A brand-new horror novel from the Set in Florida in 1970, Grady Hendrix''s newest novel follows a group of young women in a home for unwed mothers who find a guide to witchcraft.

Autorentext

Grady Hendrix is a New York Times bestselling novelist and screenwriter who owns too many paperbacks and not enough shelves. He's the author of How to Sell a Haunted House, The Final Girl Support Group, The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires, and many more, including Paperbacks from Hell, a history of the horror paperback boom of the seventies and eighties that won the Bram Stoker Award for Superior Achievement in Nonfiction. (All the paperbacks are for "research" and he needs them.) His books have sold over two million copies and have been translated into more than twenty languages. He lives in New York City and will die there, too, probably crushed to death beneath piles of those paperbacks.****

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"Superb ... a perfect horror for our imperfect age.” – *The New York Times

***AN INSTANT NEW YORK TIMES AND USA TODAY BESTSELLER

They were never girls, they were witches . . . .

**
They call them wayward girls. Loose girls. Girls who grew up too fast. And they’re sent to the Wellwood House in St. Augustine, Florida, where unwed mothers are hidden by their families to have their babies in secret, to give them up for adoption, and most important of all, to forget any of it ever happened.

Fifteen-year-old Fern arrives at the home in the sweltering summer of 1970, pregnant, frightened, and alone. Under the watchful eye of the stern Miss Wellwood, she meets a dozen other girls in the same predicament. There’s Rose, a hippie who insists she’s going to find a way to keep her baby and escape to a commune. And Zinnia, a budding musician who plans to marry her baby’s father. And Holly, a wisp of a girl, barely fourteen, mute and pregnant by no-one-knows-who.

Everything the girls eat, every moment of their waking day, and everything they’re allowed to talk about is strictly controlled by the adults who claim they know what’s best for them. Then Fern meets a librarian who gives her an occult book about witchcraft, and power is in the hands of the girls for the first time in their lives. But power can destroy as easily as it creates, and it’s never given freely. There’s always a price to be paid . . . and it’s usually paid in blood.

In Witchcraft for Wayward Girls, the author of How to Sell a Haunted House and The Final Girl Support Group delivers another searing, completely original novel and further cements his status as a “horror master” (NPR).

Leseprobe
Chapter 1

She didn't think things could get any worse, then she saw the sign.

Welcome to Florida, it read. The Sunshine State.

She knew she shouldn't ask. She knew she stood in a puddle of gasoline and every word was a lit match falling from her lips. She knew her dad hated her. But that sign made her throat squeeze shut so tight she couldn't breathe, and her bloated stomach pressed on her lungs so hard she couldn't get enough air, and she'd suffocate if she didn't say something.

"Dad," she said. "Why're we in Florida?"

His hands tightened around the steering wheel until it creaked, but he kept his eyes on the road.

"Huntsville's the opposite way," she said, trying to stay calm.

They'd been driving for hours and in all that time he hadn't looked at her once. He'd shown up at Aunt Peggy's that morning so angry his hands shook as he snatched her clothes and stuffed them in her suitcase and slammed it shut. One of her bra straps stuck out the side, but she didn't think it was smart to say anything.

It isn't too smart for a girl to be smart, her mom had always said.

So she just made herself very, very small. For hours and hours she made herself so incredibly small. But they didn't know anyone in Florida. They didn't have any relatives in Florida. This was kidnapping unless he told her where they were going. He had to tell her where they were going. So she resorted to the one thing she knew could reach him.

"I saw the trailer for that Planet of the Apes sequel," she said because he loved science fiction. "It's about nuclear war. I bet they got the rockets all wrong."

"Goddammit, Neva!" he exploded. "Do you understand what you've done? You have ruined your mother's health, God knows what you've done to your brother and sister, and now you've ruined your aunt Peggy's good name. I don't even know who you are anymore. It'd have been better if you'd never been born!"

"Where are you taking me?" she bawled, terrified.

"I'm taking you wherever I want!" he bawled back.

"What's happening, Dad?" she asked, and she couldn't help it, she was so scared. "Why are we in Florida?"

He shifted from side to side in his seat, adjusted his hands on the wheel, then addressed the windshield like it really needed to understand this was for its own good.

"We found a place for you to stay," he explained to the windshield. "With other girls in your condition. After you're better, I'll come get you and we can put all this behind us."

The full horror of it hit her.

"You're sending me to a Home?" she asked.

Headlines from confession magazines streaked through her brain: Disgraced Debutante Left to Rot in House of Shame! Good Girls Say No-Bad Girls Go Here! They Gave Away Their Own Flesh and Blood! During rehearsals for Arsenic and Old Lace Margaret Roach had told them about the Homes. They were run by nuns who beat the girls, made them work in industrial laundries, and sold their babies, and Margaret Roach was a Catholic so she would know. The Homes were for poor girls, trashy girls, fast girls. They were for sluts.

"Daddy, you can't do this," she begged, because he had to understand, he had to turn the car around, there had to be another way. "Please, please, please, take me home, or to Granny Craven's, or talk to Aunt Peggy again. I promise I'll stay in the bedroom and I won't make a sound and I'll vacuum and wash dishes and I'll do whatever she says, but you can't take me to a Home. They aren't for people like us. They're for Catholics!"

He turned to face her, briefly, and in that moment she saw how much he hated her.

"You've ruined everything," he said, cold and flat. A simple statement of fact.

He was right. She had ruined everything. Her mom had always told her she was going to ruin her grades by spending too much time on dramatics, she was going to ruin her eyes by reading in the dark, ruin her reputation by riding in a car with boys, ruin her figure by eating two desserts, and every time she did it anyway and nothing bad ever happened, but now she'd finally done it. Now she'd finally done something so bad nothing would ever be the same again. Now she'd finally ruined her life.

She was being sent to a Home.

She wasn't one of those wilting violets who cried at every loud noise but she couldn't help it, her body did whatever it wanted these days, and now she leaned her head against the hot window and wept-big, ugly, racking sobs.

Her dad clicked on the radio.

". . . Brother, you are not prepared for Hell. You thought life was one big sinning party and there'd be no price to pay and now you're burning in the pit and finding out how wrong you were. Look up and ask for help, but what kind of help can there be in Hell . . ."

Florida was Hell. Back in Alabama they had hills and trees and lakes, but Florida was an endless flat tabletop with no escape from the sun. It beat down on the highway, cooked the roof of the station wagon, sent sweat slicking down her bulging stomach, trickling into her rubber girdles, pooling underneath her butt.

Her dad fiddled with the radio and a comforting bal…