The author's name is Danielle De Vor and the title of the book is Sorrow's Point: Book One of The Marker Chronicles. Published in December 2015, the book is available now.
So, without further ado, I'll let Danielle tell you all about this exciting horror/fantasy.
Not All Exorcists are Equal....One is Marked.
When defrocked ex-priest, Jimmy Holiday, agrees to help an old friend with his sick daughter, he doesn’t expect the horrors that await him. Blackmoor, his friend’s new residence, rests upon the outskirts of the town of Sorrow’s Point. The mansion’s history of magic, mayhem, and death makes it almost a living thing – a haunted mansion straight out of a Stephen King novel. Jimmy must decide if the young girl, Lucy, is only ill, or if the haunting of the house and her apparent possession are real.
After the house appears to affect him as well with colors of magic dancing before his eyes, rooms warded by a witch, and a ring of power in his voice, Jimmy is met by a transient who tells him he has “the Mark”. Whatever being “marked” means, Jimmy doesn’t care. All he wants to do is help Lucy. But, helping Lucy means performing an exorcism.
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Jones crept around the side of the massive home. He looked this way and that like they taught him in the academy. This was the first time something serious had gone on in Sorrow’s Point. He set his jaw, bound and determined to do the best damn job he could.
The sheriff’s footprints pressed into the tall grass, making it easy for him to know where to look. They led him to the back of the house and stopped as soon as they reached the stone patio. Something smelled sour-sweet. Flies would be swarming along soon. He walked up the steps and across to the door. The smell grew stronger, but he didn’t notice anything else out of the ordinary. Suddenly, his foot slid and he almost fell. His eyes drifted to the patio. A pile of puke almost the same color as the stone coated the bottom of his shoe. “Great.”
Backing up a step, he wiped his shoe on the stone as best he could. Then, sidestepped the puddle and peered in the window. Black was there, sitting at a butcher block table, facing the window. His dark hair stood up from his head in all directions. Eyebrows arched like the Devil's own. The deep red blood covered him, almost from head to toe. He took another bite out of the small human leg he held in his large hands, grinding his teeth through the raw flesh.
“Oh shit.” Jones shook, unable to release his death grip on the windowsill. Then, the world shifted.
Jones peered down the smoking barrel of his gun, following the path through the broken window. He hadn’t meant for the gun to go off. He didn’t even remember reaching for his weapon. Black’s chin slumped against his chest, the back of his head gone. Bits of gray matter stuck to the wall behind him. Black’s fingers relaxed. The leg fell to the floor.
“This is Lucy, this morning,” he said.
The blond hair hung limp around her face. The blood vessels around the whites of her eyes appeared burst from pressure. Her skin had a strange yellow cast, almost like the color of an old bruise. Her face had thinned from the wallet photo. She looked…sunken. The basic facial features remained, but I could hardly tell it was the same little girl. My body grew cold again, just like it had in the kitchen. This time, though, there was nothing to make a draft. The only window in the living room was the large picture window. It didn’t open. I rubbed my arms. “What the hell happened?”
He clasped the phone like a lifeline. “The house.”
My brows rose. I tried to think if any abuse could cause what I saw, but I came up short. The blood in her eyes clearly occurred from some sort of internal pressure. Punches to the face could have caused intense bruising outside the eye and around the socket, but that wasn’t what I saw in the picture. Scratches littered her face, but they were thin, as if caused by her own fingernails. I was dumbfounded. What did he expect me to do? My body gradually warmed up again, but I’d had just about all the oddness I could take for one evening.
“Are you going to help her?” he asked.
Help her? She needed a doctor, not an ex-priest. “Will,” I said. “How can I help her?”
“You know what to do.” He sat motionless in that chair. Nothing, no part of his body moved. He didn’t even blink.
I stood up and turned away from him. I couldn’t face him to say the next part. I wasn’t even sure he’d listen to reason. “She needs a doctor.”
“Goddammit!” He grabbed me from behind and spun me around. His face burned red with intensity. His grip on my shoulder was so tight it hurt. “She’s had a doctor! She’s had twenty fucking doctors. She’s been to internists, psychiatrists, PCP’s, neurologists, and they all keep passing the buck.”
I reached over and peeled his fingers from my shoulder. I wanted to beat the shit out of him for grabbing me and maybe knock some sense into him, but the man had clear stability issues. If something didn’t give soon, he was going to have a nervous breakdown. “What do they all say?”
He threw himself into the recliner, the rage dissipating with his spirits. I had let the air out of his basketball. “The shrinks aren’t sure what she has, maybe a split personality, or schizophrenia. I took her out of the last hospital because the quacks were considering electroshock therapy. ECT on a six-year-old! Jesus Christ.” He put his head in his hands.
I sunk into the sofa. “What makes you think she’s possessed?”
His voice came out in nothing but a whisper, yet the words had more impact that a five alarm fire, “Because she’s not my little girl anymore.”
Named one of the Examiner's 2014 Women in Horror: 93 Horror Authors you Need to Read Right Now, Danielle DeVor has been spinning the spider webs, or rather, the keyboard for more frights and oddities. She spent her early years fantasizing about vampires and watching "Salem's Lot" way too many times. When not writing and reading about weird things, you will find her hanging out at the nearest coffee shop, enjoying a mocha frappuccino.
Visit her at http://danielledevor.wordpress.com
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Writing dark fantasy and horror is a little different than writing other genres. Mostly, I think, because there is more freedom. You can choose whether to let your characters have the gift of a HEA (Happily Ever After) ending, or you can make things as dark as you like. You can choose to concentrate on gore and horror only, or you can get deeply into character development and make the story psychological. Heck, you can even dip your toe in just a little and make the frights subtle. Other genres don’t let you do that.
One thing to remember though, you aren’t going to scare everybody. No matter what you write, someone is going to chuckle and say it didn’t scare them at all. Don’t worry about it. We all have different fears. Keep your sights on those who will get creeped out by what you’ve written. I, personally, have been told that I have forever made a reader scared of 3 a.m. Sometimes, it is the little things that stick out.
Above all, don’t be afraid to write about what scares you. In fact, I recommend it. If it is something that scares the writer, chances are, the descriptions will be more vivid and the horror will have a certain life to it. So, that next nightmare you have, write it down. It just might turn out to be the best thing you’ve written yet.
EMBRACE THE OPPORTUNITIES LIFE PRESENTS TO YOU AND ALWAYS, ALWAYS FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS!
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