Cauchemar

A Sunburst Award nominee: “Unease haunts this southern gothic . . . An intense debut bolstered by a powerful sense of place” (The Globe and Mail, Toronto).   Gripping, fast-paced, gorgeously written, and with unforgettable characters, Cauchemar tells the story of twenty-year-old Hannah, who finds herself living alone on the edge of a Louisianan swamp after her adopted mother and protector dies. Hannah falls in love with Callum, an easy-going boat captain and part-time musician, but after her mysterious birth mother, outcast as a witch and rumored to commune with the dead, comes back into Hannah’s life, she must confront what she’s been hiding from—the deadly spirits that haunt the swamp, the dark secrets of her past, and the nascent gift she possesses. Like the nightmares that plague Hannah, Cauchemar lingers and haunts.   “Grigorescu grabs readers with a sense of foreboding at the start and builds intense tension as she leads them into a haunting place where the lines between dream and reality, living and dead, blur and hypnotize.” —Publishers Weekly   “Grigorescu applies just the right tonal touch to her macabre subject matter . . . The book is full of riveting prose about complex, fallible characters.” —Quill & Quire   “What makes Cauchemar so effective—so ominous and creepy—lies in Grigorescu’s skill in setting a scene. There’s a convincing aura of melancholy and malevolence haunting Hannah’s world.” —Broken Pencil   “A stolen moment of pure fantasy, elevated by the author’s mesmerizing brand of descriptive, evocative language . . . Cauchemar easily surpasses its rivals of Twilight and True Blood, due to the poetic quality of Grigorescu’s writing.” —Scene Magazine

Bibliotica

“A bayou setting, a dash of supernatural intrigue, and enough music and cookery to fill anyone’s plate … Goes well with fresh-caught fish, gumbo, and sweet tea.”

Bella’s Bookshelves

“Grigorescu is a literary sorceress ― who has possibly hung out with the Louisiana witches, because she evoked them something strong in this book.”

Jeff Parker, author of Where Bears Roam the Streets

“Alexandra Grigorescu’s debut is a straight-up old-school Southern Gothic. True Blood wishes it was this good.”

Spencer Gordon, author of Cosmo

“Alexandra Grigorescu works pure magic with the line, pulling proverbial rabbits from alligator hats and performing mind-bending enchantments upon every page. Like many of the spellbinding characters of Cauchemar, Grigorescu possesses a preternatural talent.”

The Book Binder’s Daughter

“It is well-written with just the right amount of suspense to keep the reader guessing what will happen to the characters until the very last page.”

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

CauchemarBy Alexandra GrigorescuECW PRESSCopyright © 2015 Alexandra GrigorescuAll rights reserved.ISBN: 978-1-77041-234-7CHAPTER 1Hannah waited exactly seven minutes before touching Mae's cold body.Earlier that morning, Hannah had watched from the doorway as Mae massaged olive oil into the frayed ends of her hair, so heavily flecked with white. She'd watched the woman's arthritic hands gingerly stopper the bottle of olive oil.Mae had noticed her looking and cocked an eyebrow. "The sun's getting on," she'd chastised, "and you've done nothing yet with your day. Go bother Doug for some mint and limes and I'll fix us something sweet."Hannah had taken her time. She'd let spectacled Doug clasp his chest theatrically at the sight of her, and she'd smiled as he slid the too-ripe limes and a glossy, glazed Satsuma orange tart into a paper bag. She'd felt Doug's fatherly eyes on her back as she walked away from the shoddy fruit and vegetable stand he'd built in front of his house. Then, unable to the resist the potent mix of pastry and fresh citrus, Hannah had waded down through long grass to the water and eaten slowly on a sun-warmed rock. All those minutes, and Hannah hadn't felt it happen.By the time Hannah walked through the front door, Mae was coughing."What's wrong?" Hannah cried, kicking off her shoes as she dropped the bag of limes. She rushed to help the woman into her chair.Mae struggled to speak as she gripped Hannah's hands between hers. Her eyes were wide and her throat worked furiously. "I'm sorry," she wheezed. "I tried.""For what?""Listen, girl," Mae began urgently, then was silenced by another convulsive fit of coughing. Her face was flushed, her eyes bloodshot. "I want you to go." The coughs turned her voice ragged."Go where?" Hannah asked, as she thumped Mae's back.Throughout Hannah's life, Mae was always trying to keep her home, keep her close, but now she practically hissed, "Run.""I'll get you some water," Hannah said, and hurried into the kitchen.Something sharp pricked her foot and she noticed a broken glass, roughly swept into a corner of the room. As she ran the faucet, a shiver danced down her spine. A candle was lit in the windowsill, and the wick was almost spent."Mae?" she called out, setting down the glass of water.Silence."Mae," she said, more quietly, and inched into the living room. Mae was slumped in the chair, her hands limp on either side of the armrests. Hannah hurried toward her. "Come on, Mae," she urged, shaking Mae's shoulders. The woman's head rolled back and forth with each movement. Hannah settled Mae's head back against the chair and ran her hand in front of Mae's face, as if polishing a mirror. There was no breath. She held her palm to Mae's chest and felt a horrible stillness.Sensation drained from Hannah's body as she retreated to the couch. Her hands trembled in her lap as she tried to calm her breath. She felt paralyzed, not knowing what to do and unable to guess. So she sat.Hannah watched time trickle around the carved wooden face of the living room clock, already knowing that Mae was dead, but relishing the moments when another possibility still seemed to exist. In waiting, all things were possible. She fixed her attention on the slants of noon sun that stretched themselves toward Mae's feet. The arches of her feet faced each other, fallen open like two dark halves of a cracked nut. "Mae?" she pleaded again, weakly.Ten minutes would have been too much. Ten minutes would have been a long time to live with, later.Hannah rose unsteadily from the couch and carefully put her pale palm over Mae's neck, covering a

About the Author

Alexandra Grigorescu has a Master’s degree in creative writing from the University of Toronto, where she attended writing workshops led by George Elliott Clark and Jeff Parker and wrote her thesis under the guidance of Camilla Gibb. She works as a freelance writer and lives in Toronto, Ontario. This is her debut novel.

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