Paranormal / Suspense
Date Published: March 31, 2015
The Wraith of Carter’s Mill chronicles five generations of women from the turn
of the century to present day. It depicts in startling detail the result of an old curse and
the wraith that haunts the family. Sensitives, The Guardians and The Forgotten tell the tale
while the fourth shocking segment, Carter’s Mill provides the back-story. It reveals the
shameful truth behind a century of sorrow and the curse of revenge that plagues the
Carter women.
Zeb, the Carter family patriarch, is a hard, callous man. He runs his thriving
sawmill, farm and family with an iron fist. When he commits an incredible act of
cruelty, he ignorantly brings a terrible curse down upon all his kin. Martha Thompsons’
prophecy proves true as the family falls into ruin, and the women pay the price.
Almost a century after Zeb’s death, a Carter daughter is born with notable yet
uncanny gifts. It will be up to Shyanne to unearth a long buried family secret and set an
old wrong back to rights. Will she find a way to lift the curse and banish the accursed
wraith that haunts her? If she fails, she risks losing her own little girl to the dark entity
forever.
A small North Carolina community, where everyone knows everyone sets the
perfect stage for this suspenseful drama. Rich in history and southern culture, The
Wraith of Carter’s Mill harkens back to a time when life was simpler, and superstition
was part of everyday living.
Book 1 - SENSITIVES
Chapter 1 - Summer 1955
Libby Carter made the long walk back
from Mr. Johnny’s store as quickly
as she could. Mama was waiting. She had
been sent for a box of borax, and it was
excruciatingly heavy to her reed-like,
eight-year-old arms. The lingering
sweetness of the Coca Cola that Mr.
Johnny had given her still hovered faintly in
her mouth. He had insisted that she take it,
even though she had told him she did not
have a nickel with which to pay for it.
“It’s hot as blazes out there,
girl. I know you’re thirsty,” he
had said as he pulled the icy glass bottle
from the drink box. “Sit out there on
that bench in the shade a minute and cool
off, and put the bottle in the drink crate
when you’re done,” he had
added as he patted her on the head.
There had been three men sitting on
Chapter 1 - Summer 1955
Libby Carter made the long walk back
from Mr. Johnny’s store as quickly
as she could. Mama was waiting. She had
been sent for a box of borax, and it was
excruciatingly heavy to her reed-like,
eight-year-old arms. The lingering
sweetness of the Coca Cola that Mr.
Johnny had given her still hovered faintly in
her mouth. He had insisted that she take it,
even though she had told him she did not
have a nickel with which to pay for it.
“It’s hot as blazes out there,
girl. I know you’re thirsty,” he
had said as he pulled the icy glass bottle
from the drink box. “Sit out there on
that bench in the shade a minute and cool
off, and put the bottle in the drink crate
when you’re done,” he had
added as he patted her on the head.
There had been three men sitting on
high-backed wooden chairs in a cluster in
the middle of the store. One of them
picked lazily at a guitar while the other two
eyed her as they whispered. Mr. Johnny
noticed it too, but pretended he did not.
He was always nice to her but acted
nervous when she was in the store.
Libby had obediently taken the proferred
Coca Cola, thanked the storekeeper as
she always did and went outside to sit on
the bench. The windows and glass double
doors were propped open in an effort to
catch as much summer breeze as possible.
Only the screens separated her from the
conversation within.
One of the men had said to Mr. Johnny,
“Hey Johnny, you gone go up to the
Carter place and collect a nickel’s
worth later on?” One of the other
men had laughed loudly while the third
continued to pick at his guitar, ignoring the
other as he tried to tune his instrument. Mr.
Johnny responded in an urgent but hushed
tone that did not hide his disdain for the
the middle of the store. One of them
picked lazily at a guitar while the other two
eyed her as they whispered. Mr. Johnny
noticed it too, but pretended he did not.
He was always nice to her but acted
nervous when she was in the store.
Libby had obediently taken the proferred
Coca Cola, thanked the storekeeper as
she always did and went outside to sit on
the bench. The windows and glass double
doors were propped open in an effort to
catch as much summer breeze as possible.
Only the screens separated her from the
conversation within.
One of the men had said to Mr. Johnny,
“Hey Johnny, you gone go up to the
Carter place and collect a nickel’s
worth later on?” One of the other
men had laughed loudly while the third
continued to pick at his guitar, ignoring the
other as he tried to tune his instrument. Mr.
Johnny responded in an urgent but hushed
tone that did not hide his disdain for the
jest, “You hush up, Jim. The girl will
hear you.” The man called Jim just
laughed all the harder.
Libby did not know what the comment
meant, only that it made her feel bad. She
knew it had something to do with Mama.
Most folks around here did not like Mama
much.
Libby knew that Mama knew exactly how
much time it took to walk to Mr.
Johnny’s store and back. She had
drunk the cold drink as fast as she could
without taking the time to savor the rare
treat. Now, halfway home, walking the dirt
road in the blistering July sun, she wished
she had enjoyed the Coke more.
It was exactly two miles from her house to
the little general store. Her twelve-year-old
brother, Jack, had told her that once.
When Libby had asked how he knew that,
he had said that he had watched the
odometer on the church bus one Sunday.
Jack thought he knew everything. Libby
did not know how far two miles actually
hear you.” The man called Jim just
laughed all the harder.
Libby did not know what the comment
meant, only that it made her feel bad. She
knew it had something to do with Mama.
Most folks around here did not like Mama
much.
Libby knew that Mama knew exactly how
much time it took to walk to Mr.
Johnny’s store and back. She had
drunk the cold drink as fast as she could
without taking the time to savor the rare
treat. Now, halfway home, walking the dirt
road in the blistering July sun, she wished
she had enjoyed the Coke more.
It was exactly two miles from her house to
the little general store. Her twelve-year-old
brother, Jack, had told her that once.
When Libby had asked how he knew that,
he had said that he had watched the
odometer on the church bus one Sunday.
Jack thought he knew everything. Libby
did not know how far two miles actually
was, but she sure knew that it was a long
walk, especially in summer time.
Libby shifted the five pound box of borax
to her other arm and then propped it on
her hip the way Mamas often carried their
babies. For most, the sight of the long dark
bend ahead would be a welcome sight,
especially in this heat. Oak trees dripping
with Spanish moss hung over the road,
providing shade for a good stretch halfway
home, but Libby always found it difficult to
pass through that part.
It was not the tales Jack told her of a
forgotten graveyard buried deep in the
woods along this section of the road that
frightened her, but rather the feeling that
she had when she passed through it. If
asked to explain why she kept her eyes
cast downward during this stretch,
counting the steps of her bare feet,
contemplating the red dirt that clung to her
toes, she would have said that she did not
want to see what was just behind the trees.
If asked what was just behind the trees,
she would have answered that she did not
walk, especially in summer time.
Libby shifted the five pound box of borax
to her other arm and then propped it on
her hip the way Mamas often carried their
babies. For most, the sight of the long dark
bend ahead would be a welcome sight,
especially in this heat. Oak trees dripping
with Spanish moss hung over the road,
providing shade for a good stretch halfway
home, but Libby always found it difficult to
pass through that part.
It was not the tales Jack told her of a
forgotten graveyard buried deep in the
woods along this section of the road that
frightened her, but rather the feeling that
she had when she passed through it. If
asked to explain why she kept her eyes
cast downward during this stretch,
counting the steps of her bare feet,
contemplating the red dirt that clung to her
toes, she would have said that she did not
want to see what was just behind the trees.
If asked what was just behind the trees,
she would have answered that she did not
know, because she had not seen it.
C. Evenfall grew up on the Crystal Coast of North Carolina. In many ways, her community was
isolated from the outside world, and time simply stood still. The old ways of “doing things”
surrounded her, and she was both fascinated by the rich history and influenced by it.
As with any such place, the area was rich with ghost lore and old tales of “people done wrong.” C.
Evenfall, a child seen and not heard, hovered as close as she dared, listening to the old stories when
the adults got together talking about old times. She also spent many nights with the sheet pulled
over her head in childish fright.
A paranormal encounter when she was just six years old, experienced by two other people at the
same time, convinced her that ghosts really did exist. C. Evenfall has been seeking answers ever
since. Her fascination with the unexplainable, coupled with her love of history and southern culture
and the role women play in both, have inspired her to write The Wraith of Carter’s Mill, a series of
novellas. Each inspired by tales from her childhood and the family members who passed them
down.
Life has taken her many places, but today, C. Evenfall resides with her husband in the same fishing
village where she grew up. Together they enjoy hiking, camping, gardening and the outdoors in
general. She forgives his skeptics’ dismissal of things that go bump in the night and loves him dearly
in spite of it. They complement one another perfectly.
Contact Information
Author’s Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CEvenfall
Author’s Blog: http://cevenfall.wordpress.com/
Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/C.-Evenfall/e/B00MSV6YT0
BAA Author’s Page: http://booksauthorsandartists.com/authors/c-evenfall/
Twitter: C. Evenfall@CEvenfall2
Purchase Links
Amazon:
WCMx Paperback: http://www.amazon.com/dp/1503205096
WCMx E-Book: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00VIU9YKS
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The title caught my attention first.
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