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Blurb
Conall knows the angel standing in his graveyard is only a statue. After all, he
carved her with his own two hands. Can she possibly be…alive?
There’s a woman in the graveyard.
Conall Mackay never put stock in ghost stories. Not even after thirteen years
serving as the cemetery keeper in the village of Whitetail Knoll. But things change.
Now, his daughter is dreaming of a figure among the tombstones. The grounds are
overrun by dark thorns almost faster than Con can clear them. White fog and gray
ribbons creep up on him in the night, and a voiceless beauty beckons him from the
darkest corners of the graves.
When the world he knows starts to unravel, Conall might finally be forced to
believe.
carved her with his own two hands. Can she possibly be…alive?
There’s a woman in the graveyard.
Conall Mackay never put stock in ghost stories. Not even after thirteen years
serving as the cemetery keeper in the village of Whitetail Knoll. But things change.
Now, his daughter is dreaming of a figure among the tombstones. The grounds are
overrun by dark thorns almost faster than Con can clear them. White fog and gray
ribbons creep up on him in the night, and a voiceless beauty beckons him from the
darkest corners of the graves.
When the world he knows starts to unravel, Conall might finally be forced to
believe.
Excerpt
He hadn’t slept long before he heard sounds from down in the kitchen below.
“Shyla!” he called gruffly. “Weren’t you heading into town?”
No answer came from below, but the sounds of pots clanging told him his daughter toyed
about down there. Perhaps she’d decided not to leave him after all and taken it into her head to
now re-organize the house, since he’d so clearly wanted her to stay out of the cemetery. With a
low groan, Conall rolled out of bed and stepped out into the hall.
“Shyla!” he called again, coming to the head of the stairs. If she had stayed home, she
could at least do it without making a lot of noise.
“Shyla, I—”
He staggered then, as the hallway dimmed. Afternoon light flickered strangely, lightning
cracking a dismal sky outside, and in the space of time afterward everything else darkened.
Conall darted a glance around him as the house fell into shadow.
From the top of the stairwell, he saw the first whispering tendrils of white fog.
The heat of adrenaline shot through his limbs. Conall stumbled back into his bedroom,
even as the fog pursued. His gaze shot to the window as the last gray light of day faded away and
eerie darkness replaced it, like an eclipse sliding over the sun.
More cold mists veiled the glass, dancing and floating. Trembling overtook him as he
spun to find another escape.
He froze, finding himself face-to-face with the broken mask of the cemetery doll.
“You—” he gasped. His breath came out white as the fog enveloped them both, leaving
a space of mere inches between them, so he could still see her expressionless face. Gray ribbons
wound and curled through the air around him. “Who are you?” he asked.
The doll stared up at him. He sensed her searching, looking into his eyes even though
hers remained covered. She held him there with her unseen gaze, until her cool, cold hand came
up to touch his bare chest.
Conall let out a low breath. He closed his eyes, and a shudder of strange ease rippled
through his body. The cool pads of her fingers ran down his sternum, to his navel. The silky
ribbons brushed along his side.
Then he noticed her other hand. She lifted it up, to her own chest, and she held something
tightly in her fingers: Shyla’s stuffed dog.
“I made that…for my daughter,” he whispered. The woman with the broken mask tilted
her head down toward the small toy, studying it. For a fraction of a second, her fingers appeared
to tighten around it. She returned her gaze to him, then, and the toy fell from her grip into the
fog, forgotten.
“Wait—” he said, but she brought her other hand up to his chest to join the first, and he
recognized eagerness in the way she pressed her icy skin against his. Her face tilted to him, and
then came her lips again, ivory and flawless.
“I—” Conall breathed. “I…don’t understand…”
Her fingers slid up, around his neck, but he pulled away.
“No, this…this can’t real. I’m asleep. I must be.”
Gray ribbons danced, pulling him back to her, and she stroked his face. He sucked in a
breath at her touch and found his own hand coming up to brush hers.
“You’re so cold,” he said. “Like stone…but…”
Her cool touch thrilled him; it made his skin tingle and the heat of his own body sing.
Her perfect flesh did, in fact, prove soft under his hands, as if the contact with his worn calluses
infused cold ivory with yearning. She caressed his cheek, and Conall leaned into it. Before he
could stop himself, he bowed his head to her and kissed her frozen lips.
“Shyla!” he called gruffly. “Weren’t you heading into town?”
No answer came from below, but the sounds of pots clanging told him his daughter toyed
about down there. Perhaps she’d decided not to leave him after all and taken it into her head to
now re-organize the house, since he’d so clearly wanted her to stay out of the cemetery. With a
low groan, Conall rolled out of bed and stepped out into the hall.
“Shyla!” he called again, coming to the head of the stairs. If she had stayed home, she
could at least do it without making a lot of noise.
“Shyla, I—”
He staggered then, as the hallway dimmed. Afternoon light flickered strangely, lightning
cracking a dismal sky outside, and in the space of time afterward everything else darkened.
Conall darted a glance around him as the house fell into shadow.
From the top of the stairwell, he saw the first whispering tendrils of white fog.
The heat of adrenaline shot through his limbs. Conall stumbled back into his bedroom,
even as the fog pursued. His gaze shot to the window as the last gray light of day faded away and
eerie darkness replaced it, like an eclipse sliding over the sun.
More cold mists veiled the glass, dancing and floating. Trembling overtook him as he
spun to find another escape.
He froze, finding himself face-to-face with the broken mask of the cemetery doll.
“You—” he gasped. His breath came out white as the fog enveloped them both, leaving
a space of mere inches between them, so he could still see her expressionless face. Gray ribbons
wound and curled through the air around him. “Who are you?” he asked.
The doll stared up at him. He sensed her searching, looking into his eyes even though
hers remained covered. She held him there with her unseen gaze, until her cool, cold hand came
up to touch his bare chest.
Conall let out a low breath. He closed his eyes, and a shudder of strange ease rippled
through his body. The cool pads of her fingers ran down his sternum, to his navel. The silky
ribbons brushed along his side.
Then he noticed her other hand. She lifted it up, to her own chest, and she held something
tightly in her fingers: Shyla’s stuffed dog.
“I made that…for my daughter,” he whispered. The woman with the broken mask tilted
her head down toward the small toy, studying it. For a fraction of a second, her fingers appeared
to tighten around it. She returned her gaze to him, then, and the toy fell from her grip into the
fog, forgotten.
“Wait—” he said, but she brought her other hand up to his chest to join the first, and he
recognized eagerness in the way she pressed her icy skin against his. Her face tilted to him, and
then came her lips again, ivory and flawless.
“I—” Conall breathed. “I…don’t understand…”
Her fingers slid up, around his neck, but he pulled away.
“No, this…this can’t real. I’m asleep. I must be.”
Gray ribbons danced, pulling him back to her, and she stroked his face. He sucked in a
breath at her touch and found his own hand coming up to brush hers.
“You’re so cold,” he said. “Like stone…but…”
Her cool touch thrilled him; it made his skin tingle and the heat of his own body sing.
Her perfect flesh did, in fact, prove soft under his hands, as if the contact with his worn calluses
infused cold ivory with yearning. She caressed his cheek, and Conall leaned into it. Before he
could stop himself, he bowed his head to her and kissed her frozen lips.
Author bio
The story of His Cemetery Doll has been waiting to be told since Brantwijn Serrah first
began jotting things down in her school notebooks instead of doing her homework. Conall
Mackay and his lady ghost have existed for Brantwijn, in some form or another, longer than
almost any other characters she’s collected. This tale of a haunted graveyard and imprisoned
beauty is, in Brantwijn’s opinion, a wonderful way to finally bring them to life.
When she isn’t visiting the worlds of immortals, demons, dragons and goblins, Brantwijn
fills her time with artistic endeavors: sketching, painting, customizing My Little Ponies and
sewing plushies for friends. She can’t handle coffee unless there’s enough cream and sugar to
make it a milkshake, but try and sweeten her tea and she will never forgive you. She moonlights
as a futon for four lazy cats, loves tabletop role-play games, and can spend hours watching
Futurama, Claymore or Buffy the Vampire Slayer while she writes or draws.
In addition to her novels, Brantwijn has had several stories published in anthologies by
Breathless Press, including the 2013 Crimson Anthology and 2014 Ravaged Anthology. She’s
also had a short story published in the Cleiss Press Big Book of Orgasm and the anthology
Coming Together Through The Storm. She hopes to have several more tales to tell as time
goes on. She has author pages on GoodReads and Amazon, and loves to see reader comments
on her work. Her short stories occasionally pop up at Foreplay and Fangs, her blog at http://
brantwijn.blogspot.com.
began jotting things down in her school notebooks instead of doing her homework. Conall
Mackay and his lady ghost have existed for Brantwijn, in some form or another, longer than
almost any other characters she’s collected. This tale of a haunted graveyard and imprisoned
beauty is, in Brantwijn’s opinion, a wonderful way to finally bring them to life.
When she isn’t visiting the worlds of immortals, demons, dragons and goblins, Brantwijn
fills her time with artistic endeavors: sketching, painting, customizing My Little Ponies and
sewing plushies for friends. She can’t handle coffee unless there’s enough cream and sugar to
make it a milkshake, but try and sweeten her tea and she will never forgive you. She moonlights
as a futon for four lazy cats, loves tabletop role-play games, and can spend hours watching
Futurama, Claymore or Buffy the Vampire Slayer while she writes or draws.
In addition to her novels, Brantwijn has had several stories published in anthologies by
Breathless Press, including the 2013 Crimson Anthology and 2014 Ravaged Anthology. She’s
also had a short story published in the Cleiss Press Big Book of Orgasm and the anthology
Coming Together Through The Storm. She hopes to have several more tales to tell as time
goes on. She has author pages on GoodReads and Amazon, and loves to see reader comments
on her work. Her short stories occasionally pop up at Foreplay and Fangs, her blog at http://
brantwijn.blogspot.com.
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