Witch Water by Edward Lee

By Edward Lee

Welcome to Haver-Towne. The sedate colonial hotel is the ideal position the place Stew Fanshawe can break out from all of it for some time. yet rather than discovering tranquility and self-reflection, Stew unearths anything even more detailed: a city that used to be steeped in a quagmire of witchcraft, satanic debauchery, and centuries-old occult technological know-how. certainly, Haver-Towne has a so much colourful heritage: A warlock who sires kids along with his personal daughter, young children for use for whatever a long way worse than sacrifice. A witch whose carnal abandon and sheer diabolism stagger even the main demented imaginations. And a 300-year-old mansion in whose partitions are embalmed the infernal mystery of…Witch-Water. “What the hell is witch-water?” Fanshawe asks himself that first day he’d heard the macabre be aware, but if he unearths out, he’ll want he by no means had. His interest unlocks one morbid mystery after one other, and divulges a heritage of erotopathic witches, wicked covens, sick-in-the-head sexuality, and the main gruesome approach to execution ever devised. sign up for Edward Lee in his over-the-top modern day tribute to vintage horror scribe M.R. James, a unique of immemorial curses, demonic lust, and totally unmitigated evil.

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Extra resources for Witch Water

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The Frogman on the far right of the group was a huge figure, well over seven feet. He tottered on high heels that made him seem monstrously camp. His laboured breathing, slow and steady through the air-tube of his heavy rubber gas mask, or discipline helmet, carried over the heads of the crowd. A ponderous latex suit swathed his body. Beneath his suit very loose thin rubber bloomers hung. His balls were tightly strapped around the base of his scrotum. That sexual tension, Horror knew, would make him a more exacting biexcreterminator.

The musculature of the man's head fell, and slopped, light as a sherry trifle. Horror snapped his mouth open-and-shut in broad crushing strokes. In his cheeks, blood and bone meshed in a stew, and he chewed solidly on the head. Intermittently, he shook it, as a dog shakes a bone. As he ate, the giant Frogman's body jerked in a solo masturbatory dance against his body. Horror spoke through a swell of blood, 'Trying to fuck me, Sonny Jim? I thought you had your 'union card' in fornication; that you were a finished swordsman.

The sight of them was like seeing old friends. The Filipino fighting knife-the balisong-protruded from the waders. The urban skinner, a push dagger held like a corkscrew for a twist death, was THE FROGMEN 43 fixed to the waistbands. Horror's teeth gleamed in the neon as he watched the bobbing chiselled armour-piercing black head of the tanto sneak from the sleeve of a Frogman's macintosh. The fixed single-edged stainless steel blade was designed to slash and drive. Held correctly, with the blade running along the forearm, it was almost impossible to block.

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