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    Revenant: The Tatterdemon Trilogy, #1
    Revenant: The Tatterdemon Trilogy, #1
    Revenant: The Tatterdemon Trilogy, #1
    Ebook89 pages1 hour

    Revenant: The Tatterdemon Trilogy, #1

    By Steve Vernon

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    About this ebook

    In 1691 the town of Crossfall taught the witch Thessaly how to die. They beat her, they shot her, they hung her - but nothing worked. When they finally tried to bury her alive Thessaly set the field against them.

    The first man died as a gust of wind harrowed the meat from his bones. A root,flung like a dirty javelin, cut a second man down. Many more deaths followed.

    The Preacher Fell impaled the witch upon her very own broom but she dragged him down into the field to wait for three more centuries.

    Three hundred years later Maddy Harker will murder her bullying husband Vic. She will bury him in the field as she buried her abusive father years before that. The very same field where the revenant spirit of Thessaly Cross lies waiting.

    In three days Vic will rise again - a thing of dirt, bone and hatred.

    Men will call him the Tatterdemon.

    And hell - and Thessaly - will follow

    This is the very first volume of a three part novel. All three parts are now available from your favorite e-book publisher - either separately or you can order all three together for a bargain price under the title THE TATTERDEMON OMNIBUS.

     WHAT PEOPLE ARE SAYING ABOUT STEVE VERNON


    "The genre needs new blood and Steve Vernon is quite a transfusion." –Edward Lee, author of FLESH GOTHIC and CITY INFERNAL

    "If Harlan Ellison, Richard Matheson and Robert Bloch had a three-way sex romp in a hot tub, and then a team of scientists came in and filtered out the water and mixed the leftover DNA into a test tube, the resulting genetic experiment would most likely grow up into Steve Vernon." - Bookgasm 

    "Steve Vernon is something of an anomaly in the world of horror literature. He's one of the freshest new voices in the genre although his career has spanned twenty years. Writing with a rare swagger and confidence, Steve Vernon can lead his readers through an entire gamut of emotions from outright fear and repulsion to pity and laughter." - Cemetery Dance 

    "Armed with a bizarre sense of humor, a huge amount of originality, a flair for taking risks and a strong grasp of characterization - Steve's got the chops for sure." - Dark Discoveries 

    "Steve Vernon was born to write. He's the real deal and we're lucky to have him." - Richard Chizmar 

    My Mom thinks I'm pretty cool, too.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSteve Vernon
    Release dateSep 27, 2016
    ISBN9781536534498
    Revenant: The Tatterdemon Trilogy, #1
    Author

    Steve Vernon

    Everybody always wants a peek at the man behind the curtain. They all want to see just exactly what makes an author tick.Which ticks me off just a little bit - but what good is a lifetime if you can't ride out the peeve and ill-feeling and grin through it all. Hi! I am Steve Vernon and I'd love to scare you. Along the way I'll try to entertain you and I guarantee a giggle as well.If you want to picture me just think of that old dude at the campfire spinning out ghost stories and weird adventures and the grand epic saga of how Thud the Second stepped out of his cave with nothing more than a rock in his fist and slew the mighty saber-toothed tiger.If I listed all of the books I've written I'd most likely bore you - and I am allergic to boring so I will not bore you any further. Go and read some of my books. I promise I sound a whole lot better in print than in real life. Heck, I'll even brush my teeth and comb my hair if you think that will help any.For more up-to-date info please follow my blog at:http://stevevernonstoryteller.wordpress.com/And follow me at Twitter:@StephenVernonyours in storytelling,Steve Vernon

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      Book preview

      Revenant - Steve Vernon

      PROLOGUE - SUMMER 1691

      PREACHER ABRAHAM FELL stared down at the witch Thessaly Cross, breathing like he’d run for a good long stretch. He leaned over, bending at the knees to lay another slab of fieldstone upon her chest.

      We beat you with hickory and we beat you with iron, he said. And you have withstood every blow.

      He stooped down and picked up another rock, never taking his eyes off her, as if she were some kind of dangerous viper who might strike at any moment.

      He set the next rock on top of her, directly beside the others.

      We shot you and the musket balls swerved in midair like they were afraid of sinking into the taint of your flesh.

      He scooped up another rock, grunting as he scooped. He just wasn’t as young a man as he used to be – and no wonder.

      Sights like this one aged you faster than years ought to run. 

      We hung you in a noose woven from a widow’s gray hair, a noose soaked in children’s tears and you kicked and cackled like a hell-kite in the wind.

      He laid the next rock down, sank to his knees and scooped up another stone. He was building a kind of rhythm that made the labor just a little easier.

      We burned you but even fired failed us.

      It was true. She had witched a storm from a cloudless sky and drowned the blaze cold. Young Seth Hamilton, the town smith who had been the only man to dare kindle her pyre had been cindered black.

      Let the stones crush you and the dirt eat you, Fell said, laying another rock – which made thirteen stones in all. These were all good sized stones, hand-picked, at least the weight of child’s corpse. She ought to have been crushed by the weight upon her yet she carried the load as if it were nothing but sticks and straw.

      Where did you hide the broom, witch? Fell asked.

      Maybe it’s up your bunghole, Thessaly taunted. Have you looked there recently?

      The broom was her power and Fell feared it – although he knew that he shouldn’t have. It was just a thing of woven willow. His grand-nanny swept the pine boards of her cabin daily with just such a broom and she certainly wasn’t a witch.

      Wasn’t she?

      He bent for another stone. 

      Thessaly spat in his face. Bury that, god kisser.

      He dropped the fourteenth stone upon her. It made a hard sound, like the witch Thessaly had stared too long at the Gorgon. He grunted at the effort and she laughed at his strain – which stung his pride hard. 

      You must pay for your crimes against God and this community, Fell said.

      Thessaly snorted. It wasn’t any kind of human sound. Her snort sounded heavy and animalistic - like that of a boar in rut. 

      What I pay for is refusing to give you my land, she pointed out, as the wind rattled the grass. What I pay for is witching your field in return for your greed. I pay for your cattle that ate the gray grass. Happiest of all, I pay for your daughter, Fell.

      Eliza.

      Damn it.

      Fell could still taste the smell of the dead meat festering in the back of his sinuses. He had put down the last tainted beast this morning. He had beaten it square in the skull with his best chopping axe. The metal of the blade had chewed into the bone and stuck hard. He had to put his left boot against the cow’s forehead and lean back to work the axe loose. The unholy cattle hadn’t moved, not one of them - even after he had cut the first two down. The cursed cattle had just stood there in his field, the wind making slow soft harp sounds blowing through their gray rattled guts.

      He had put his daughter Eliza down before he had started with the cattle. Then he burned what was left of her and he buried her ashes in the field.

      The husk that he had burned and buried wouldn’t have nourished a worm.

      Was the milk tasty, Fell? Thessaly taunted him. Did young Eliza find it sweet?

      Witch! Fell hissed.

      He snatched up a skull-sized rock scraping his hand against the rough granite and marking it with his own blood. He would match his stone and his blood against hers, he fiercely swore.

      But first he had to know.

      Where did you hide the broom?

      Closer than you imagine.

      She spat again. The phlegm spattered the grass. The wind blew a little harder as Fell flung the stone. The granite chipped and sparked upon her flesh. 

      The farmer in Fell’s soul feared a run of wildfire. A spark could easily rise up in dry times like this and tear through an entire countryside.

      I’ll curse you Fell. I’ll curse you and all those who stand with you. the old woman began to chant. Merry through the prickle bush, the gore bush, the hump; careful round the holly fall, she’ll catch your shadow hold...,

      The onlookers stiffened like a pack of wintered over scarecrows. Fear, or something darker, rooted their feet to the earth. Fell stumbled back from the pit. The wind stiffened and gusted as Thessaly laughed all the harder.

      Our father, Fell began to pray.

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