Jean Martin Archives - Black Hare Press

Domovoi

June 17, 2022/by S. Jade Path

by Jean Martin

My family left before the Russians came. They paid me respect before they went away. They knew I would keep the house safe. Then they took the dog and the cat and the silver plates and drove west.

Russian soldiers walked into the house like it was theirs. One fell and broke his neck. Another shot himself. The rest heard me laugh and ran away.

I am the domovoi, the house spirit. I have watched over this house since before the last czar.

I will be here after the Russians are gone.

I will be here when my family returns.

Jean Martin

A long-time fan of Sherlock Holmes, Jean Martin is a single lady, currently stuck at home in McKeesport, Pennsylvania, which is in the Monongahela Valley. She has been writing fiction for longer than she cares to admit and has talked to channellers, psychics, vampirologists, Anne McCaffrey, and some lesser-known authors.

Down the Basement

May 19, 2021/by Black Hare Press

by Jean Martin

My husband always said I was foolish. “There’s nothing in the basement at night that isn’t there in the daytime.”

Our basement is a cellar, not a carpeted play space—even with the lights on, you can’t see what’s in the corners when it’s dark.

I don’t like it. It scares me.

My husband went down the basement last night to get a screwdriver.

I found him this morning at the foot of the stairs, with his throat torn out.

Once the estate is settled, I’m selling the house. Meanwhile, I’m living at my sister’s—she doesn’t have a basement.

Jean Martin

A long-time fan of Sherlock Holmes, Jean Martin is a single lady, currently stuck at home in McKeesport, Pennsylvania, which is in the Monongahela Valley. She has been writing fiction for longer than she cares to admit and has talked to channellers, psychics, vampirologists, Anne McCaffrey, and some lesser-known authors.

On the Feast of Stephen

December 26, 2020/by Anny Saludar

by Jean Martin

Under the old king, it would have been the Feast of Stephen, the second day of Christmas.

But our new king took us back to the Old Gods and the old ways.

As he decreed, nine men and nine women were offered in sacrifice that morning, in the woods, near the spring that had been named for Saint Agnes.

The snow lay roundabout deep and crisp and scarlet. There was steam rising in the frosty air from the hot blood.

One small page, lying still on the ground, his dead eyes staring wide and empty at the grey winter sky.

Jean Martin

A long-time fan of Sherlock Holmes, Jean Martin is a single lady, currently stuck at home in McKeesport, Pennsylvania, which is in the Monongahela Valley. She has been writing fiction for longer than she cares to admit and has talked to channellers, psychics, vampirologists, Anne McCaffrey, and some lesser-known authors.

Tag Archive for: Jean Martin

Domovoi

by Jean Martin

My family left before the Russians came. They paid me respect before they went away. They knew I would keep the house safe. Then they took the dog and the cat and the silver plates and drove west.

Russian soldiers walked into the house like it was theirs. One fell and broke his neck. Another shot himself. The rest heard me laugh and ran away.

I am the domovoi, the house spirit. I have watched over this house since before the last czar.

I will be here after the Russians are gone.

I will be here when my family returns.

Jean Martin

Down the Basement

by Jean Martin

My husband always said I was foolish. “There’s nothing in the basement at night that isn’t there in the daytime.”

Our basement is a cellar, not a carpeted play space—even with the lights on, you can’t see what’s in the corners when it’s dark.

I don’t like it. It scares me.

My husband went down the basement last night to get a screwdriver.

I found him this morning at the foot of the stairs, with his throat torn out.

Once the estate is settled, I’m selling the house. Meanwhile, I’m living at my sister’s—she doesn’t have a basement.

On the Feast of Stephen

by Jean Martin

Under the old king, it would have been the Feast of Stephen, the second day of Christmas.

But our new king took us back to the Old Gods and the old ways.

As he decreed, nine men and nine women were offered in sacrifice that morning, in the woods, near the spring that had been named for Saint Agnes.

The snow lay roundabout deep and crisp and scarlet. There was steam rising in the frosty air from the hot blood.

One small page, lying still on the ground, his dead eyes staring wide and empty at the grey winter sky.

YEAR TWO

YEAR THREE

YEAR FOUR