Indigo by Karen Hulene Bartell
About Author Karen Hulene Bartell…
The author of 29 published books and Indigo, Karen Hulene Bartell was born to rolling-stone parents who moved annually. Her earliest playmates were fictional friends in books. Paperbacks became her portable pals. Ghost stories kept her up at night–reading feverishly. Novels offered an imaginative escape, and she began her first novel at nine, learning the joys of creating her own HEAs. Professor emeritus of the University of Texas at Austin, she lives in the Texas Piney Woods with her husband and *mews*–three rescued cats and a rescued Catahoula Leopard dog.
This is a spotlight on “Indigo” by Karen Hulene Bartell
Indigo Blurb
Reeling after her fiancé dumps her, Raluca Olson inherits a rustic cabin from an unknown relative. Eerie incidents and rumors of a mythical windigo alarm her, but she’s determined to learn the truth about her dysfunctional family before she flips the property.
Despite unscrupulous realtors, bloodthirsty prowlers, and a devious ex, her life improves with a rescued puppy, and passion ignites when she meets Dylan McCoombs, but…
What does a demonic half-beast share with a psychosis and porphyria? Are monsters born or formed? Nature or nurture? Is a windigo spirit genetic? More importantly, does she carry the gene?
What Readers can expect from Indigo
A blood-racing, heart-thumping series of scares and pheromone/adrenaline-rich romance.
Genre: Romantic Suspense
Themes/Keywords: Paranormal, Romance, Cryptid, Windigo, Psychosis, Culture-bound Syndrome, Ojibwe, Porphyria, Delusion, Myth, Legend, Werewolf, Shifter, Supernatural, Mythical Creatures, Indigenous Folklore, Suspense, Mystery, Half-beast, Cannibalism, Dysfunctional Family, Family Curse.
IndigoPurchase Links
An excerpt from Indigo…
A raspy shriek shattered my bravado.
Was that human? Screech owl? Cougar? The peach fuzz on my neck crawled as I lugged the last of my suitcases into the cabin.
Another scream sawed the starless night like a serrated knife.
Stupid I-90 construction, or I’d have been here before dark. Adrenaline flooded my veins as I kicked the front door shut, rammed the coffee table against it, then barricaded the back door with a kitchen chair. Switching off the lights, I peeked through the window. New moon…pitch black.
Then two tawny eyes blinked.
My neck hair mustering to attention, I jerked back. What am I doing in Birch Lake, Wisconsin?
****
I lay wide awake in the dark, flinching as the insects buzzed the porch light and tiny feet scuttled across the roof. Or is that the attic?ÂI lurched at each hoot and squeal outside the log cabin unable to doze until first light.
Then too soon, sunlight poured through the window’s thin curtains, blinding me. I stumbled into the pantry and found instant coffee. Heating a mug in the microwave, I caught my reflection in the dark glass. Shoulder-length, sandy-brown hair, high cheekbones, a slightly large nose–and dark-ringed eyes met my gaze. I grimaced as I set the timer.
After pulling on shorts and a tee shirt, I tugged the coffee table away from the door, stepped outside, and took a deep breath. How pine-fresh the air smelled–earthy, clean.
The sun dipped behind a cumulus cloud, casting a muted glow over the landscape. To my right, stately pines stood like guardian sentinels, and to my left, the clear blue waters of Birch Lake lapped the sandy shore. Welcoming. Inviting. So different from last night’s slant. Sniffing at my phantom fears, I punched in the lock’s code.
“You moved in last night, didn’t you?”
I spun toward the startling voice. “I did…drove up from Chicago.”
“Welcome to the lake. We’re staying next door.” The thirty-something woman gestured to a rustic cabin and smiled. “I’m Heather, and this is my daughter, Brianna.”
“Call me Bree.” The teen gave a friendly wave.
“I’m Raluca.”
The girl rolled the name over her tongue. “What’s it mean?”
“Ray of light.”
As if on cue, the sun broke through the clouds.
“Impressive.” Heather’s mouth parted in a grin.
“Can’t say that’s ever happened before.” I couldn’t hold back a chuckle.
“We’ve been here a week, and this morning’s the first time the sky’s cleared.” Heather nodded toward the road. “We’re headed to town for breakfast. Want to join us?”
“Sure, I was just going for a walk–getting a lay of the land.” Breathing in the air’s woodsy scent, I fell in beside them.
Fragrant Norway pines filled the landscape. In front of the evergreens, tangles of wild canes sported delicate white buds. Raspberry blossoms?
Heather interrupted the silence. “Are you staying through August?”
“No…maybe.” I shrugged. “Depends on how soon I can flip the cabin.”
“So you’re not renting?”
“No, I–“
“See the hanging tree?” Bree grabbed my arm, turning me toward a gnarled oak. A massive, dead branch stretched across the road like a once muscular but now atrophied arm. “They strung up a man on that tree, then buried him there.” She flicked her thumb toward a bare patch in the cemetery across the street.
“He was one of the Marchands.” Heather nodded to a swinging metal sign above the double gates: Marchand Cemetery. “The story goes that his brother lynched him after catching him in bed with his bride.” She pointed to a small stone, the size of a brick, with the inscription 1892. “Apparently, a footstone was all he deserved.”
A strong gust of wind wailed through the oak tree. The rusty sign over the cemetery’s entrance squeaked as it rocked back and forth. Then a series of quick knocks sounded–like rapping at a door.
“What was that?” I stopped so fast, my feet slid on the pebbles.
“Ghosts?” Bree gave a mischievous snort.
A swaying pine bough above a shelter caught my attention. “That or pinecones dropping on a metal roof.”
Close by was an imposing grave with an ornate headstone:Â Jacques Marchand 1803-1849. Large stone blocks marked the fenced-in plot’s four corners, and seven surrounding tombstones bore the same surname. “Wild guess…Marchand is a big name here?”
Heather nodded. “One of the area’s founding families…a few descendants still live nearby.” Pointing at the wide swathes of burned rubber on the asphalt, she lowered her voice. “Supposedly, a certain family member never left…”
“What do you mean?”
“Some say a ghost appears along this road at dusk. Others describe it as a hellhound. The driver swerves to avoid it, and the ghost / hound vanishes.”
“Some say…” I dipped my chin to mask my skepticism. “Urban legends?”
“Un-uh.” Shaking her head, Bree grinned. “Olivia made those marks. She’s my bestie, and no ghost or dog was involved–just a squirrel with a death wish–but that…” Bree pointed to a stone chair. “That’s the devil’s chair, and it’s legit.”
“Chair? You mean throne.” I gaped at the elaborate carving. “But since it faces the headstone, it’s probably for the family to sit and reflect.”
Heather agreed with a nod. “A mourning chair.”
“Maybe originally.” Bree shrugged. “But now, it’s where kids test their courage…especially at midnight.”
Her mother pursed her lips. “It’s there to pay your respects, not be an invitation to an initiation.”
“It’s legend tripping.” An impish gleam lit Bree’s eyes.
“Don’t get any ideas about nighttime dares, young lady.”
“Oh, mother…” What began as a disgusted groan blossomed into a delighted squeal as a four-by-four truck rumbled into view. Waving her arms, Bree flagged it to a stop. “Dylan!”
The pickup slowed as the driver lowered the passenger window. “Hello Bree, Heather.” He ducked, so the walkers could see his face, then with a slight nod, caught my gaze. “Headed into town?”
“Yeah, can you give us a ride?” Bree had already opened the cab door and claimed the front seat. “You coming, Mom?”
Heather started to speak, sighed, then turned toward me. “Want to join us for breakfast?”
“No, thanks, I’m just a coffee person.” I shook my head, not wanting to intrude. “Next time.”
“Have you met our property manager yet?” Climbing in the back, Heather addressed the driver. “Dylan, this is Raluca. She just moved into–“
“Winny Nelson’s cabin. I’ve been expecting you.” Nodding, he handed Bree a business card and motioning to pass it on. “Let me know if you need anything or have any questions.”
The girl brushed against his shoulder before handing me his card.
Dylan McCoombs…Pretending to skim his info, I surveyed the person. Thick, curly hair, square jaw, full lips, and gunmetal-blue-gray eyes. No wonder Bree’s crushing. “Will do. Thanks.”
With a wave, he signaled and pulled on the road.
Questions, huh?ÂI scanned the card. What can you tell me about Winny Nelson?
An intriguing introduction to ‘Indigo’, a book I have read. I enjoyed reading the page-turning book which was full of interesting characters and suspenseful adventures. I highly recommend it with a 5 out of 5 rating.
Definitely a spine tingling read because the supernatural is born of such normal everyday things. Loved it.
Sounds like the kind of book you read by lantern-light. while tent-camping in the summer. Delightfully spooky. It’s on my list.