Chapter One

August 29, 2026 - We are now one month away from the beginning of something different, something timeless, something unusual. Something that won't let go after you read it.

The Salem Witch Trials weren’t a land grab.

They weren’t triggered by a hallucinogenic fungus.

They weren’t even about witchcraft.

The Salem witch panic was manifested by one family.

Mine.

A story 400 years in the making starts this September. 

Shall we begin?

To celebrate the upcoming release of Whispers of the Pale Witch, the first book in the Beckett Coven series, I'm giving you a first look. Thank you to all who have followed this journey and for those who have yet to begin it.

Welcome to the Beckett Coven.

Photo by Honey & Sage Photography Co.

Chapter 1

Hester

Just as she was in life, Deliverance was a demon in death.

Her cruel whispers invaded quiet conversations. Her hate-filled face raced past in the shadows. Destroying the body didn’t end her baneful abuses. Instead, she became limitless and everywhere, always.

A thick breath of fog rolled in from Derby Wharf, obscuring much of the town in its salty grip. Beneath a brick wall, Angela’s torso hovered close to the ground like a disembodied specter. It was just past the witching hour.

Trying to ignore the demon’s voice, her foot forced a shovel tip between the invading roots of an old elm tree. Late summer rain softened the first two feet, but the deeper she went, the more arduous her task became. As its blade struck the cold earth, the shovel’s handle creaked once more. If it could just hold out a bit longer, weeks of their nocturnal labor would come to an end tonight.

The whispers beneath her feet intensified into a full-throated growl. Too loud. Angela pulled a small bottle of water out of her pocket and sprinkled it over the soil. Its bitter blessing drove the sound into silence once more.

For years, drugs numbed the whispers and obscured the demon’s face, but Angela’s gatekeepers eventually tossed her out like many crumpled bits of garbage now littering the streets of the North Shore. In Boston, she found ways to calm the chaos by coercing the gullible. Many survived their interactions with her. Some were not as fortunate.

During a moment of weakness, she tried to end her own life, but Lyssa and Hekate kept her from the slumber of death. Instead, her beloved Goddesses graciously bestowed visions of destiny upon their troubled servant.

The shovel finally bumped against something other than rocks and roots. A rush of excitement flowed through Angela’s veins. Turning the blade over, she scraped back the earth from the old pine lid. Then she jammed the shovel’s metal edge between the boards.

Nails loosened, but the pressure snapped the rusted collar from the shovel’s wooden handle.

She grumbled something incoherent and tossed the broken tool aside. It landed with a soft thud onto the foraged slab of plywood she’d been using to cover the grave.

Adrenaline in her veins shifted to pulsing dopamine.

Angela grabbed the axe lying next to the rejected shovel. She lifted it above her head and let its blade fall onto the rotting timber. Not too hard. Just enough to break it. Must not harm the treasure inside. She set the axe aside and grabbed hold of the broken coffin lid. When one of the planks snapped in half, it ripped open the skin on her knuckles.

A face stared back at her. Though not recognizable in its present state, it still gave Angela nauseating chills. Crimson drops christened the bones as she placed them one by one inside a black trash bag. It wasn’t the first time the demon drew blood from her.

When she was done, she pulled the plywood back over the open pit and spread a thin layer of earth on top with the shovel blade. Once more, her work was hidden. Then she picked up the axe and swung it hard against the cheap concrete headstone. It tumbled over into the tall weeds. She struck it several times more, letting fury flood her soul.

Angela rolled over in the darkness and opened her eyes in a panic. Did she just come from the cemetery, or was it something she had yet to do?

No. 

She reached over and touched the black bag lying next to her. It had been days since that task had been completed. Time slipped back and forth so easily sometimes.

Obtaining the bones was one step. Soon, Angela would bend the demon to her will with the threat of silencing it forever. Remnants of the forbidden ritual remained engraved in her mind. The rest, the part she wasn’t allowed to read, was in a Book of Shadows hidden somewhere in this house.

Muffled voices from the room above interrupted the dead’s incessant whispers.

“Nathaniel, you must tell her the truth,” said Hester Beckett. “It’s time.” She sat at the dining room table, shaking a finger at a laptop screen in front of her. “I refuse to spend our visit dodging questions.”

Through the screen, her nephew’s generally affable demeanor turned into a scowl.

“Besides, it’s well past time for me to teach her—"

“No, Hester.” Nate Beckett’s patience came to an end. He brushed his dark caramel hand against the tight curls of his salt and pepper hair. “Don’t tell her any of that nonsense.”

 “You’re being disrespectful,” Hester chided. “I don’t want her having to piece it together after I’m gone. Not like I had to. It’s not right. She—"

“No. You’re not listening to me.” Nate interrupted her again. “You don’t know her. Not really. There are moments—flashes—when she’s so much like…The way she looks at me sometimes. It scares me. I love you, Hester, but it’s just too dangerous. Find someone else.”

Hester sighed. “There’s nobody else.” She knew that wasn’t entirely true, so she added, “She’s the only one that I trust.”

“Her work…” Nate rubbed his forehead. “What she wants to do…photographing dead bodies. Of all the things she could have chosen, why that?” From the moment he gave his daughter her first camera, Kylie had used it to capture everything around her. She especially enjoyed taking meticulous photos of the rigor mortis trophies their serial killer of a cat left on the back doorstep. Thinking about it forced him to hold back a shiver.

“Let her be, Nathaniel. She’s not like her.” Hester played with a pen on her desk as if she was warding off a cantankerous spirit.

“Kylie’s an adult now,” he let out a long breath of air, “and I can’t stop her from doing what she wants. I’m just begging you to please be careful.” He almost added “of my daughter” and hated himself for thinking it.

“I will keep her safe,” Hester said as she looked into her nephew’s dark brown eyes. “Same as I did when you were small.”

Nate nodded and looked over his shoulder at the clock on the wall. “I have to go. She’ll be home soon. We’ll talk again before October. In the meantime, let me tell her everything. I need to be the one to tell her.” He sighed as he said, “Just don’t want to see the look on her face.”

Hester nodded. “Of course.” It was hard not to feel sorry for her nephew. So much of his trauma was born from a legacy he never wanted.

After they said goodnight, Hester got up to turn on the front porch light for Solstice. Her cat was out prowling for nocturnal snacks, as usual. As she flicked on the switch, she caught a glimpse of herself in the oval mirror by the door.

It always startled her when she saw a seventy-two-year-old crone staring back. In her mind, she still pictured herself as a middle-aged woman. Save for her silver dreadlocks, she now looked exactly like her long-passed great-aunt.

This beloved, centuries-old home originally belonged to that great-aunt’s white father and Black mother on the Beckett side of the family. Theirs was an interracial marriage considered shocking at the time, taking place only a few decades after Massachusetts abolished its anti-miscegenation law in 1843.

Hester’s blood pressure rose as she headed back toward the kitchen. She envisioned Kylie’s homecoming as a joyous, well-overdue family reunion, but it had become fraught with conflict and anxiety.

On her right, under the main staircase, the cellar door was slightly ajar. Strange. She was meticulous about keeping it closed at all times. Hester felt an odd chill again. She tried to dismiss it, but then wondered if perhaps Nate’s vision was clearer than hers.

Hester knew the darting shadows she glimpsed lately weren't figments of her imagination. She sensed the presence for weeks. At first, she felt eyes on her at the supermarket or when she visited friends. She often turned, expecting to see someone, but found nothing. It felt familiar, questioning, and curious.

Now, it seemed as if it had entered her home. As a medium, she was used to spirits following her around. Most listened and obeyed when she gently asked them to give her space. This presence, however, was different.

It was impertinent and disrespectful of her wishes, and behaved more like a poltergeist. Hester found items out of place. Doors and windows were not latched properly. Her cat was unusually on edge. For the first time in her life, she worried about living on her own.

She wondered if she should mention it to her High Priestess. Then she told herself, “No. Beulah will think I’ve lost my mind. Beulah will take advantage of the situation.” An urgent need to pass on ancestral knowledge to her young great-niece rose inside her. She didn’t want Kylie to go through the same confusion she once did.

Rather than heading to the kitchen, Hester opened the cellar door and descended into the Blood Moon Temple. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she unfurled a large red-and-black lunar-patterned cloth and placed it on top of the square altar. From a side table, she transferred a bell, two candles, a skull-shaped bowl, and her athame double-sided knife onto the cloth.

After ringing the bell and lighting the candles, she retrieved three black obsidian stones from her pocket and spoke in a full voice. “I summon the Ancestors and bring them forward to help me bind our ancient burden.” She traced three pentagrams of protection over each stone, reenergizing their power. It was a spell her family crafted, based on a much older ritual.

Then, a moment of fear cascaded over her. What if something tangible is here and not a ghost? She banished the dark memories from her mind. “Not now.” Not while the circle is open.

Hester dropped wax from the candle onto one of the black stones. Then she tapped the smooth obsidian three times against the first lock of the door and whispered the hex. She repeated her binding over the other locks with the remaining two stones, gave thanks to the God and Goddess, and closed her ritual circle.

Out of the shadows deep within the cellar, a blood-curdling cry rang out, “No!”

This was not a disembodied spirit. A very real intruder rushed at Hester and knocked her toward the steps.

“I need the book!” a woman’s voice shouted.

Something sharp jabbed Hester in the neck, and she immediately felt dizzy. The obsidian stones tumbled from her hand and hit the cement floor like heavy raindrops. Trying to get away from the intruder, she grabbed the railing and pulled herself up the staircase.

Hands clawed after her, and the voice continued to howl in anger. Her words made no sense to anyone other than the temple’s guardian.

Hester reached for the stairs’ landing so she could turn and confront the poor creature. Then, the most intense pain erupted from her side and raced up into her jaw. Her legs buckled. She abruptly sat down on the landing and grasped at her collarbone, trying to rub the pain away.

It became impossible to breathe. The past tumbled around and in front of her like the cold waters of the river. She tried not to panic as she looked into the eyes of the child she once knew. When the light faded, Hester’s last regret was that she couldn’t warn Kylie.

Then, the room went dark and quiet.