity permanently closes…
He came to me as an infant. Washed like driftwood in the sea’s tide, from which his own grandfather, King Balor, had thrown him. O, it was a vile act! An attempt to drown the poor boy! The old king had his reasons. Years before, a Druid had prophesied: “Any grandson of Balor will cause the death of him.”
Such a warning was not to be taken lightly. Druids were the seers, the soothsayers of all things known and unknown. Yet Balor’s solution was foolish! The most foolish thing I had ever heard in my life. Imagine preventing a pregnancy by holding your daughter hostage in a tower, thus keeping her from all male contact. Even one with the brains of a sheep should know such a plan would never work!
But I get ahead of myself.
My name is Tailtiu. I served the land, the grain and the harvest. It was I who made all of Erin’s Isle green, bringing rain and wind, making the fields fertile.
It was I who ripened the wheat, sprouted the potatoes, made the apples fall and the berries go plump. I had ample work — enough tasks of my own, just to keep the land in good order so people would not starve. The last thing I needed was a baby at my breast to complicate my life.
And yet it was.
King Balor was a giant, a mighty sorcerer who was able to cast many spells and kill with his evil third eye.
Few things frightened him, but when he heard the Druid’s prophecy he was taken aback. The Druids were never wrong. And for this reason, Balor decided; it must be arranged that his grandson would simply never be born.
Balor had but one daughter, a beautiful lass by the name of Ethlin. So lovely was she that every lad for miles around offered his fortune for her hand in marriage. Yet Balor refused them all.
“Given the slightest opportunity, that girl shall get herself with child and birth an evil whelp,” he said. “One that would as soon take a dagger to me as blink an eye. O no! I shall prevent it at all costs! The fair Ethlin will be locked in a tower, where no male will ever get to her. There she shall live, forever barren. In doing this, I shall retain my own power and wealth.”
And so it was.
The girl Ethlin was locked in the Mor Tor, a crystal structure that one could neither climb nor descend into. Its walls were thick as a citadel, made of pure diamond, the hardest glass, which could not be broken with pick nor hammer. It had but one key for entrance which Balor kept only to himself, hidden in the darkest depths of his castle dungeon, its location known to him alone.
There, in the tower, Ethlin lived out her days in solitude, attended only by the twelve midwives who served her. Balor had commanded that there be no talk of men, and his daughter should forget they ever existed.
She had no sunlight, no fresh air, no diversions, no pleasure. Only the steady work of needlepoint, such to make her eyes bleary and her fingers numb. ‘Tis a wonder the lass did not go mad with boredom! A life such as that was no life at all.
“When am I to be free?” she would ask, to which her midwives would be silent, for they feared the wrath of Balor.
Far out in the glen, in the land of dusk and faerie, where time and space cross and all things are possible, there is an Otherworld. In that Otherworld dwell the The Tuatha Dé Danann – the Tribe of the goddess Danu. And in that tribe there was a lad. Brave and handsome he was, and young and strong, with a will of his own and much admiring of Ethlin. His name was Cian.
“How difficult could it be,” Cian asked me, “to climb that tower, to enter into it, to rescue the lass from her condemnation?”
“Not difficult at all,” I answered.
It was a mere sleight of the body. Balor, in his anger and scheming, had deeply underestimated the likes of me, the likes of Cian, the likes of the entire Tuatha Dé Danann. We are, you see, present in one place, and then we simply are not. This is the nature of our Otherworld. I gave Cian a potion of magic herbs with a drop of dragon’s tears; as he drank it I uttered these words:
“Eye of thistle, heart of drake
Through this charm a lover make
A path to his desired space
Full of lust and full of grace
With this potion may you prove
Dedication and true love!”
In an instant Cian had taken to the sky; in another instant he had entered through the walls of the crystal tower.
The very sight of him set Ethlin’s heart a-flutter, for the girl was young and ripe. She had never known the touch of a man. And such a man Cian was! Strapping and stunning, with chiseled cheekbones, dazzling eyes and locks of hair that put Samson to shame. His manners were impeccable, and chivalry graced every bone in his body. The Mor Tor quickly became their love nest. Within weeks Ethlin was with child.
Balor, for his part, had no concern for his daughter. Foolish man! He never visited, left all dealings to her midwives. But now! The surprise that awaited him would be one most displeasing.
Nine months later the child was born. We named him ‘Lugh’ for Light. No other name could suit such a child, for he was radiant as the sun itself. As the offspring of the two most gorgeous beings in Eire, he was bound to be beautiful – but the baby Lugh far exceeded mere beauty.
When Balor got word of the birth he was furious.
In the dead of night, Balor slunk into the tower, whittling his dull key to the door and ascending the crystal staircase. He kidnapped the baby and whisked him away to the edge of the sea.
Balor stood on a monstrous cliff, overlooking the waves that crashed below like a liquid glacier. Without so much as a thought, he tossed the child in, hoping the ocean would crush him to a watery grave.
It was Manannan mac Lir, the god of the sea, who found the baby. The infant was near death, bobbing and thrashing in the cresting waves, his lungs waterlogged and breath scarce. Manannan mac Lir knew immediately this was a very special child. He cradled the baby in his sturdy sea arms, wrapped him in a cloth of clean cambric, then brought him to me.
“You, Tailtiu, are a goddess of the earth. If anyone can suckle this child and give him renewed life, it shall be you.”
He was right of course. And even though Ethlin was his natural mother, it was not safe that she keep him, for Balor would surely track her down and attempt to kill the child again. I bid Ethlin and Cian flee the isle. They were young and could produce many more for their family. Lugh would be mine.
And so I raised him. He became my foster son, the Celtic god of the Sun, a radiant and celestial being. Prince Lugh was much loved and much revered, known for his kindness and benevolence.
He was, in fact, so loved that the Tuatha Dé Danann eventually chose him as their king. As such he was obliged to fight great battles. It was in the Battle of Mag Tuired that the Druid’s prophecy once again came into question.
Lugh was required to fight Balor.
The two met on a battlefield of mud and weaponry, a wasteland of gouged bodies, severed limbs and rotting blood. Balor had managed to kill many a soldier with his tricks and spells and evil eye, but now his grandson confronted him.
Lugh hurled a great spear, all the while shouting, “Forgive me, Grandfather, for what must be done!”
The spear then hit Balor, smack in his third eye. Balor fell to the ground, flailing like a fish on a hook. Yet the spells of Balor were still viable, and he managed to kill more of the Tuatha Dé Danann with his magic.
Having no choice, Lugh then pulled his sword and in one swift stroke, beheaded his own grandfather. The Druid’s prophecy was complete.
It was victory for the Tuatha Dé Danann. Through this, Lugh was given sacred powers. He become the god of skill and craft, of honor, truth and law. He was granted eternal radiance and eternal youth.
As for myself, by this time I was growing old, my twilight years upon me. My endless duties had left me strained. I had cared for the boy. I had cared for the earth. As the years passed, the land became wild and ornery. Sometimes it would not even produce a potato for me, thus leaving the people in famine. Yet I did my best. Finally, in my feebleness, I could no longer serve the greenery, the plants and grain I loved so well.
My health fell ill and I began to wither back into the land from which all living things come. I, like a crone of autumn, faded into that golden haze that marks the end of the long summer. Upon the first day of August I breathed my last.
To mark my death, my foster son called for a great celebration. He saw this fitting, as he wanted to pay homage to me and all I had meant to him. There would be no funeral dirges, no veils of mourning, no maudlin processions. Instead, there was sumptuous feasting, a bounty from the harvest, dancing and song, all forms of revelry and games.
From far away in the spirit world I watched. And I was most pleased. So pleased, in fact, that I wished this feasting and revelry could occur every year, on the first day of August, as a holy day, not only for myself but for the land, the harvest, and the people.
My wish was granted.
Because the festivities had been orchestrated by Lugh, it was only proper that this holy day ever after be called “Lughnasadh.”
I boarded the ship at Southampton, on England’s southern coast, a city they called Gateway to the World. It was appropriately named. New worlds would indeed open to those that dared sail on the Titanic’s maiden voyage.
Southampton was seafaring town of busy docks, commerce and fishermen who, given half the chance may have recognized me for what I was. Yet I went ably and quietly about my business, our custom being to operate in stealth. My disguise was well put together, a simple blue dress, lace up boots and one bag of luggage that contained only my combs, mirrors, candles and an ancient grimoire. For all the crew and passengers knew, I could have been any normal woman, a widow perhaps, traveling alone with a full purse and a certain destination.
My nature necessitated a room in first class, where I could have daily baths in the salt water swimming pool. The engineers had designed it to provide diversion for wealthy passengers with plenty of leisure time. Little did they know it was my mainstay of survival. Without it I could never have attempted my feat.
I socialized moderately, took dinner with new acquaintances, but left my comments to such mundane topics as the weather and other non-committal matters. This was my strategy, to avoid drawing attention to myself. Until of course, the very last.
The captain, one Edward John Smith of the Royal Naval Reserve, was a stately man, well-seasoned and of good capabilities.
When I inquired of the ship’s dimensions, her tonnage and resistance, Captain Smith looked at me funny. He must have thought it strange, a woman interested in such things. Still it was important I establish this knowledge. Else all my plans could go afoul.
We traveled for four days, stopping at Cherbourg Harbor in France and Queenstown in Ireland where more passengers boarded. They were a grand sight; well-heeled women in dresses of silk and gabardine, with enormous steamer trunks that held entire wardrobes. Scruffy emigrants in fisher caps and babuskas, with only hobo sacks of clothes. Excitedly they took their bunks in steerage. No matter that the class was third, for this was an ocean voyage. Poor innocents, all of them! They had no idea of their fate. Yet they sought new lands and opportunity. Those were things I could well provide.
On the night it happened the ship rounded the Grand Banks of Newfoundland. The moon was new, providing no extra light to the blackened sky. I had planned it as such, the first new moon after the spring equinox, when my powers of sorcery were at their ripest.
Just before midnight I slid from my bed. I combed my hair carefully, leaving it loose over my shoulders, but untangled. I took one large hand-held mirror with trimmed decorations of pearl and abalone. I also took three candles and my book of spells. Naked and in bare feet I tiptoed across the deserted deck. Facing starboard, I lit the candles, then dangled my mirror toward the rushing ocean below me. I recited these words:
“Raise me an iceberg, unbreakable and dense,
Black as this night, an invisible fence!
Raise me an iceberg, impenetrable and true
Black as this night, unseen by the crew.
Raise me an iceberg, grown from the sea
Black as this night, to set them all free!”
I then shattered the mirror and flung it overboard, crystalline shards drifting in the wind and falling like glittering stars to the churning water.
It was done.
Black icebergs are a rare phenomenon that neither the captain nor crew were familiar with. When my mountain arose from the water none could see it at first.
By the time the watchful lookout man spotted the iceberg, it was too late. The great Titanic hit the dense rock, damaging her hull. The sea began to seep in. Soon all five of the ship’s watertight compartments were flooded. This meant certain disaster.
Or did it?
I was elated. As the water rose I could contain myself no longer. Rushing below deck, I shifted to my mermaid’s body. I swam through the hallways, through the ever-rising tide of the elegant and soon to be flooded rooms.
The passengers, already in a state of shock, saw me and turned a whiter shade of pale. They were helpless. I tried to talk to them, to reassure them that all would be well. But they were so frenzied, in such throes of panic, they could not hear my words. One shipmate grabbed a pistol and attempted to shoot me, bludgeoning a bloody hole through my tail. However, the sea’s salt water, now slowly immersing every floor, quickly healed me. As a Rusalka, I was immortal.
I finally perched myself upon the rail of the deck, curling my tail beneath me. In amusement I watched. Crew and passengers scurried about, securing lifeboats. There would never be enough. The captain, in his foolishness of believing the Titanic was unsinkable, had only equipped her with half of what was necessary. This was all the better!
“Women and children first,” called the first mate. I smiled. Yes, they would save the women and children first, as was human protocol.
From flooding corridors and slippery decks the men ran. Handsome, swarthy sailors, savvy men of business, emigrants in rags. All unsuspecting. All clueless.
Finally the ship cracked in two, her bow submerged, her back end rising upright like a serpent in the water. The remaining passengers slid to their death.
I balanced on my tail, stretched my arms before me and called out in my voice, loud as any canon: “Undines! Rusalki! Sirenas! Come forth!” I then dove off the rails.
Down, down I plunged into the ocean’s depths. There, rising on the crests of waves, my Mer-sisters emerged.
“Make your choices ladies,” I shouted. “This cargo is ripe for the picking!” It was a welcome gift. We had heretofore been sadly lacking in male companionship.
I grabbed a young sailor, his skin gone translucent blue, his eyes open in the cold stare of the dead. I pulled him to my breast, kissed him boldly on the mouth. His eyes then flickered in a strange and frightened recognition. He was the one who had attempted to shoot me with a pistol. Blood rushed to his cheeks.
“I should not forgive you,” I chided. Yet he was handsome and able, and in that instant I determined to make him mine.
My Mer-sisters followed suit, awakening the sea’s dead with kisses of life. One by one, the drowned became conscious, still in shock, but alive.
“Take heart, gentleman,” I said. “Although you will never return to your earthly homes, you will now have refuge in our sea, in the abode of the Rusalki. As time passes you will come to love us and the ocean shall provide you with grand adventure.”
The men were new in their surroundings, but, being sailors, most had immense love of the water. At the very least they were grateful for their renewed life. I was confident they would be happy. And if not? Well — I had more mirrors and candles and more spells to cast, didn’t I? Not the least of which might bring love.
My mission was complete.
** HISTORICAL NOTE: On this day, April 15, 1912, the real RMS Titanic, headed on her maiden voyage to New York City, sank off the coast of Newfoundland. She had hit a “black” iceberg which caused irreparable damage to her hull.
The massive ship was 882 feet long with a breadth of 92 feet. Her total height, measured from keel to bridge, was 104 feet. She weighed 46,328 tons. Among her more novel features, available only to first-class passengers, was a 7 ft. deep saltwater swimming pool, a gymnasium, a squash court, and a Turkish bath.
Because of her gargantuan size, the Titanic was considered virtually unsinkable.
Whether out of carelessness or limited storage capacity, the ship only held enough lifeboats to carry about half the passengers. These were quickly depleted.
On the night the Titanic sank, conditions were calm, clear, dark and cold. The black sky held a new moon, the ocean lit only by the stars. The “invisible” iceberg, a rare phenomenon, seemed to appear out of nowhere.
Approximately 1500 passengers lost their lives. Due to the “women and children first” rule, most of the deceased were men.
His birth came about by trickery and subterfuge, although the boy knew it not.
A birth by accident, a birth of inconsequence. Or so all the world would think. It was an arrangement of my Uncle Merlin and the plan was thus: That I, the Duchess Igraine of Tintagel should lie in the adulterous bed of King Uther Pendragon, so that I be the vessel to bear a son. His name would be Arthur.
O now, you must understand. The part about adultery scarcely vexed me; my marriage to the Duke of Tintagel was an arranged and loveless one. The bed of Uther Pendragon was not my first straying and would not be my last. I was fully compliant in my dalliance. Yet for the sake of my honor, Merlin thought it best that the bards which would tell this story say I had been bewitched. The official version? Uther Pendragon appeared to me in the form of my husband the Duke. Therefore when I laid with him I was judged innocent in all wrongdoing.
O that was rich! One cannot bewitch a witch! My Uncle Merlin knew this better than anyone.
Heretofore my husband, the Duke of Tintagel had been of stout health. Now suddenly he took ill and died promptly. As a widow with child I had no choice but to wed Uther Pedragon. I then became Queen Igraine of castle Camelot.
The birth was easy. But what I could not abide, what I could not forgive, was that the baby was wrenched from my arms the very moment he uttered breath! I barely had the chance to hold him before Merlin spirited him away, insisting I was not fit to raise him, and that his future tasks were not to be influenced by the likes of me.
Without conversation nor consultation, it was decided Arthur be raised by a local lord, one Sir Ector.
“Now Igraine,” Merlin bid me, once the deed was done. “You need not worry for your son. His every want shall be provided for, as my Lord Ector leads a life of prosperity and gain. Arthur shall have an older brother named Kai and a mother of great gentleness, the Lady Ector. He shall be fed, clothed and schooled properly. It is essential he live among common men.”
Foolish wizard! Could Merlin not see that a woman’s greatest loss was that of her own child? His was a silly scheme, for I knew my son Arthur was like no other boy! He needed no guidance from the common man, for his true nature would allow him to encompass all. His bloodline was mine; that of Avalon. His schooling should thus involve the magick of Avalon.
I vowed revenge upon my Uncle Merlin. He’d pay for his injustice! My visits to Avalon would ensure this. I studied under tutelage of the Lady of the Lake, imploring the water and rocks to bring me power.
Fourteen years passed, and they were fourteen years of war and devastation. The Saxon armies invaded our territory time and time again. My husband Uther, weary of the constant battle, finally took ill and passed away, leaving his kingdom up for grabs among rogue warlords and enemies.
As king’s consort I managed best as I could. The men bickered among themselves, calling privy council after privy council to determine who should be the next king. Arthur should have been immediately declared so. But because of Merlin’s harebrained scheme, he had been raised as a ward, away from his true home. If he were to return to Camelot now and claim the throne, none would believe him.
The people of Britain were a superstitious lot. They believed in marvels and miracles, great quests of honor and the divine right of princes. It was for this reason that I devised a scheme which would place my son upon the throne without doubt or question.
The Bishop of Canterbury, influenced by my Uncle Merlin, deemed a joust should be held to determine the new king. It would take place on New Year’s Day, 443, the year of Our Lord.
This, of course, was a most outrageous and foolish notion! Jousting was a putrid and violent sport; it brought no good to anyone. Within it, healthy men were maimed and wounded, leaving them disabled and unfit for battles against our true enemies! Jousts were held so that jeering and bloodthirsty crowds could name what they thought ‘a hero’. He that could withstand a horse’s back and the jab of a lance.
“But Arthur will surely win the joust,” Merlin insisted. “It is a most excellent plan!”
“Arthur is a boy of fifteen!” I spat. “I’ll not see him crippled in a joust. It is a most preposterous plan!”
I objected vehemently. Yet as a woman, my word held no weight. Instead I used my own sorcery to produce a most ingenious scheme, one that no one would question.
The people of Camelot were obsessed with weaponry and feats of strength. I reasoned that there must be some deed which could measure one’s power, yet bear no damage to another. A deed which would test a man’s ability over nature, over fear, over all elements. A test which would show, beyond any doubt, that the man able to perform it would indeed be the new king.
I retreated to my crystal cave for a period of deep meditation.
There, among the rocks and water, I called upon my ancestors to guide me. I consulted the goddess Cerridwen, the Morrigan, Viviane and the tribe of eternal Wise Women. Finally, the idea came to me. I told no one of my plan.
Outside the field where the great joust was to be held, I created a boulder. Upon that boulder I placed an anvil of pure iron. (All this time I relied upon my own witchery, for no mortal woman could have lifted such a boulder, nor the anvil.) I then fashioned a great silver sword, its blade sharp enough to slice the head of a boar, its handle heavy as the anvil itself. Within the anvil I inscribed the following directions:
“Whosoever can pull this sword from its stone shall be the undoubted, indisputable, indubitable King of Britain, deemed to rule for his lifetime and never questioned of his authority.”
New Years Day dawned, the morning of the joust. Spectators gathered. They stared with gaping mouths at the sword in the stone.
“Can it be?” they muttered among themselves. “The new king will be decided by pulling a sword from a stone? Such a simple task?”
“Simple task indeed!” I retorted hotly. “Go on then! Try your hand at it and see. Whoso among you dares to attempt this feat?”
One by one the men tried. There were knights and lords, men of great status as well as serfs and peasants who stood in line and attempted to lift the sword. Each effort was for naught.
Finally, Sir Ector rode up with his son Kai and Arthur in tow.
“Will you attempt the task, my Lord?” I said coyly to Ector, for – goddess help me – I could not resist a good prank.
Eagerly the man placed his grip upon the sword’s handle. Twist and tug as he might, the sword would not budge. Sweat burst from his brow until finally he gave up. “It will not move!” he yelped exasperatedly. “The thing is stuck like an oak to the soil.”
“Mayhap your son Kai shall attempt it,” I said, barely hiding my smirk.
Kai groped and toiled. The stubborn blade would not budge. He too broke a sweat before declaring, “It is an impossible task! One hundred men could not lift it!”
“And what of young Arthur?” I asked.
“If I and Kai could not lift it, all the more impossible it will be for Arthur,” said Sir Ector. “For I am a knighted lord; I have seen battle. My ward Arthur, abandoned at birth, has lead only the life of a farm hand. He knows nothing of weaponry.”
“Oh doesn’t he?” I chided. I could keep my silence no longer.
“For your information,” quothe I, “he was NOT abandoned at birth! Ever did you think he was taken from his mother’s arms, through no will nor decision of her own? Ever did you think he was intended for greater purposes, such that you, Sir Ector, could not possibly know?”
Ector looked at me dumbfounded, for it was unseemly for a widowed queen to speak so boldly. I cared not what they thought! I then took Arthur by the hand and helped him down from his horse. “You will try it,” I commanded.
Arthur’s eyes narrowed, then popped in recognition as he faced me. “Is it you?” he asked softly. “You are my… Mother?”
None had known of my secret visits to Ector’s farm. None had known, save Arthur and myself, that in the still of the night I had come to him. Together we’d board a small boat and I’d take him to Avalon, so that he could learn of his true bloodline and power.
Perhaps before that moment, Arthur had thought those visits were mere dreams and imagination. Now he was to learn a Truth: Imagination can lead to the making of a king — for imagination is the beginning of all things.
“Of course it is me,” I said calmly. “Your Uncle Merlin had other plans for you, but it was I who knew your noble calling and prepared you for it. Now! Do not hesitate to do your duty!”
Within seconds Arthur had lifted the sword from the stone.
For the doubters among them, Arthur replaced the sword several times. Each time the anvil sealed around it like an iron prison. Many others made attempts at lifting it, each to no avail. Yet Arthur lifted it several times with ease. Finally the crowd conceded; it was Arthur who was meant to rule as King of Britain.
Merlin cowered in a corner, hidden by the crowd. I went to him.
“Do not worry, Uncle,” I said. “While I do not forgive you, I will not torture you. I ask now that you return to Avalon for schooling. You see, your magic has always been imperfect. You have silly ideas. If Arthur is ever to rule as a worthy king, he must not be influenced by your dualistic nature. Therefore I banish you from Camelot.”
He had no choice but to leave.
From that day forward, per my request, all jousting was banned in the kingdom.
As for my son, he became the once and future king, ushering in an era of great peace and prosperity. He ruled with wisdom, kindness and grace, wedding his Queen Guinevere, and appointing twelve worthy knights to his round table.
It looks like Friday the 13th brought us luck after all!
Hard to believe, I know — but I am proud to say that our horror anthology The Box Under The Bed outranked Stephen King on the Amazon bestsellers list! Who’d have expected it?
I thought I heard someone applaud,
In my distracted state of mind I could not be quite sure…
If you are seeking supernatural thrills, bloodthirsty revenge, mystical ghosts and a plethora of eerie events, please take a look. CLICK HERE to get a copy. (And if you are so inclined, please write a short review! )
Today, October 11th is your chance to get a FREE copy of our horror anthology The Box Under The Bed on Freebooksy!
For all fans of the macabre and supernatural, this anthology is a must have! Featuring works by me and 20 other award winning and best selling authors.
Readers are saying:
Don’t miss out!
To get your free copy of The Box Under The Bed CLICK HERE!
Otherwise BEWARE! For you, dear reader shall be crushed in the abyss, sadly left behind forever.
“The gift of flight will come at Walpurgisnacht,” Granny Magda tells me. “We will travel airborne upon our besoms to the Brocken. You will then learn of your blessings, all the goddess has deemed to give you.”
“What will they be, my blessings?” I ask impatiently. I have waited all of my sixteen years for this nacht, for the firefest of summer. It will be the first time I go to the mountaintop. The first time I, as a daughter of Hekate will become a coven member and know my true and unique power.
“Hush child,” Magda orders. “Speak of them no more! What is yours is already yours.” She puts a hand to my cheek and smiles through crinkled eyes. “Trust me. The gifts will come.”
The month of April rolls by with its rain and wind, daffodils and tulips blooming in our meadow. On my calendar parchment I count the days, marking them off with a charcoal crayon. The time cannot go quick enough.
Two days before Walpurgis, Peter the goat boy appears at our door. He brings me a bouquet of wildflowers, colored blooms that float like a sparkled rainbow from his hands. “For you Kathe,” he says, “In honor of your special nacht which is soon to come.”
Peter! He is an annoyance, always milling around me, nosing in my business, cheating me at games and sport! He has been my chief nemesis for years. And now he brings flowers? An offering of peace, just as I am soon to come into my powers? Reluctantly I accept, but only out of politeness. “What do you know of it?” I snap.
“Peter knows plenty,” Granny Magda shouts from the kitchen. “You’d be wise to listen to him.”
Never do I have a moment’s privacy in this cottage! Granny Magda is always hovering over me, like a bee to a honeyflower. She now takes Peter’s flowers and places them in a vase.
“Have a seat boy,” she nods to Peter. “I trust you will stay for supper?”
Peter shakes his head. “The invitation is most kind Frau Magda, but I cannot. I am just returning from the mountain, my goat herd outside. I fear they are most cumbersome, and I only stopped to give Kathe the flowers and wish her well.”
“Nonsense!” Magda has already placed a root stew on the table and set a trencher for him. She glances out the window, waves a hand at the goats who then stand still as statues.
“The animals will keep,” she says. “Kathe, fetch the ale for our guest.”
Taking a ladle to the pail I serve up three helpings of ale. Peter nods. “Most gracious.”
We bless our food, toast good health and begin eating. I sit next to Peter. His clothes are soiled and he smells of his goats. He also smells of the meadow, of earth and something more. What is it? A sly masculinity, a scent lacking in Magda and myself. Despite my annoyance I scoot closer to him.
“Your comment, Granny,” I say later as we eat dessert, a cake with fresh berries I gathered from our orchard. “You say I must listen to Peter. Why is this?” Peter stops mid bite, red berries making a stain on his lips. His eyes, blue as the river, pop wide.
“Do not ask foolish questions, child.” Magda says. “Now Peter,” she looks out the window and waves her hands at the goats who instantly begin bleating. “I wager your goats need milking. Be off with you afore the late sun sinks on its horizon! Auf Wiedersehen.”
Peter stands and bows before us. “I thank you for the victuals, my lady.” He takes Magda’s old withered hand and kisses it. He then turns to me. “And you Kathe, I trust I will see more of you in the near future.” With awkwardness he grabs my hand and kisses it as well. I catch his eye, nod and curtsey before he exits.
I have known Peter all my life, since I came to live with Granny Magda as a two year old orphan. We played together, leap frogging in the meadow, tumbling down the rolling hills. It was he who taught me to catch fish in the river, he who taught me to shoot a crossbow. He who, in his boyhood always shot more bullseyes than I. But Peter is no longer a boy.
Through the window I watch as he rounds his goats, whistles to his collie dog. He has grown tall, his shoulders broad. His lanky frame casts a long shadow across the cobbled road. As he walks away I notice his swaggering hips, his bowed legs.
“How old do you suppose Peter now is?” I ask.
“Two winters past you child.” Granny Magda puts a hand to my head and unwinds my tight braids. “Come the Yule last he reached his eighteenth name day.”
“He has quick grown to a man.” I glance one last time before he turns into the forest, his goats following in a gray blur.
“Ja child, that he has.” She tilts her head. “And your thoughts of this?”
“I have no thoughts, it is mere curiosity!” I hiss. Granny smiles.
Finally Walpurgisnacht arrives. I stand naked in the meadow with the other women. Magda rubs my body with unctions, a rich combination of oils and nectars that will, coupled with my own magic, give me the ability to fly.
When the sun sets we mount our besoms. Soon the wind begins to blow and we rise, steady in the air, a team of thirteen, Hekate’s witches, gliding through the sky with the skill of crows. Higher and higher we rise. Soon we are bobbing amongst stars, drifting under the light of the moon.
On the mountaintop we land near the Bergwasser, a crystal stream that flows, now icebroken with the onset of summer.
“Your baptism will be tonight, Kathe,” Granny Magda tells me.
I have never before met the high priestess who now stands before me, clad in robes of black. “I am Lucinda,” she says. Taking my hand she guides me down the stone steps into the water. She lifts her wand, a branch of heavy oak inlaid with rich jewels, rubies and sapphires.
“Kathe,” Lucinda begins. “I baptize thee, in the name of the Mother, the Crone and the Holy Maiden. You, a daughter of the line of Hekate, now come full of age, are on this evening of Walpurgisnacht to enter into our coven.”
With that she pushes me underwater. The stream is cool on my head. Opening my eyes I see an array of fish before me, yellow as lemons in the blue water. I watch as they dart and bolt, thinking of this baptism, this instant I have waited for my whole life. What is to happen? The water is a silent chamber around me.
When I can hold my breath no longer I ascend. Gasping, I lie in the grass. Magda clothes me in a white robe.
“The ability to breathe underwater,” Madga smiles, “was not your gift.”
What will it be? What will it be?
“Time will tell, my girl,” Lucinda says. “Before rise of the May day sun you shall know it.” Lucinda’s gift is surely the reading of minds. Granny Magda’s is the taming of animals. And mine? The suspense haunts me.
Lucinda reads from the Book of Freya. She lights a great bonfire. Together we chant and dance around it. Holding hands we skip in unison. Even Granny Magda, now well beyond her dancing years, kicks her heels like a young maiden.
In the distance I hear a drumbeat. Approaching over the hills I see them, the tribe of Pan. They are thirteen men, goatskins over their thighs, naked from the waist up. On their heads they wear crowns of horns and masks of feathers and fur.
The balefire rages and the drums beat. Magda leans and whispers in my ear, “Granddaughter. You are ready. You will bleed to bless the earth which has blessed you. Only through this can you find your womanhood.”
One of the thirteen men then approaches me, takes my hand and joins in the dance. All is a blur of color and sound, the dance faster and faster. Soon I am on the grass, flat on my back, the tribesman atop me.
I am not the only one. Other women have been taken as well. All around me the couples are a whirl of flesh, thighs upon thighs, breath heavy, hair streaming. Wails, screams and moans fill the night air, voices desperate and satisfied.
Magda had said I am ready, but am I? My heart pounds, my whole body pulsed to the music. I am frightened but then the tribesman pulls me closer, his face next to mine. His scent is of goats but also of the earth and our meadow, a musk that lures me like subtle perfume, releasing a passion I did not know I possessed. Although he wears a mask I recognize his eyes, blue as the river. His look is the question and I nod my answer: Yes.
His mouth is firm on my lips, his tongue sweet, his thighs braced against me. My secrets are wet as the mountain stream that baptized me and in an instant he is inside me. It hurts but only for a moment until my hips synch in rhythm with his. My body quivers and I hear him breathe my name, feel his spill within me.
Before rise of the sun we anoint ourselves with unction again, then mount our besoms. The men disappear into the mountains as we fly away.
It is finished.
In the weeks after Walpurgisnacht we live quietly. I am changed but still the same, although Magda no longer hovers over me, no longer calls me ‘child’. All is well until the day the constables come, riding up our path upon their sleek stallions. They dismount and look suspiciously about the cottage. One knocks on our door, holding a warrant for our arrest.
“Which warrant and how so?” I demand. “Arrested for what?”
“For witchcraft Fraulien,” the constable says. His face is like a hard brick, impenetrable, a moving mouth with two tiny slits of eyes.
“We have done nothing wrong!” I shout.
“You both have been seen cavorting in the meadow, spreading yourselves with evil unctions and potions, then taking flight to the sky on your brooms.”
“And who has been harmed by it?” I scream. My head is burning.
“All are harmed by it! All good honest folk. You women, by your madness and your lasciviousness, violate the very decency of mankind!”
I attempt to protest but a hand slaps my mouth. Just then another constable grabs Magda and binds her wrists. I charge at him, but the next constable overpowers me, this one tall as a tower and twice as strong. He pulls me away, knotting my arms.
“My Granny is frail,” I scream again. “She does you no harm! What satisfaction do you get to badger an old woman?”
“Hold your tongue Fraulien, lest I gag your foul mouth,” the third constable orders. I fight with all my strength but in the end they win. Granny Magda and I are put onto a rickety old cart and brought south to the village of Stuttgart.
We are thrown in a slimy, rat infested dungeon where we live in squalor for weeks. Our food is gruel and brackish water, the meals so meager I fear Granny Magda will perish. Others join us, country women and bumpkins, some midwives, some herbalists, all innocent of the crimes they are accused. Yet when we are taken to trial the jury declares us guilty before we are given a chance to speak.
We are sentenced to be burned at the stake. “Consumed by the hell fire from whence ye came,” the judge declares.
Like cattle we are led to the pyres. A hooded executioner binds our bodies to the stakes and the fires are lit. I hear the crowd around us yell, “Brennen die Hexen! Burn the witches!”
Granny Magda gives me a look, hopeful in her sunken eyes. I nod. Just as the flames begin to creep around us I shout:
“As the powers within me rise, so this man-made fire now dies!”
The flames sputter and vanish as if drenched by a thousand buckets. I watch as the crowd of people turn pale with horror. “Relight the flame!” someone yells. “They must be burned! These witches must die!”
“Brennen die Hexen!” the crowd chants again. “Burn the witches!”
The executioner moves to relight the flames, but the embers are cold. He tries again and again, adding more wood, more torches, but the fire only sparkles and dies. He then stares at me, eyes wide. He crosses himself and moves away as if I am carrying the plague. “Hexe!” he whispers.
“You can relight the flames all you want and they will never grow,” I say calmly. I then begin to laugh, loud and haughty, my voice echoing on the wind. The crowd stares at me as if I were a madwoman.
“There will be no burnings today,” I say richly.
One by one they turn away in fear. Women lift their skirts, scurrying away and men run fast as their boots will carry them.
Just then I see his body in the crowd, the lanky frame and broad shoulders. Peter approaches, pulls a knife from his pocket and slices the ropes that bind me. He then rescues Magda and the other women.
“You should not have allowed it to go so far,” he says quietly.
“O, but it was well worth it! Just to see the looks on their faces,” I answer brightly. “You must admit it was a picture.” I run a finger across his cheek.
“That it was, wife.” He smiles. “As long as no harm comes to the child.” He lays a hand on my belly.
“The child is fine,” I assure my husband. “Her gift from Hekate will be the same as mine. She too will have the ability to control fire, and she too will never be burned at the stake.”
** NOTE: The real witch persecutions and Burning Times occurred in Europe during 1450-1700. Historians estimate that over 100,000 accused witches, both men and women were killed during this time. The majority of burnings took place in Germany, in some cases wiping out entire populations of women in small Medieval towns.
The real Brocken is the highest point of the Harz Mountain range in northern Germany. The Brothers Grimm spent a good deal of time in the small villages at the foothills of the mountains collecting tales of local folklore. From these tales came stories such as Rapunzel, Hansel and Gretel and Rumpelstiltskin.
Walpurgisnacht (pronounced :Vol-POOR- gus-nokt) is celebrated on April 30. Witches then gather in the Brocken and other sacred places to conduct rituals of spring.
My husband Will was not inattentive to me, though this is what most folk assumed. True he lived in London and I saw him scarce, but when he arrived back to Stratford, O then! Much welcoming and merrymaking there was and I greeted him with open arms.
Will’s true home was the theater, his soul poured forth from his quill and ink pots. When I married him I knew this. How could I not? He spoke in rhyme when he wooed me. The sonnet sprung from his lips, a stretch of beat and iamb, beautiful words and I trust not a woman in all of Stratford would have resisted young Master Shakespeare. He was tall and handsome, quick witted, dark eyed. And I? I was the original summer’s day, Venus to his Adonis.
When he moved to London it was with that very poem he acquired patronage from the Earl of Southampton. He had since compromised his words, winking to the the faire youth and dark lady. Leave gossip for the tongue wagers. I suspected he had lovers, both women and men. Of course he did. After all, his time in London was long. Yet the green monster of envy raised not its head.
One must understand. He was but a boy of eighteen when I married him, and I a woman of twenty six. And though I was with child, I knew his wild oats were not yet sown. Faithfulness was never expected. Therefore we lived in harmony.
But I! Yes I. Was the mother of his children, the keeper of his hearth. More importantly, not a word of his plays did he scribe, not a scroll did he bring to the King’s Men without my approval. That was my gift, though none knew of it.
“Anne,” he said to me, “thou art my Juliet, my Beatrice, my Titania in all splendor of the fairies.” His meaning more specific, I was his muse.
Consider his play of Juliet. What a botched thing it was, before I took my hand to it. “The lovers must commit suicide, Will,” quothe I. “Nothing less will do.”
“How so?” he asked.
“By poison of course. And a stabbing, the bloodier the better! In London they crave all means of violence, death, destruction and swordplay. You must give the public what they want, Billie Shakespeare! Else all is lost and the words for naught.”
The same was true of his characters Ophelia, Gertrude and Hamlet. My husband would have written it mildly, trippingly on the tongue as he liked to say. “O no Will,” I corrected. “There must be tragedy. Sweet Ophelia, tormented by madness, will drown herself in a river amongst the heavy flowers and willows that weep.”
“Another suicide?” He shook his head.
“Another, and many more. Trust me.”
Consider Macbeth. A lame play until I corrected it, making Macbeth a milquetoast to a treacherous and evil woman! She was perhaps the most cunning of my creations.
“The Lady Macbeth must urge the man forward,” I insisted. “It is she who plots killing of King Duncan, she who will bloody her hands most.” His jaw hung and he turned a bit pale at this notion.
“She,” I continued, “will unsex herself, ruthless and scheming. She will drive herself to madness, never eliminating the the damned spots of blood that haunt her like Banquo’s ghost!”
He argued with me. “Surely, wife, the gentry will loathe such a vile woman.”
“They will love to hate her,” I assured him. For what better entertainment than an evil femme fatale and what better place to lay blame?
I was correct.
And so it was the box office flourished. “Sell admissions cheap, not more than a penny,” I advised him.
“But Anne,” quothe he, “Baron Hundson will not have it. The Globe itself will be closed should we not turn a profit.”
“You’ll turn a profit and you’ll turn it handsomely,” I insisted. When the groundlings poured in, seatless in the mud and mire, but not lacking to pay their penny, Will saw that I was correct. I was always correct.
The money pots scattered and we quickly made a fortune. “To tell and sell a story,” I told him, “is the noblest of professions. None will tire of it, for they seek desperately to escape the boredom of their mundane lives.”
And so it was, back home in Stratford, by our fortune I acquired land and houses. New Place was mine, a brace of animals and horses, thriving farms and plenty of servants to do my bidding. When we accumulated enough wealth I urged Will to purchase a Coat of Arms. The motto ‘Not Without Right’ were my own words, because indeed we were not without rights to our own status of Gentle.
One day I waited for the clomp of horse hooves upon our pavement. ‘Twas the twenty third day of April, the day of his birth and Will returned home to celebrate. My cooks had prepared a great feast. There would be games and diversions. I smiled as I saw him ride up the road, clothed in boots and britches. He pulled a scribbled parchment from his doublet.
“What’s this?” I kissed him on both cheeks, then took the parchment.
“My latest,” he answered. “It is called Othello.”
“And what story?”
“A marriage between a Moor and a Venetian. Their love will be the purest and they shall live happily ever after.”
I shook my head and tore the parchment to pieces.
“Their love,” I said defiantly, “shall be fraught with tension. The Moor black as jet and the Venetian white as pearl. She a young seductress, he a skilled soldier. There will be coupling, the mounting of the beast with two backs, they insatiable in their lust! There will be jealousy and betrayal, one named Cassio who will claim her…”
I narrowed my eyes, thinking of what would enhance this plot. “Add a handkerchief, the most intimate of objects.”
Will popped his eyes. “Surely not a handkerchief!”
“Yes, husband. And ‘twill end in a murder. Othello driven to savage madness, kills his wife in her very own bed! Then he, driven to suicide, slays himself and falls next to her. Give the people blood and lust and lovers and yet more blood.”
“My dear, are you sure? Such a thing shall be most controversial.” He cocked his head.
“Trust me.” I answered. I then took his hand. “Let the birthday celebrations begin.”
That night we finished revisions. I predicted the story of the Moor named Othello and his wife Desdemona would be among the greatest of my husband’s many tragedies. I predicted the plays would last on into posterity, for hundred of years, maybe thousands, created anew by each generation, constantly revealing human truths, constantly entertaining each audience.
And I was always correct.
“She hath a way, so to control
and rapture the imprisoned soul
and sweetest heaven on earth display
that to be heaven, Anne hath a way
She hath a way, Anne Hathaway,
To breathe delight, Anne hath a way.”
— William Shakespeare
Born April 23, 1564, Died April 23, 1616
My body was rife with boils and scabs, the pain constant, like blue fire to an open wound. My own hands were clamshells, too stiff and weak to aid myself. My sisters, Martha and Mary, dressed my inflamed skin in cool gauze and oils, yet it did no good. I wished only for death.
“He, Yeshua, the healer,” Martha told me, her young face riddled with lines of worry. “He shall be back. It was his promise to us.”
“You speak of the Rabboni?” I could barely gasp the words. My breath was fast vanishing.
I moved my stiff body, a near corpse, against the straw mattress. It cut like a blade. No miracle worker could help me, that I knew. The pox gripped and I was well beyond healing. Yet I had not the heart nor the strength to say this aloud, knowing it would crush my sisters’ hopes.
“It is told the Rabboni has walked on waves in the sea of Galilee,” Mary continued. “He calms the ocean’s storms. In Canaan they talk of the man who has changed water into wine. In Tiberias they talk of the man who fed a multitude with only seven loaves and two fishes. Such are the miracles of Yeshua bin Joseph, and he has stated his undying love for us.”
Drivel and nonsense! My mind screamed but my voice could not utter it. I was thirsty, very thirsty and my head burned with fever. Martha pressed a wineskin to my lips but its taste was bitter as gall. The liquid burned in my swollen throat. “You must drink brother,” Martha said. “So as to stay quick till the Rabboni arrives. It is then he will cure you and you shall be whole once more.”
I let out a sigh in as much as my breath would permit it. Whole. Did I want to be whole ever again?
Illness is a mad thing. It steals one’s will. I was a young man, younger than the Rabboni, who was three and thirty years. These miracles my sisters spoke of meant little to me. I followed no god, paid Caesar no tithes, was beholden to no man. Death was inevitable. When my time came I had always known I’d accept it.
Not so with my sisters. Their faith was constant as rise of the sun. They’d not give up hope. Mary sat at the edge of my mat, her hands folded in prayer. “When I am gone,” I began, but could not continue as I saw the tears trickle like silent rain from the corners of her eyes.
“You will not be gone brother,” Martha called. She brought bread from the village and begged me to eat but its taste was dust, my ulcered mouth too weak to chew.
Night fell. Finally my sisters ceased their fussing and took to bed. I was relieved.
Through the bare windows of our hut I saw the moon rise. The first full moon since change of the season. Desert winds were now calmer and pink phlox grew like spun silk across the land. The heat of summer would not be far behind, yet I knew I’d not live to see it.
I closed my eyes. Sleep enveloped me like a womb.
When I awoke it was yet night, the moon outside the window full and pink as the phlox that grew beneath it.
Stars twinkled all around. I could feel the breeze, balmy against my bandages. Oh, to breathe that air once again! To stand beneath that full moon. If I had but one last request, that would be it. Yet I had such little strength.
Rising on my blistered feet, I grabbed the wineskin, tried to drink but still the taste was bitter. Martha’s loaf of bread sat upon the table, now covered with locusts. The sight of it turned my stomach.
My breath was heavy. I longed for the night air. I stood on shaky legs. Although I had been bedridden for weeks I now walked outside, compelled by some force, a force as powerful as the moon’s diamond tides.
It was there in the rich darkness that the woman met me.
She was naked, illuminated in the moon’s glow, her skin and lips pink, with streams of red hair hair that fell to her hips.
“Lazarus,” she said. “Your time is not yet come. Though your body is diseased and imperfect, you are still a young man. The years ahead are many. Your sisters need you. If you will show but a tiny seedling of faith you shall be healed.”
Such perfection I had never seen in a woman before. “Who are you?” I asked.
“Come nearer,” she answered.
I approached her and when I was cheek press close she whispered in my ear, “Lillith.”
I backed away. Lillith! It was she who had cursed the earth, she who had left her husband Adam, she who brought death to one hundred babies each day. This Lillith, a demon! A vixen! So said all the holy books. My instincts were to flee. Yet when she spoke again, her voice like rich bells beckoning me, I could not refuse.
She placed her hand upon my forehead. Her touch was cool and soft, like moonbeams themselves. “You’d do well not to believe the legends of men!” she quipped.
She then took me into her bosom, placed her teat to my mouth. “Drink, Lazarus,” she commanded. “This is the milk of life, stronger than any wine.”
Her taste was sweet and as I drank I felt my strength restored. The boils healed on my skin, the ulcers vanished from my mouth. My fever broke and my head cooled. My muscles, which had begun to atrophy, now took on a new suppleness and flexibility. I stood to my full height. My vision was sharp and clear.
I looked around me. All the ground seemed brighter, the plants green as pine, the flowers grown to the size of wheat fields. The colors were dazzling. Silver rivers flowed, sheep grazed, trees were ripe with apples. Far in the distance the landscape sprung with all manner of vegetation, the lavender fields a sea of purple before us. We were no longer in Bethany.
“What is the place, my lady?” I asked. My voice was now deep, restored of its full volume and masculinity.
“This is but a fragment of Eden,” she answered. “And you are here for but a fragment of time. Answer when Yeshua calls. He weeps for you. There is so much more of your life to live.”
The next I knew I was in a tomb, rock walls encompassing like a prison around me. I was clothed in linen, my head wrapped and eyes covered. This seemed quite absurd as I had never felt fitter in my life. They had buried me? Buried me alive, no less! I unraveled the gauze from my eyes.
Just then the tomb’s boulder was moved. A path opened and yellow sunlight poured in. I heard his voice, sturdy and pleading. “Lazarus, come out.”
Slowly I stepped from the tomb, earth warm on my bare feet. Mary and Martha ran to my side and embraced me. “Brother,” Mary said. “Never did we lose our faith. Though we buried you four days ago, it is as he promised. You live!” Her face was wet with tears of joy.
Four days? Surely she was wrong, for I had been with Lillith but a moment! Only long enough to drink the milk from her breasts and glimpse paradise.
“Remove those burial linens and let him go,” Yeshua instructed.
Later, as we dined together at our table he leaned in to me and whispered in my ear, “Tell no one of Lillith.”
“But why, Rabboni?” I asked. The woman Lillith had been a vision, a hope and a miracle. I longed to share my story.
“They will crucify me for this,” Yeshua answered. “If they learn the source from which my power comes it will be even worse. You’ll endanger your sisters. You’ll endanger all of womankind. This world is not yet prepared for the Truth.”
I heeded his words and told none of my visit with Lillith.
My sister Mary then took an alabaster jar filled with our finest perfumed oil. She anointed Yeshua’s feet and dried them with her own hair.
The men criticized her. The one called Judas Iscariot rose and gestured wildly. “This fine perfume could have been sold and its money given to the poor!” he bellowed. “Yet Mary has wasted it on the Rabboni’s feet! She is sinful.”
My sister, unperturbed, continued her anointing.
“Leave the woman alone,” Yeshua commanded. “She is preparing me for my burial. The poor will be with you always, but I am destined to leave you soon.”
All were silent at this. He was correct. When the Sanhedrin heard of my resurrection, they became even more suspicious of him. A bounty was put on his head and the one called Iscariot betrayed him for thirty pieces of silver. He was arrested the following Thursday at the garden of Gethsemane.
The very next day Yeshua bin Joseph was crucified, nailed to a cross with a crown of thorns on his head. He died at Golgatha and was buried in a nearby tomb.
Like me, he arose from that tomb. Like me, he never told anyone of his encounter with Lillith.
As time went on many were persecuted. Women were burned at the stake, hung and murdered for their gifts of healing , elemental powers and necromancy. It was not until millennia had passed that the Enlightenment came.
The world was then ready for the Truth.