There’s no more denying it, summer fans. Fall doesn’t start until the end of the month, but nobody cares. It’s officially autumn. Now, I’m not much of a pumpkin spice girl because I’m a Type 1 Diabetic and fucking Starbucks hates me and will not stock a dang sugar-free pumpkin spice syrup. This Skinny Mixes Pumpkin Praline Pie syrup is my top recommendation for you home coffee peeps. Fortunately, you don’t need to spend money or indulge in ridiculous pumpkin shit to appreciate fall. You can just crack open a free magazine and curl up with some good witchy stories in the new Witches & Cauldrons issue of The Crow’s Quill.
This issue features my brand new Salem Witch Trials-inspired serial killer cuckold story, “In His Hands”, so allow me to tempt you with a little excerpt. You can also check out the “In His Hands” moodboard for inspiration, my writing process, the playlist, and more!
In His Hands
Usually, when Giles found a woman alone in the woods, he tackled them to the ground and had his way. Forearm to throat, he’d lean over their defeated figures. Their eyes begged and pleaded, only to bulge when their dying gasps acknowledged that he was not a good man. He kissed them after, and arranged sticks around them.
Witch’s victims, the town thought.
Dorcas was different. She hissed and scratched. She called him evil, called him vile. She ripped hair from his scalp and he smashed her head against a rock in response. She sank, eyes closed, not acknowledging him at all. A crow called from the tree above. It cocked its head, curious.
Giles carried Dorcas home in darkness. She woke when he bound her in the cellar. She didn’t beg or plead. She just curled herself into the fetal position, whimpering in wait.
Giles fell asleep to the sound.
By morning, her name slipped through the village. The people all prayed in circles, hoping she’d be found safe.
On the third day, Giles heard scrambling in the cellar. He climbed down the rickety wooden steps with his lantern, stirring his hostage awake. A black rat squeaked. Dorcas glanced at the creature before lifting her gaze to meet his. She curled herself into the corner, her skirts twisting up her legs, revealing the blood she’d spilled at the moon’s call.
Giles stepped back, trampling the rat beneath his boot. Its shriek of death clawed at his insides.
“Please do not look upon my shame,” Dorcas begged, tugging at the stained linen.
He hurried back up the steps and brought her a bowl of water, a cloth, a tunic. He gave her the lantern and locked her away, giving her time to cleanse the blood from her skin.