Fear Zone is proud to present Chapter One from Lisa Manetti's new novel, The Gentling Box, which is now available and has been scaring up terrific reviews right out of the starting gate.


Description:

A 19th century half-gypsy horse trader, Imre, has been cursed with a hideously disfiguring and fatal disease by the Romanian sorceress, Anyeta. On the verge of death, he must contend with his most hellish childhood memory--which he has sworn never to use--in order to save his wife and daughter. A presence even more terrifying to him than Anyeta: the gentling box.


Blurbs:

"A keenly conceived and richly executed cornucopia of the blackest magic. Mannetti's prowess as a writer hauls the reader into a shimmering, phantasmagoric demesne of relentless suspense and high-creep-factor chills, and doesn't let go until the final page. This story is a dark work of art."
-Edward Lee, author of CITY INFERNAL and BRIDES OF THE IMPALER

"When was the last time you lost yourself in a book? Lisa Mannetti dares you to enter a realm unlike anything you've dreamed of, a world of gallant gypsies and ancient evil, of passionate obsessions ... and abject terror. Take that dare. Immerse yourself. The rewards are plentiful. But be warned. Nothing could prepare you for the horror of The Gentling Box."
--Robert Dunbar, author of THE PINES and THE SHORE


"Mannetti's prose has teeth; sharp teeth that grab on and refuse to let go."
-- J.A. Konrath, author of WHISKEY SOUR and FUZZY NAVEL.


"Lisa Mannetti's impressive debut novel The Gentling Box transports you to another time and place with the same kind of dark magic that pervades the 19th-century world she's recreated, reminding us that it was not so long ago that the terror of sorcery and spectres was very real--very real, and not so far-fetched."
--Hank Schwaeble, Bram Stoker-Award winner and author of DAMNABLE (Jove 2009)


CHAPTER ONE:


-1-


Nyiregyhaza, Northeastern Hungary: June, 1864


My wife sits mute now in the corner of our caravan, because this morning it is her personality which has come to the fore. Her hands are folded quietly in the lap of her skirt. Just above her left hand is a thick purplish scar that circles her wrist like a hideous bracelet. I don't want to think about the scar, about how it is the source of the evil afflicting our lives.

If I raise my head from the sweat-soaked pillow I can see her bare feet splayed against the worn floorboards, but it is her face I find myself staring at: small, kitten-shaped, dominated by her huge dark eyes. She has gypsy eyes. They were very bright when we were both younger; now they are ringed by deep gray shadows like bruises and filled with pain. Meeting mine, they beg: Save Lenore.

My wife is right of course, and she is living evidence of what will happen to Lenore, our daughter, if I don't intervene. But Christ, I think, how can I save her when the foul disease I've taken is ravaging through me like a brushfire? I close my eyes and instantly hear the swish of skirts, so I know she has gotten to her feet, she is moving toward the bed. And now I feel her hand tapping my shoulder urgently.

I open my eyes; her face is full of defiance. Her black brows contract angrily and she points at her wrist. Again.

"Yes," I say, my voice a ragged whisper, "I know." I know we will die shut up in this stinking grave of a caravan and Lenore will be possessed by the same hungry spirit that has taken my wife's life, that has killed Joseph and punished me.

No. She shakes her head, and suddenly her thin hands go to her face; her shoulders hitch and great wracking sobs shake her small frame. She is crying, and the wailing voice I hear is the first sound she has made as Mimi, as my wife, in more months than I can count. She speaks when she is Anyeta, I think bitterly, but never as Mimi. Anyeta has taken that from her, too.

She sinks onto the edge of the bed, her long hair falling forward, and I want to comfort her. I sit up but my chest burns. I cough, my throat a column of fire, but it's so hard to breathe. I make myself cough harder and up comes a wad of greasy yellow phlegm streaked with blood. I manage to hide the clotty mess in a handkerchief before Mimi turns her head and sees it.

I put my arm around her shoulder. Her eyes flick toward my fingers. She whirls around and points at the livid scar on her wrist. I nod. Mimi is reminding me again. She has tried to save Lenore herself, but her powers have fled. I admire her courage. It wasn't failure.

"Not your fault," I rasp before the rumbling cough cleaves me again. We both wait until the fit passes. I let my hand rest on her knee.

All at once, Mimi seizes my wrist hard. Her grip is like iron, like steel pincers, and I'm suddenly terrified the change is on her and in a second her eyes will blink and I'll see Anyeta's demonic eyes, hear her mocking screams and taunts.

But Mimi throws my hand back at me and runs to the oval mirror. She jerks it from the plastered wall so fiercely the nail pops out with a shriek and she nearly loses her balance. The silvery mirror sways between her hands, she holds it to her chest like a shield, she moves toward the bed. She is making a grunting noise, trying to tell me something. I concentrate on her lips. She is moving them carefully, slowly. Then I have it:

"Look, Imre."

In the mirror I see my features are blurred with thick scabs and crusts. My face is overrun with the red weeping sores and I would weep for the sight except I think she has seen it spreading and nursed me and never shown revulsion or fear.

Mimi thrusts the mirror toward me again and makes a furious sound, shapes the word, "Look!"

She wants me to know that time is short, that I'm dying, that the pustulent blisters will eat through my lungs, completely consume my flesh--

Mimi hurls the mirror to the floor. The sound is deafening inside the caravan. I see her feet moving among the splinters from the shattered mahogany frame, the chunks of broken glass. She squats. Heedless, she clutches a long sharp shard and I see drops of blood welling from her palm and fingers then running down and staining the white filmy sleeve of her blouse. She points at her wrist with the glass knife, then at mine, and pantomimes sawing.

And then, Christ, then I know what she wants. A sick feeling eddies through me, and I feel the vomit rising in my throat. I push it down because Mimi is asking me to be strong, to save Lenore. I look into her dark eyes and I know what she wants. She wants me to claim the hand of the dead.


-2-

I take a deep breath. We both know that claiming the hand of the dead is no small matter, and I glance up at Mimi, expecting her to be looking back at me with sympathy, with understanding, perhaps a little sadness. But she is already climbing the short flight of wooden steps to the cramped loft space above the bedroom. I hear the creak of her tread on the floorboards over my head. The roof is low, so I know she is bent over rummaging through the boxes and kegs, the rolls of dun-colored canvas we use as tents in summertime, Lenore's outgrown toys. We don't let Lenore go up in the loft. We tell her it's dusty, dangerous. We don't want her to find what my wife has kept hidden up there. Even I don't know where it is, and when I go up to look for a tool or a bit of leather to mend a broken harness, I keep my mind on my business. I don't think about the savage charm.

Mimi is on the third step, standing upright now. And I can see she has the glass-topped box in her hands. My breath catches in my throat.

The box is a rectangle. The bottom is the brilliant orange of hammered copper. It's very old, the finest craftsmanship. I think at one time the top was probably a kind of thin metal tracery or fretwork so the owner could look inside and see the relic. But the soldered hinges show signs of repair, and someone--maybe Anyeta--has had it replaced with glass. It reminds me of a miniature coffin made for a prince or a statesman.

My wife opens the lid, and the caravan is suddenly filled with a sweet fragrance. Briefly, the smell of lilies, tuberoses, gardenia overpowers the sickroom stench--the wet swampy odor of my disintegrating flesh.

She nods at me and sets the box on the low deal table between the bed and the sidewall.

The hand is nestled in a bed of worn velvet the maroon color of drying blood; displayed as if it were a wondrous antique jewel in a shop window, instead of an ugly lump of flesh.

It is black with age and has shrunken in on itself, so that the fingers are curled into a fist. It looks more like the hairless paw of some mummified dog than a human hand. If my wife were to turn it over I would see the fingernails. They make round, slightly glossy spots like stove windows made of smoked mica. At the wrist two small bits of cracked yellowish bone can be seen.

The thought of claiming it makes my head whirl.

Mimi goes to the wooden door at the rear of the wagon. At the threshold, she turns and looks at me. In the half gloom her face is nearly as pale as her white blouse, and her eyes are the violet brown of pansies. She swallows nervously, then hangs her head a little. She doesn't want this for me, but we are both afraid Anyeta will dupe Lenore as Mimi herself was tricked into claiming it.

There is no air of command in her eyes or her posture, only pleading. She pauses, her hand touching the iron latch, and gives me a small smile. For a second I'm reminded of the young girl I fell in love with.

I don't know if I can summon the strength or courage to claim the hand of the dead. I settle deeper into the feather pillows, my arm resting crosswise over my brow. Mimi seems to know that I want, need, to think about the dark twisted tale of our lives.

I sigh, and suddenly she is at my side, her hand in my graying hair. She leans over the bed and kisses my eyelids one at a time.

"I love you, Imre," she shapes, and then she is hurrying toward the door. It shuts behind her. Neither of us knows whether she'll come back as herself or Anyeta.

Outside I hear Lenore's voice trembling with fear and grief. "Papa," she blurts. "He--?" Her question hangs for several seconds.

"Dying," comes the soft reply. And I know that my child is out there, alone, speaking with a demon that pretends to be her mother.

My eye is drawn to the copper box. The blackened hand seems to vibrate. I feel its power calling me, whispering promises like sighs in the hot wind that blows over the flat Hungarian plain. I grit my teeth. Drops of sweat break out at my hairline. Oh Jesus, no! I don't want this. I shake my head and a sharp steel cough racks my chest.

"Please. I can't."

A constellation of pallid faces--Joseph, Constantin, Mimi, Lenore--crowd the air around my head like cherubs in a religious painting. Their eyes are full of sorrow, begging me to intervene.

"Think of the power." A musical voice hums in my mind--fills it.

"Christ, Christ," I moan. For then I am hearing the haunting sound of gypsy violins. I see the bosa venos around the campfire, their faces lit in the ruddy glare. Their heads are canted over the shining instruments. The bows are flying faster, faster. Feet moving over scattered rose petals, the swirl of a gauzy scarf. Mimi dancing. I cover my face with my hands.

"Remember, Imre?"

Yes. After the feast, Mimi danced again--for me alone-- in our caravan the night of our wedding. The women had drawn dotted patterns on her hands with red henna for the ceremony; but when I undressed my bride I found she'd privately, daringly rouged her nipples. Her boldness fled, my delight made her suddenly shy. She was afraid the Romany women would show the white nuptial sheets in the morning, and there would be no virgin's blood because we'd been making love, secretly, for months. They didn't. But we stained and reddened the sheets with the henna on her body that transferred to mine. And in the times between our long sweet couplings, I got on my knees and vowed I'd never betray her. I didn't know I was telling a lie. And it wasn't a lie until Anyeta came into our lives; I wince hearing a low throaty chuckle bubbling with mockery.

"Look, Imre," the voice croons slyly. I watch transfixed. The copper box opens, closes, opens, closes. Each time the lid thuds down the caravan walls seem to reverberate. There is another crash, and then I'm lost in the tunnel of memories, hearing the sound of the stranger pounding the door on the night it all began ten months ago.


***

Lisa Mannetti is a former magazine editor and adjunct college English instructor who discovered she preferred full-time writing to real work when she volunteered to be the family member who cared for her ailing mother. Her short story, "Everybody Wins" ( These Guns for Hire edited by J.A. Konrath) was recently made into a short film directed by Paul Leyden and "Hungry for the Flesh" ( Space & Time, April 2007) was recommended for a Stoker Award. Additional short stories scheduled for publication include "The Blow-Up Job" ( Traps! Dark Hart Press November 2008) and "Other Rooms" (Pretty Scary Anthology 2009). Most recently she served as guest editor for Terrible Beauty, Fearful Symmetry , an anthology to be published by DarkHart Press in January 2009. She is currently working on a second novel, The Everest Hauntings and two projects with noted illustrator Glenn Chadbourne: 51 Fiendish Ways to Leave Your Lover (a macabre gag book) and The Tarot of the Brothers Grimm.

When she isn't writing, she works on her haunted website, The Chancery House , which has received more than 3 million visitors, and constructs spooky gothic greeting cards based on her cemetery photos. She is also a Tarot Reader--a skill she learned while writing The Gentling Box.

Lisa lives in the haunted house she grew up in Westchester County in New York with one highly rambunctious cat --Huckleberry Finn--and two kittens--Harry and Theo Houdini--who are growing at the approximate rate of nuclear fusion and who cannot wait to pulverize the Christmas tree.

You can also visit Lisa at www.lisamannetti.com