 
### Of Pagan Gods

### and other tales

### Thomas James

### Copyright 2014 Thomas James

### Smashwords Edition

### Cover artwork and image copyright 2014 Nine82designers

### Smashwords Edition, License Notes

### Thank you for downloading this ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form and credit is given to the author. If you enjoyed this book, please return to your favorite retailer to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

### Contents

The Imp, the Shade and Cerberus

Cinderella: The Untold Story

Masquerade

Of Pagan Gods: I

Of Pagan Gods: II

Of Pagan Gods: III

Of Pagan Gods: IV

Of Pagan Gods: V

Bonus Material

About the Author
The Imp, the Shade and Cerberus

The dead cried out, some with remembrance of former lives lost, others with fear for the retribution to come. Ignoring the wailing specters, the imp Deil trudged through the warped corridors and caverns of the Underworld, wringing his clawed hands all the while. Head down, tail and wings dragging, Deil presented himself before the dark lord, Hades. Cringing and stuttering, the imp gave his report.

Sitting upon his shadowed throne, Hades stared down at his lesser minion. The displeasure written upon the dark lord's face would make even the most stalwart heart quake. Shifting its weight from foot to foot, its barbed tail leaving tiny scorch marks where it struck the obsidian floor, the pitiful imp withered under the master's probing gaze, awaiting judgment. The silence stretched on, growing oppressive, as if a weight were crushing the tiny imp. Finally, the master spoke.

"Tell me once more," commanded Hades, "and Deil, this time leave out the sniveling."

Deil swallowed past the lump in his throat, thankful that it yet remained intact. Drawing in a sulfurous breath, the imp spoke. "While making my rounds, I happened by the Infernal Gates and rather than the normal sounds of Cerberus harrowing the Shades, all was s-still. Drawing closer, I discovered the Mephistopheles chains lying in the dust and the hellhound g-gone."

"And how, pray tell, did my Gate Guardian slip his unbreakable bonds?"

"I-I m-may have f-forgotten to reset the c-chains after exercising Cerberus last eve."

Before Hades could respond, the imp interrupted. "Th-There is another matter, m-master."

"Go on," Hades ordered, his voice deceptively smooth.

"I-It also a-appears that a S-Shade has escaped, my lord," said the imp, its voice drifting off into silence.

Deil's eyes roamed about the cavernous hall, afraid to look at his lord, unconsciously shifting through the various light spectrums. In the gamma spectrum, the imp caught a glimpse of the felos-de-se, the elite guard of the Underworld. Unbelievably, Deil's fear raised another notch.

The lord of the Underworld leaned forward until his smoldering, scarlet, eyes were in line with the imp's dull, yellow orbs. Hades reached out and grasped Deil around the throat. With mounting anger, the ruler of the Underworld squeezed tightly, increasing the pressure as he spoke, "You will find my hellhound."

"You will find the renegade Shade."

"You will return them both."

Releasing the imp, Hades held out his hand and a flaming ebony orb appeared in his palm. The flames subsided, leaving a square of parchment in the dark lord's unmarred hand. "Take the Hell-Writ and be gone from my sight."

Retrieving the parchment and securing it in the pouch at his waist, Deil hastily made to exit the throne room, with the voice of his master ringing in his ears. "And Deil, do not fail. The vilest pits of Tartarus will seem a haven after I am done with you."

*

After serving as the Infernal Gate guardian for several millennia, Cerberus the three-headed hellhound ran free. Six pairs of eyes stared into the nighttime sky wondering at the points of light flickering above. Wraith lights thought one head. Soul fires thought another. The third head remained ambivalent.

A mixture of sensations confounded the hellhound: sights, sounds, and smells. A solitary odor stood out above all others: mortal. Cerberus had only ventured onto the mortal plane once, but the encounters with mortal kind left the hellhound resentful. The hackles at the back of his thick neck rose, as the hellhound recalled two such encounters: the Greek brute Heracles, who had battered Cerberus into unconsciousness in order to present the hellhound to Eurystheus, the king of Tiryns and the sneaky Orpheus, whose soft, sweet lullaby caused the hellhound to sleep, thus allowing the Thracian singer to enter the Underworld. To Cerberus, mortals were evil, devious creatures not to be trusted.

A large bright orb appeared in the night sky, unlike anything Cerberus had seen in the Underworld, yet the hellhound felt an instinctual need to howl. The first head rose and produced a low mournful baying, followed by the second and then the third. The eerily harmonious crying filled the night. For several miles around, mortal men whimpered in their sleep. As the echoes died out, Cerberus loped along a wooded trail.

*

The Shade arrived on the surface world shortly before dawn, basking in its newfound freedom. Over a century had passed since it had last walked the earth. Disturbing not a single blade of grass, the Shade glided forward. A soft breeze blew through the trees, igniting the Shade's faded memories. It could recall sitting under such trees, enjoying the pleasures of sight, sound, and touch. The pleasing memories quickly turned to anger. While incorporeal, these sensations were beyond the Shade's ability to experience. If it would experience these feelings once more, it must find a living host. Only with the usurpation of a mortal shell would the Shade be truly free of the Underworld and return to its former glory. Coming upon a small lake, the runaway Shade stepped upon the water, leaving ringlets of frost in its wake.

*

Cerberus continued along the path, eyes and ears alert, pausing occasionally to sniff at a tree. Trees here confused the hellhound. They were not stunted or twisted and retained their foliage. Of course, after Cerberus marked his territory, the trees resembled those of the Underworld. Days later, park rangers would wonder about the sudden spoilage.

Arriving at a small clearing, the hellhound caught the scent of a woodland creature, its small, fuzzy tail twitching, exciting Cerberus who gave chase, barking gleefully. The hellhound chased several odd creatures, one of which disappeared into a small burrow, where Cerberus patiently rooted for an hour. Unable to reach his quarry, the hellhound resumed his trek through the wooded area. Near a row of hedges, Cerberus paused in his frolicking. Voices sounded on the other side, mortal voices. Cautiously, the former gate-guardian pushed his three heads through the hedges, espying two mortal men. Cerberus paused as he watched the mortal men approach a darkened domicile. Although their language was foreign to Cerberus, he could smell their evil intent.

"Are you sure there ain't nobody home?" asked the first man, scratching the stubble on his chin.

"Stop worrying, and help me with this window," replied his partner.

As the first thief attempted to force the window, he paused and looked over his shoulder.

What are you looking for?"

"I thought I heard something."

"You're starting to get on my nerv─" a low growl cut off his words. Both men turned, peering into the darkness. "Damn, they must have gotten a dog."

Cerberus pressed out of the darkness into the moonlight, his middle head leading the way. "Damn, would you look at the size of that bulldog's hea─" The sentence hung in the air as two more heads came into view.

The stubble-faced man screamed out, "What the hell is that! Must be a mutant or somethin'." Both men backed slowly until they could go no further. The growling hellhound pressed in, preparing to rend the life from the untrustworthy mortals. Mystic strength coiled, ready to pounce, when a familiar scent wafted by Cerberus...Shade. Eons of training overrode any desire to harm the vile mortals. Directing a final growl at the mortals, the hellhound bounded off in pursuit of the fugitive Shade.

Breathing a sigh of relief, the would-be thieves turned to flee, only to find themselves bathed in light. "Freeze!" commanded an officer.

*

Deil appeared on the surface world, slightly disoriented, never having set cloven hoof on the mortal plane. A brightly burning ball hung in the sky, frightening the imp and stinging his light sensitive eyes. Deil had heard stories of a burning orb but until now had never had the displeasure of seeing one.

As his sight adjusted to the brilliance, Deil sought out a likely path taken by Cerberus. The notion occurred to the imp that if he found the hellhound first, he could use the beast to track the Shade. Shifting his gaze to the infrared spectrum, Deil located the hellhound's fading paw prints. Following the wayward hellhound's obvious trail (desiccated trees, sere grasses, and a few dead, oddly bleached surface creatures); the imp came upon the secluded clearing that Cerberus had recently vacated. Voices drifted from the other side of the hedges. Using his innate powers of invisibility, Deil edged closer, listening in on the conversation.

"Can you believe it? Right here in our own neighborhood," said a rather corpulent woman, dressed in a bathrobe and hair curlers.

"It's just not safe anywhere these days," replied another, cigarette dangling from her lips.

"I heard that a stray dog interrupted the thieves," said an elderly man.

The first woman scoffed, her hair curlers shaking, "Way I hear it, they claimed it was some kind of monster."

Exhaling a cloud of smoke, the other woman said, "Whatever it was, it scared them somethin' awful. They wet themselves." All three laughed.

Deil had heard enough. Cerberus had revealed himself to mortals. Hades would be less than pleased. Sighing, the imp sped off after the hellhound, hoping to catch him before any innocents came to harm.

*

The sun continued to rise, painting the sky with blushes of pink and gold. Unhindered by terrain, the Shade quickly made its way across the small wooded park. A bright flair of colors appeared though the trees, drawing the Shade onward. A lone female ran along a dirt trail, oblivious to the incorporeal Shade.

Anticipation ran through the Shade as it moved to intercept the running woman. Matching her pace, the Shade imposed its essence upon the unsuspecting woman. The woman stumbled to a halt, leaning on a tree for support. The Shade exulted in the feel of the rough bark beneath its stolen hands, the feel of the caressing breeze, the aroma of flowering plants, and most of all, the thudding of a beating heart.

The Shade's pleasure at its new surroundings was short-lived however, as Cerberus appeared on the trail. A menacing growl rumbled in the hellhound's throat. Slowly Cerberus stalked in, sensing the Shade within the mortal shell. The hellhound cared little for the mortal; Cerberus would allow no one to stop the retrieval of the Shade.

Deil came upon Cerberus as the hellhound accosted the mortal woman. Altering his eyesight, the imp witnessed the missing Shade attempting to force out the host's true essence. Deil knew that once removed, the true self would appear as a runaway Shade to the hellhound. Before Cerberus could attack the innocent mortal, Deil swept in and slapped the Hell-Writ against the host body. Ebony flames ensnared the woman, sending the fugitive Shaded shrieking to the Underworld. As the ethereal flames subsided, the woman fell unconscious to the earth, virtually unscathed.

Cerberus leaped upon the imp, dragging Deil to the ground, happy to see his retainer. After several swipes of his tongues, Cerberus sat back and allowed the imp to rise. Wiping the drool from his face, Deil leaped up and grasped the hellhound's collar. Relief in his voice, Deil remarked, "Let's go home."

*

With Cerberus back at his post, Deil made his way to the great hall. Small even by imp standards, Deil felt even less significant, standing before the colossal throne, wondering if his bones would join those of the eon's dead creatures that made up the Eternal Seat. Hades sat staring at his servant. After several moments of tense silence he spoke. "It seems you have been successful."

Deil felt somewhat relieved.

Hades continued, "However, it also appears that additional Shades have escaped." Deil swallowed hard, wondering if the Tartarus pits would be so bad.

###
**Cinderella: The Untold Story**

Staring at the cold, ash-filled hearth, Ella could not suppress a sigh. Dustpan and brush in hand, she knelt, carefully adjusting her tattered, soot-stained dress in a somewhat futile attempt to keep the garment from acquiring further grime. Sweeping up a portion of the ashes, Ella dumped the contents into an ash bucket, causing a thin plume of soot to rise and settle on her dress, further obscuring the faded blue color. Ignoring the additional stains, Ella continued to sweep up the ashes. Her attention on the task at hand, she did not hear someone enter the room.

"Ella!"

Startled, Ella missed the bucket, spreading ashes across the floor. Before she could stop herself, another sigh escaped her lips. Cringing, Ella braced for the venomous spew that was sure to come.

"You incompetent child!"

I shall be twenty-one in two days time and yet she insists on calling me child Ella thought, but knew better than to give voice to the notion.

"You know full well that Talbot pays good money for the ashes that you are being so careless about."

Ella knew Talbot the Ink maker paid well for the ashes, just as she knew that she would never see a farthing of it. Another thought Ella would not say aloud. Instead, she replied, "Yes mother."

Her face contorting, the woman screamed, "Stepmother! Stepmother! How many times must I remind you, you ignorant whelp?" Ella's stepmother raised a hand as if to strike her, but with a great deal of effort retrained herself. Women of class and good breeding never resorted to violence her stepmother had once scolded an eleven year old Ella, after she accidentally knocked over her sister (stepsister she silently reminded herself) while playing. As if women of class and good breeding would allow their home to become run-down, selling off the family's possessions to purchase extravagant gowns, Ella had wanted to reply, yet had remained silent.

Patting her rust-colored hair, that she kept in a severe bun in order to hide the gray, Ella's stepmother drew in a deep calming breath. "As if I could ever give birth to such an ugly child."

Stung, Ella lowered her head; raven-dark curls spilling forward, tears welling up in her soft blue eyes. Her rosebud lips quivered slightly as she attempted to stem the flow of tears. Unable to prevent it, drops began to fall, leaving tracks through the soot on her alabaster skin.

"Oh, stop that sniveling and finish cleaning the hearth," the stepmother said.

Composing herself, Ella replied, "Yes, stepmother."

"See child, you can learn."

Ella seethed inwardly at the child reference but as usual kept silent. As she resumed her task, with her stepmother droning on about the laziness of some people, Ella had a visual of a blazing hearth and her stepmother stumbling into said fireplace. A smile crept onto her face briefly, until Ella's overly guilty conscious wiped the smile away. Sighing to herself, Ella continued to sweep up the ashes, dumping them in the bucket and coughing as the plumes of soot settled over her. Wisps of smoke curled unnoticed in the fireplace, rising listlessly up the chimney.

The door to the cottage slammed open, causing Ella to miss the bucket once again. Thankfully, her stepmother had been too engrossed with her reflection in the only mirror in the house to notice the additional mishap. Looking over her shoulder, Ella groaned at the sight of her two stepsisters waltzing into the cottage, wearing the gaudiest gowns she had ever seen. Ella could not help but gawk at her stepsisters. Gangly Claudette dressed in yellow and green, giving her the appearance of a giant ear of corn. Corpulent Margaret draped in layers of bright orange lending to the look of an oversized pumpkin. Both dresses had enough extra lace and ruffles to make a dozen outfits for Ella, who admittedly could use a new dress, not that she would be caught dead wearing such obnoxious clothing. Ella never understood her family's obsession with pretending to be well off.

Tearing her gaze away from the mirror, the stepmother said, "Ah, my darling daughters. Don't you look marvelous? Wouldn't you agree Ella?"

"I think marvelous does not begin to cover it stepmother," Ella replied, while thinking, ridiculous is more like it.

Eyeing Ella, almost as if reading her stepdaughter's mind, the stepmother said, "I do believe you are correct."

"Thank you mother," the daughters replied.

Turning to Ella, Claudette asked, "Have you ever seen such gowns? The dressmaker assured us that she will never make dresses such as these again."

"Not even for the Queen herself," Margaret added.

"Not if she wants to stay in business and out of the dungeon," Ella muttered. Tuning out the inane chatter between her stepmother and stepsisters, Ella returned to her chore, wishing she had the nerve to voice her innermost thoughts or at the very least stand up for herself. Daydreaming as she went about her sweeping, Ella scarcely heard the knock on the cottage door. Turning, she saw a royal messenger bowing to her stepmother.

"Good Morrow madam. I am charged by royal decree to search the kingdom and invite all ladies of marrying age, to attend a ball for his Royal Highness Prince Duncan, at which time his royal highness the prince will select one woman to be his betrothed."

Claudette and Margaret squealed in delight, while their mother clasped a hand to her expansive bosom, praising the royal family. Meanwhile, Ella could only shake her head at the notion of grown women willing to display themselves like some prize-winning ewe at market.

The messenger asked, "May I inform the royal family that you and your three daughters will be in attendance?"

"Three?" the stepmother asked.

As one Claudette, Margaret, and the stepmother turned to regard Ella. All eyes upon her, Ella felt the flush rise up her neck, turning her alabaster skin a warm pink. Standing, Ella became self-conscious of her appearance, adding to her already tremendous embarrassment. Hiding her soot-stained hands behind her back, Ella bowed her head, willing the flush to dissipate. The wisps of smoke in the hearth grew thicker, while an ember flickered anew.

"Can you imagine, Ella in a ball gown?" Claudette asked.

"Can you imagine, Ella dancing with the prince?" Margaret returned. The sisters laughed uproariously.

The stepmother said, "She is only my stepdaughter and still a child at that." Claudette and Margaret continued their laughter.

Fuming at the child comment and the laughing sisters, Ella blurted, "I shall be twenty-one in two days time."

The fireplace roared into life, the bright orange flames heating the air uncomfortably. Surprised by the conflagration, Ella stepped back quickly, looking between the fire and her stepfamily. Realizing all eyes gazed upon her Ella flushed anew.

Stunned, Claudette and Margaret gaped at their normally docile stepsister, while the stepmother stared icicles at Ella.

Bowing her head, eyes glued to the floor, Ella tried to keep an image of the blazing hearth and stumbling family members out of her head, although seeing those horrid dresses ablaze would definitely be worthy of a smile. Before her stepmother could reprimand her, the messenger spoke.

"Excellent. The ball will not be held for two more days."

"But-"

"Madam, the royal family request that all eligible ladies attend."

"But surely they do not mean-"

"All eligible ladies," the messenger said, his tone carrying a note of finality. With this last statement, the messenger bowed once again, sparing a sympathetic glance for Ella, spun on his heels and departed.

Claudette and Margaret began to babble excitedly, but their mother held up a hand, silencing them without saying a word. Assuring herself that the messenger had departed, the stepmother closed the door and whirling about, began verbally assaulting her stepdaughter.

"How dare you embarrass me you ungrateful brat and in front of a royal messenger at that. After all, I have done for you. I never did like you. I should have packed you off to the orphanage years ago. You have been nothing but a burden I have had to bear for years. Well, all that is about to change. Once the prince chooses one of my daughters for his betrothed, we shall live in the palace and you can stay here in this horrible little cottage."

Ella continued to stare at her feet, not daring to meet her stepmother's gaze. If only I kept my mouth closed, Ella thought. She could hear her stepsisters tittering in the corner, further adding to her embarrassment. Ella stood silent, awaiting her stepmother's dismissal.

"If you think that little outburst will get you into the ball, you are sadly mistaken. You will not attend the gathering. You will remain here."

Claudette said, "But mother, the messenger specifically stated -"

"I do not care what some lowly servant claims," the stepmother hissed. A malicious grin spread across her face as she regarded Ella. Pacing around her stepdaughter, she said, "I doubt that lowly messenger will even remember an even lowlier peasant such as you. And should he by chance inquire of your whereabouts, I shall simply inform him of your sudden illness."

"Come along my daughters. We have many preparations to make before the big day. As for you, you ignorant pest, take those ashes to the ink maker, my beautiful daughters will require new gowns. And put out that fire. Really, only a complete idiot would attempt to clean an active fireplace." With that said, stepmother and stepsisters left a hurt Ella alone and miserable.

*

The night of the ball arrived, with Ella watching from the window as her gaudily dressed stepsisters and equally garish stepmother mount a hired carriage. Ella had no desire to be put on display like a prized horse, but she would have loved to attend a party with so many others from the village.

After they drove off into the night, Ella returned to her spot in front of the hearth, staring into the flames. Fire has such power and beauty Ella thought. For a moment, Ella imagined that she could see dancing figures in the undulating flames. She pictured herself dancing among the fire. If only I had a proper dress, I would go to the ball just to irritate that vile woman. A knock at the cottage door drew Ella from her musings.

Before Ella could rise to open the door, a stranger entered. At first, she thought the royal messenger had returned, until the stranger stepped into the firelight. Ella knew everyone in the village, and this woman definitely did not live in town. Firstly, as far as Ella knew, a woman did not enter into a home uninvited, secondly, a woman definitely did not wear men's attire (even if it was peach-colored), and thirdly, a woman in Ella's experience did not smoke. Rising to her feet, she stood silent as the strange woman eyed her critically.

Removing the tobacco stick and exhaling a blue-tinted cloud of smoke, the woman asked, "You Ella?"

Nodding mutely, Ella stood transfixed by the odd woman, whose raspy voice somewhat unnerved her. The stranger drew in another lung-full of smoke, exhaling it in smoke rings. Ella's fascination with the woman grew as the smoke rings linked to form a chain. After another minute of silence, the woman asked, "Do your vocal chords work or am I going to ask questions that require only some head shaking?"

"They work."

"Good. Now let's get down to business, I have a lot of work to do tonight."

"Who are you?"

The strange woman dropped her tobacco stick, inspiring awe in Ella as it vanished before it hit the floor. Sighing, the woman replied, "You can call me Leona. I am your fairy godmother, so to speak."

Ella perked up. "Fairy godmother? You are not quite what I imagined."

"Well, I am not exactly your fairy godmother; I am sort of a fill in."

"Fill in?"

Reaching into her jacket, Leona removed another tobacco stick, tapping the end on her wrist. Placing it into her mouth, Leona snapped her fingers and the tobacco stick end began glowing. Drawing a breath, Leona exhaled the blue-tinted smoke, this time in the shape of a bat, which circled Ella twice before flying out the window.

Flicking ashes that also never hit the floor, Leona said, "I am here by court order. I have to do 100 hours of community service. Now, how about you let me do my job so I can get the hell out of here?"

"Why would the king sentence you to provide service to the community?"

"He didn't, a judge in my land sentenced me and since the illegal immigrants working for me came from this land, he thought it appropriate that I work here."

"Why do you wear men's clothing?"

Grasping the lapel of her jacket, Leona said, "This is a Versace. Besides, the pants help hide the box."

"Box?"

Leona lifted the hem of a pant leg displaying a strange black box with a blinking red light strapped to her ankle. "GPS monitoring, also court ordered."

"GPS?"

"Never mind. Now can we get started?"

"Well, if you are not my fairy godmother, where is she?

"She went to a Gamers Convention. Now if you don't mind-"

Ella stared, a look of utter confusion clearly stamped on her face.

Sighing, Leona said, "Gaming conventions, you know Magic the Gathering, Dungeons and Dragon's, etc. It's the largest gathering of virgins anywhere. Now enough with the questions. If you are going to make it to the ball we have got to get moving."

"But I am not going to the ball I -"

"Listen, you are going to the ball, you are going to marry the prince and I am going to be done with this damn community service."

"But I do not -"

"Enough already!"

Removing a strange device from her jacket, Leona began touching its surface. Ella could hear Leona muttering under her breath, complaining about her dislike of blackberries and her desire to buy an apple. Ella preferred blueberries herself, but thought better of saying anything.

"Okay let's see. You'll need the gift and a prom dress."

"What is a prom?"

Leona banged the side of her device, muttering, "Damn, BlackBerry." After a moment she said, "Prom. Ball. Same difference. Okay, here we go." Leona pulled a long rod from her jacket. Pointing the wand at Ella, Leona began chanting. Before Ella could protest, a spark leaped from the wand tip and struck her in the forehead, engulfing Ella in a cocoon of sparkling azure. A warm tingling sensation spread throughout Ella, like heat from a blazing hearth. After several seconds, Leona withdrew the wand. The sudden cessation nearly dropped Ella to her knees.

"Okay, gift applied. Now for the dress. Let's see, I think something from the Chanel line would be appropriate." Flicking her wrist, a golden light spread from the wand, bathing Ella in its soft glow.

Staring in disbelief, Ella gasped at the white, strapless gown enveloping her body. The form-fitting, silk dress displayed more than it hid, causing a slight flush to creep up Ella's alabaster skin. The slit along the side caused Ella an abundant amount of discomfort. Raising the dress hem, Ella displayed her bare feet.

"Oops, can't forget shoes. Let's see, we need something special." Touching the screen of her device, clicking her tongue as she went Leona paused, saying, "Glass slippers? What are they nuts; you'll shred your feet. Ah, here we go a lovely pair of Gucci open-toed sling backs." Another wave of the wand and Ella found her feet crammed into a pair of impractical shoes.

Eyeing her work Leona declared it a success. "Off we go."

*

Arriving at the palace steps, Ella glanced back once, contemplating the strange conveyance speeding away with a dragon's roar. She could not fathom a carriage that did not require horses to pull it and Leona's assurance that a Mustang, with a 351 Cleveland engine contained more than enough horsepower, did little to clarify things. Steeling up her courage, Ella sashayed past the gaping guardsmen and into the palace.

A soft melody floated on the air, wending through the gathered people, intertwining with their conversations. An elderly man, bearing a brass-shod staff, entered the room, effectively silencing all who saw him. Three loud taps on the marble floor silenced the remaining guests.

In a surprisingly rich voice the chamberlain announced, "His Royal Highness Prince Duncan."

All heads turned to witness Prince Duncan's entrance. The prince strolled into the ballroom, bowing respectfully to his parents, before taking his place by the king's side. The chamberlain motioned the musicians to resume their playing and then he took his place beside the prince. Conversations began again but the musicians scarcely played five notes before stopping, the conversations soon followed.

The crowd took a collective breath, with awe stamped on every face, staring at Ella as she entered the ballroom. Nervously, Ella strolled to the center of the marble floor, her dress clinging with every movement. Stopping, Ella surveyed the room, (admiring the wall sconces, the dual 1000 candle chandeliers and a fireplace large enough to walk into), with her attention finally resting on the prince. Smiling, Ella curtsied as best as the tight dress would allow.

The prince rose and went to Ella, extending a hand, which Ella took. Signaling to the musicians, the prince and Ella began to waltz about the floor. From an alcove, three sets of eyes burning with malice stared at the dancing couple.

"What is she doing here?" Claudette hissed.

"Where did she get that scandalous dress?" Margaret screeched.

"Quiet. You will not embarrass me," their mother said.

"It is not fair," Claudette complained.

"We are supposed to be dancing with the prince," Margaret cried.

"Enough. The two will cease dancing and when they do, I will drag the little trollop home and you two will entertain his royal highness," their mother said.

Ella and the prince whirled about the ballroom, lost in a world of their own making. Lords and Ladies gathered about, whispering excitedly amongst themselves. The king took the hand of his queen, smiling broadly and nodding his approval for all the court to see. As the music ended, the onlookers began applauding. The stepmother made to retrieve Ella, but found her path blocked by the chamberlain.

"May I be of assistance madam?"

"Thank you, no. I am retiring for the evening and wish my daughter to accompany me home."

"Ah, the young lady with our prince. She is your daughter?"

"Yes. Now if you will excuse me, I will-"

"I believe you refer to the young lady as your stepdaughter."

Surprised by the sudden appearance of the royal messenger the stepmother was at a loss for words. Adding to the stepmother's further discomfort was the fact that the messenger wore the tabard of the prince's personal guard. Seeing their mother thoroughly entrapped, Claudette and Margaret quietly slipped away.

Offering Ella his arm, the prince led her off the floor, amid the growing whispers. Ella's mind spun. The music, the dancing, the clothing, and of course the prince. It was a most magical event. Ella sighed to herself, thinking this to be the best night of her life.

A page interrupted the couple, informing the prince that his father the king wished to speak with him. Prince Duncan excused himself with a bow, declaring that he would return shortly. Ella promised to await his return. The prince had stolen her heart.

As Ella awaited her prince, a passing cupbearer carrying a platter laden with goblets of Elderberry Wine tripped over the outstretched foot of Claudette. Ella stared in horror as the liquid splashed over her silk dress. A hush fell over the court, with Ella's silent scream etched upon her face.

A smirking Margaret said, "Let's see how the prince likes you in your normal attire."

"We never liked you either," Claudette said, laughing. Soon others followed.

With the mounting laughter ringing in her ears, something in Ella snapped. Fueled by hurt and humiliation, years of docile living washed away under the deluge of pent up rage rushing through Ella, culminating in a scream of pure fury.

A tremor ran through the castle, as large cracks appeared on the marble floor and walls. All laughter ceased, turning into wails of terror as several stained glassed windows imploded, showering the courtiers with colorful shards of glass. Marble columns shifted, the chandeliers swayed and Ella continued screaming.

All pretenses at decorum gone, terrified courtiers fled towards the exits, only to have the doors slam shut. Tremors continued to wrack the castle; cracks appeared on the ceiling, raining dust and debris on the frightened guest.

The king cried out, "Guards! Seize the witch!"

At the guards approach, Ella ceased her screaming. Gesturing to the oncoming guardsmen, Ella snarled, sending them sprawling across the ruined floor as if struck by an invisible hand.

Her breathing coming in great gasps, her raven locks dancing as if possessing a life of its own, Ella turned her attention to her cowering stepsisters and stepmother.

"For years I have suffered at your hands. Let me show you the true meaning of misery."

Advancing on the hated trio, Ella halted as a drop of hot wax splashed her arm. She looked up in time to see a wrought iron chandelier dropping towards her. Inches above her head, the candle-laden chandelier came to a halt, hovering in the air without any visible means of support. Ella turned to regard the support rope, finding instead the prince with sword in hand. Her anger ebbed.

Saddened and hurt Ella asked, "Why?"

"You are a witch! You must be stopped!"

The mixed look of fear and loathing on his face renewed Ella's fury. A coldness sweeping through her, with a mere thought, Ella sent the chandelier spinning across the room, catching the bewildered prince head on.

The queen fainted at the sight of her mangled son. Ashen-faced, the king cried out, "Archers!"

On the balcony surrounding the ballroom, archers appeared, sighting their bows on Ella. Passing the great hearth, Ella called forth serpentine gouts of flame that coiled about her lithe form, shielding her against the onslaught of arrows. With an unspoken command, Ella sent the snake-like flames spiraling upwards, setting alight banners and tapestries, before consuming the archers.

Screams of pain and terror rebounded off the castle walls, adding to the chaos. Once again, Ella marched towards her adoptive family. Standing before the cowering trio, her face an emotionless mask, Ella regarded her stepsisters and stepmother. The three women cringed before Ella, their faces pale with fear and shock.

"How do you like me now?"

"Ella please. We are your family. I am the only mother you have ever known."

"Tsk-tsk. As you so often remind me, you are my stepmother." A pause. "Or were."

A cruel smile dancing across her lips, Ella called to the flames once more.

*

Ella sat upon the steps leading up to the throne, her dress a mockery of its former beauty. Sighing, she poured herself a cup of Elderberry wine. Savoring the unique bouquet, her eyes drifting over the wreckage, a shaft of sunlight coming through the shattered stained glass drew Ella's attention. Dust motes swirled in the sunlight, spinning faster and faster forming twin orbs, one of burgundy, the other a kaleidoscope of colors. Captivated, Ella downed the rest of her drink and tossed aside the empty cup, as the orbs evolved into figures.

Although now dressed in a rich burgundy outfit, Ella recognized Leona. From the silvery hair, entwined with poesies, violets, daisies and baby's breath, to a dress of riotous colors and bare feet, not to mention the iridescent wings protruding from her back, Ella guessed the second figure to be the absent fairy godmother.

"See. There she is, safe and sound," Leona said.

"Humph. She should be home awaiting her prince," replied the fairy godmother. To Ella she said, "Hello my dear. I am your –

"I know who you are," Ella interrupted. "So now that your little excursion is over, you thought you might pop in."

Her face flushing pink, the fairy godmother surveyed the fire-scorched walls, burned tapestries, and shattered windows. "Seems there was quite a ruckus last night." Drawing in a steadying breath, she asked, "Wh-Where is everyone?"

Stretching catlike, Ella stood and sauntered to a nearby pile of ash. Scooping up a handful, Ella allowed the ashes to sift between her soot stained fingers. "Allow me to introduce my stepmother."

Horrified, the fairy godmother said, "Oh you poor dear." Whirling back to Leona she said, "This is entirely your fault."

"My fault? If you were here instead of off trying to find out how many virgin nerds can dance on the head of a pin, none of this would have occurred."

"And if you did not use illegal immigrants to work your salt mines, you would not have to do community service."

"It is a diamond mine. Besides, I only hired seven of them and they were happy. Hell they even whistled while they worked. Imbecile."

"Who are you calling an imbecile you barren hag."

"New age hippie freak."

"Enough," Ella said.

Both women turned to regard Ella, painting false smiles on their lips. Leona spoke first, "Sorry about the mix up."

"Mix up?"

"Yes dear," the fairy godmother said, "You see, although you do possess an innate ability with the elements, the gift was not meant for you, but for a Carrie White." Then she muttered, "Hope Mr. King does not find out about this."

"What was that?"

"Nothing to worry yourself about, at least I can relieve you of this horrid burden."

"I think not," Ella replied.

"But my child, look about you. There is nothing left but cinders Ella."

A flush rising up her neck, Ella screeched, "I am not a child."

Taken aback, the fairy godmother reached for her wand, but never got a chance to use it as she was engulfed in a ball of flame, disappearing in a shower of gold and blue sparks. Ella returned to the throne steps and poured herself another cup of wine. Sipping the wine, Ella studied the shaken expression on Leona's face.

"Going somewhere?" Ella asked, stopping a slowly retreating Leona.

"Er, I uh- that is –

"Tell me. The seven workers. Are they about this tall," Ella said, holding her hand four feet above the floor.

"Um, yes, yes they are or were anyway."

"Were?"

"Mining accident, tunnel collapse." A bead of sweat blazed a trail through Leona's heavy makeup. Clearing her throat she asked, "W-Were they friends of yours?"

"Friends of my cousin, Snow White. She may be a sanctimonious bitch, but at least she is true family."

"Look I'm sor – A fireball cut off her apology.

Still sipping her wine, Ella mimicked the late fairy godmother, "There is nothing left but cinders Ella. Cinders-Ella. Cinderella. I like that."

###

Masquerade

"Sophia, slow down. You are driving too fast!" exclaimed Angie.

"What's the big deal, you are wearing a seatbelt and besides it's not like anything is going to happen to us," replied the driver.

"I'm not worried about us. I don't want you to hit any Trick-or-Treaters."

"Not to worry, no one would live on this road."

Angie stared out the passenger side window. The blue sedan whipped past gnarled oak trees and withered grass. Leafless tree branches reached skyward, stirred by an October wind, creating dancing shadows along the road. The cloud filled night sky partially hid the moon and stars, while nocturnal creatures scurried throughout the woods. A dense fog obscured portions of the woodland and spread thin tendrils of mist along the rut-filled dirt road. The muted headlight beams and growling engine of the sedan, cut through the gloom, stilling the creatures of the night.

The sedan passed rapidly along the tortuous, fog-shrouded road. Luminous eyes followed the passage of the vehicle through the woods. After the auto's taillights disappeared into the distance, the violet eyes blinked once, and then faded away.

The vehicle hurtled down the unpaved road. A deer ventured out of the woods, into the path of the oncoming auto. The doe stood motionless, frozen in the glare of the lamps; soft, brown eyes becoming glowing orbs of light.

Desperately, Sophia slammed a foot down on the brake pedal, slewing the vehicle from left to right in an attempt to halt over 2000 pounds of metal from hitting the helpless creature. Brake pads screamed in protest as the sedan came within inches of striking the innocent animal. The right tires of the vehicle slid into a roadside trench and the sedan came to rest at a slight angle. The engine idled for a moment, gave a harsh rattle and then cut out.

Freed from the mesmerizing glow of the headlights, the nervous doe bound for the other side of the road, vanishing into the shadowed woods. Not long after, the sedan's driver side door flew open and Sophia, clad in form fitting crimson leather, stepped out of the vehicle. A similarly ivory clad figure bounced out after Sophia.

"Damn it Angie, can you believe this shit?"

Angie looked to her crimson clad companion, knowing that Sophia did not expect an answer. The driver walked from the sedan's grill to the auto's tail, muttering under her breath all the while. After completing the circuit, Sophia stopped and kicked the rear tire.

"It could have been worse you know, at least we didn't hit that poor defenseless animal," said Angie.

Sophia snorted, "Leave it to you to worry about some dumb animal. What about my car here, huh?"

"This can be repaired," said Angie, indicating the vehicle, "the dead cannot come back to life." After a slight pause she added, "Although I know of one person, who after three days ─

The driver interrupted, "Okay, okay, I don't need a sermon." Desiring to vent her frustration, Sophia pounded the side of her fist on the sedan's hood and then frowned at the resulting dent. Climbing back into the tilted auto, Sophia retrieved her handbag. Searching among the accumulated clutter at the bottom of the bag, she extracted a slim cell phone. Touching the screen, did little to appease her temper. No carrier signal bars were evident. Stuffing the cell phone back into her handbag, with more force than was actually necessary, Sophia suppressed the urge to scream.

"Happy Halloween," a playful Angie said.

"How can you find this amusing? Our night is shot to hell! The car is dead, there is no signal on my cell, and we are on a deserted road, in the middle of who-knows-where! I mean really, we are screwed! And get that stupid grin off your face!"

Angie finally had to laugh aloud; she was accustomed to Sophia's frequent rants. The cry of a night creature interrupted Angie's laughter. Both she and Sophia looked about trying to discern what had produced the sound.

"Probably just an owl," Angie said.

"Well, it is official," said Sophia, "we now have all the ingredients for a lame horror movie. All we need now is for ─"

"Do you ladies require any assistance?" a voice from darkness asked.

"─ that!" finished Sophia.

Both women had turned at the unexpected voice. Angie moved closer to Sophia, as a handsome, strapping man stepped into the somber glow of the headlights. The stranger approached the women, his long black coat nearly brushing the earth, his walk a proud swagger.

"Forgive me; I hope I did not startle you."

Sophia asked, "Who are you?"

"I am Tomas Reginald Martyin," he replied and gave a ridiculous little bow.

Sophia studied the odd man for a moment, not sure what to make of him. Angie moved behind and to the right of Sophia, keeping her eyes on the newcomer, taking in every detail. Finally, Sophia introduced herself and her friend.

"Do you always walk down deserted roads at night?" asked Sophia.

Tomas gave a disarming smile, "I live just up ahead around the bend. When I saw that the lights of your vehicle had not moved for a time it seemed prudent that I should come see if I might be of service."

"Well Mr. Martyin, may we use your phone? I can't get a signal out here."

"Signal?" asked Tomas.

"Yes, you know signal, cell phone, satellites, and towers."

"Ah, I see cell phone. Of course, you may use my telephone and please call me Tomas."

Angie leaned forward and whispered into her companion's ear, "Are you sure about this?"

Sophia replied, "Everything will be fine; after all, there are two of us."

With a mischievous smile on her lips, Angie said, "Yes, and I bet that's the last thing someone says before they go missing."

Ignoring the comment, Sophia turned back to Martyin. "Just let me turn off the lights; I don't need a dead battery on top of everything else." Shutting off the Sedan's lights left them in near absolute darkness, thankfully a shaft of moonlight shined through a break in the clouds. Just as the three set off, Angie paused. She could not be sure, but she thought that in the moonlight, Tomas' eyes took on an unnatural glow, not unlike the animal shine of a woodland creature. She quickened her steps to catch up to Sophia and their new companion.

Tomas led the two women just past a bend in the road then turned right and continued down a foliage-choked path. The ground, strewn with damp dead leaves, muffled their footfalls. Around them, the fog drifted between the oak and elm trees, helping to deaden the sounds of their passage. The chill weather pressed upon them, their breath frosting in the night air, adding to the fog bank. Moonlight faded and grew stronger as clouds drifted across the October sky, at times masking the moon completely.

"You must have very good eyesight," Angie said.

"Oh, I have spent many a night walking this path. I could walk it with my eyes closed."

"Is it much further until we reach your house?" Sophia asked.

"The house is not far ahead, about 40 or so yards."

"Probably lives in a mausoleum," Sophia muttered.

They continued walking in silence for some time. As they approached a small clearing to their left, a deer mouse ran into a view. Angie could make out its white feet and long bi-colored tail. She watched as the deer mouse stopped and rose up on its hind legs, with its tiny, twitching, nose sniffing the air.

Tomas broke the silence, "I am intrigued by your choice of attire."

"Balance," replied a distracted Angie.

"Forgive my ignorance, but I do not understand?"

"Good and Evil, Heaven and Hell ─," replied Angie.

"Halloween costumes," Sophia clarified, cutting off Angie.

"I see; were you on your way to a party?"

"Yes," answered Sophia as she snuck a quick look at Angie who arched an eyebrow at her. Sophia shrugged her shoulders.

"Ah, fortune must ride with you. As it so happens, I am entertaining some associates this evening. It would be my pleasure for you to join our gathering."

A loud screech erupted from the darkness. Angie reached out and placed a hand on Sophia's shoulder. Panicked, the deer mouse ran, but before reaching the relative safety of the scrub brush, it disappeared in an explosion of fur and dead leaves. Angie gasped as a great horned owl, its mottled brown wings pumping forcefully, flew off with its prize.

"Oh, that poor mouse," sighed Angie. Sophia shook her head, not understanding Angie's compassion for such creatures.

Tomas had taken several more steps before he stopped. He turned to face the women. "Do not be overly concerned, these woods abound with creatures that hunt in the dark." In the murky night, the two stranded women could barely discern the facial expression of Tomas, but his voice seemed to imply a sneer.

"Here we are," said Tomas gesturing ahead of them.

Rising up out of the fog was a two-story clapboard house. A small stream led past the right side of the home, slowly turning an attached waterwheel. Behind the house, they could make out the form of a lake. Although the front windows were dark, they could see lights emanating from connecting rooms.

"It's a lovely home," said Angie, although she could detect an unpleasant odor about the area. Sophia rubbed her nose, a secret signal to Angie to indicate that she too detected an unpleasant odor.

"Thank you. I had it refurbished a few years back. When I bought the property, this old mill was a burned out husk. The road your vehicle broke down on gets its name from this place, 'Old Mill Road'. Had you continued on, you would have passed by my driveway and we would never have met."

"Well, everything happens for a reason," said Sophia.

Opening the door, Tomas stepped aside and bid the women to enter. Angie hesitated a moment, but Sophia had no qualms about going into a stranger's home. Following her companions lead, Angie entered, but not before glancing at the face of their host. Angie thought that the moonlight gave his eyes a violet hue.

Once inside, Tomas hung up his coat on a wall rack and walked into an adjoining room. Sophia nudged her companion with an elbow and then pointed to the man's clean, unmarred, shoes. Not understanding, Angie inclined her head. Sophia lifted her leg, displaying a muddied boot. The two women followed him into the other room.

The dining room appeared to be from another age. Sculptured molding lined the walls. A large bay window, framed by heavy red drapes, looked out upon the lake. Across the room stood a hearth, a smokeless fire blazing within its interior. Above the mantle hung a painting, an excellent rendition of the 'Old Mill' in its glory days. Candles placed about the room, created an atmosphere of tranquility. The oval pinewood table, laden with food and drink, sat in the middle of the room.

Two men and a woman sat at the table. Similar to the host, the two men were dressed in expensive dark suits and extremely white shirts, the woman wore an exquisite evening gown of diaphanous material. Tomas moved to the head of the table. Although there were two empty seats, there were place settings for six diners.

Angie frowned at the place settings, "It appears that you are expecting additional guest."

"This evening was planned for six but unfortunately the others are unable to attend," Tomas replied.

Looking around, Sophia asked, "Where is your phone?"

Tomas pointed to a small niche in the corner. Sophia and Angie exchanged a glance. Even with the dim lighting, neither could see how they had missed the alcove. Sophia walked over to the niche and the small table within; grimacing when she saw the telephone was an antique rotary dial model. Angie returned her attention back to their host.

"We will try not to be a bother, Mr. Martyin," said Angie.

"Please, do not give it another thought."

A moment later, an exasperated Sophia returned to Angie's side, "Your phone is not working."

"I apologize for the inconvenience, the telephone is frequently out this time of year, but it will usually resolve itself in time."

"Please, will you not join our little gathering?" asked Tomas, gesturing to the empty seats.

Sophia seated herself on the left side of the host, and Angie the right. Sitting across from each other, the two female companions eyed each other. Angie arched an eyebrow and Sophia mirrored her, a silent communication that spoke volumes.

"Allow me to introduce my guests. This is Dr. Henry Gross, my oldest acquaintance." The man to the left of the host smiled mechanically, his round frameless glasses reflecting the fire light. Seated next to the doctor, Sophia smiled back, a hint of annoyance in her eyes. Tomas continued, "My newest acquaintance Mr. Richard Stark." Stark nodded to the new arrivals, his face an emotionless mask. "And of course the lovely Lillian Jensen," Tomas said. A ghost of a smile played about Lillian's rosebud lips. Angie noted that the smile never reached the woman's dull, glassy eyes. Introductions made, the host took his seat.

"To an exceptionally long life," Tomas said, lifting up his wine goblet. The host drank deeply, along with his three original guests. Sophia and Angie politely pushed their goblets away from them. Tomas placed his empty glass down. His three guest followed suit in unison.

"Is the wine not to your liking?" asked Tomas.

Sophia detected a slight tension in their host's voice and shifted in her seat, only to be stilled by a slight shake of Angie's head. "We prefer to wait until we arrive at our destination," Angie replied evenly. Sophia stood abruptly, stating her intention to try the phone again and returned to the alcove containing the rotary dial telephone. Without bothering to attempt a call, Sophia turned back to the table and moved to stand behind Angie.

"Any luck?" Angie inquired.

"No, the phone is still out," Sophia lied.

The look in Sophia's eyes and her tense posture gave Angie pause for thought. A pall of silence settled over the gathering. A sudden revelation struck Angie. The only person to speak besides Sophia and herself was Tomas Martyin. Gracefully, Angie rose up and stood beside Sophia. Angie nodded and then both women walked to the door and turned to face the host and his guests.

"Is there a problem?" asked Tomas.

"We believe that the time has come for this masquerade to end," said Angie.

"I am unsure as to what you mean," replied the host.

"Things are not what they appear to be," said Sophia, "now end this façade!"

"Agreed, let this charade end!" shouted Tomas.

His eyes narrowing in contempt, Tomas rose slowly to his feet, all pretense of friendliness gone from his face. His guest sat mutely, their blank stares disquieting. Tomas raised his right hand, and began muttering an incantation. Angie and Sophia witnessed the glamour fall away, revealing the true nature of the host and surroundings. The two stranded women found themselves standing amidst burned out ruins. Decayed and desiccated bodies sat at the warped, fire-scorched table. The once handsome and commanding figure of Tomas Martyin faded into a withered, shrunken old man. Sunken, violet eyes stared out of the emaciated face.

"You should have partaken of the wine," said a raspy voiced Tomas, "it would have eased your passage from this mortal coil."

Tomas, now with both hands raised, began tracing intricate patterns in the air, his gnarled, fingers leaving a fluorescent vapor trail suspended above the corpses. A sulfurous odor permeated the atmosphere. The three corpses, their faces contorted in silent screams, lurched to their feet and staggered towards the women.

Angie shouted, "Enough, Necromancer!" Bowing her head, Angie raised her hands. The animated corpses halted their shambling gait, swaying on rotted legs. Angie clapped her hands together, producing a thunderous roar. The corpses fell to the earth, like puppets with their strings cut, lifeless husks once more. Sophia pointed a finely manicured hand and the corpses burst into vibrant ebony flames, consuming the carcasses in seconds.

Tomas let out a raspy shriek of rage, his scrawny frame shaking violently. Raising his claw-like hands yet again, he gestured frantically, shouting his incantation. On either side of the necromancer, the rotted floorboards erupted in a shower of dirt and splinters. Two huge monstrosities pushed up out of the despoiled earth, resembling a hybrid between man and beast.

Calmly Angie extended her right arm and a sword cloaked in viridian flames appeared in her outstretched hand. White radiant light engulfed Angie as dove-like wings expanded from her back, reaching above her head and descending to the floor. A dark, murky light encased Sophia as she too held a similar sword. Bat-like wings expanded from Sophia's back, comparable in size to her companion's wings.

"Necromancer, you have been judged and found wanting," said Angie, her once lilting voice now icy cold.

"We, the Angels of Retribution, condemn you," said an equally icy Sophia.

Together, the angels quoted, "As above, so below." Melodious bells rang out.

The necromancer snarled and gestured to his undead pets. Bellowing rage and hate, the undead beasts leapt for their intended victims. Calmly, the angels stepped forward and eviscerated the cursed creatures, obliterating them. The angels advanced on withered wretch.

Cowering in terror, the necromancer screamed his defiance. Shrieks of agony soon replaced the screams of terror, as the twin flaming swords pierced his ancient flesh. The viridian flames decimated the body, leaving little more than ash that drifted down to the ground. Fires consumed the dried worm-eaten boards of the ruins. Angie and Sophia calmly walked out of the blazing edifice.

When at last the fires died down, the angels raised their swords above their heads and sheathed themselves in cylinders of viridian flame. A low moan rose into the night and then with a sudden flash, the blue-green flames vanished. Angie and Sophia stood as before, clothed in their form fitting leather.

Sophia said, "You do realize that we still have another assignment to do, and no car to get there."

"As you said, 'everything happens for a reason'."

"That's easy for you to say, it wasn't your car."

"You're right. If it was my car, it would still be operational."

"Why you sanctimonious, little ─

An impish smile played on across Angie's lips and she said, "Happy Halloween."

Sophia gritted her teeth and stalked off, trailed by Angie's laughter.

###
Of Pagan Gods

I

History will show that in December of 1952 for a period of four days, all of London was covered by a cloud that deposited 5 tons of grime and soot on the city, causing the deaths of over 240 persons and doing millions of pounds of property damage. What history will not show is that I, William S. Seaborn, Englishman by birth and historian by trade, am the catalyst. I set these words to paper with the hope that it shall assuage my soul. Would that I had heeded the advice of my contemporaries rather than the desires of my heart. May God forgive me for my arrogance and for attempting to revive that which should remain forever lost.

My decline began June of that year. My academic studies at Eton College were finally complete and I was jubilant at the prospect of beginning my term as an instructor at the very same college. As I walked through those hallowed halls, my steps ringing against the oaken floors, the echoes rising up to the cathedral like ceiling, I could feel the history of the place weighing down upon me. All around me, history permeated every niche and crevice, from the paneled walls, glowing with years of polish, to the heavy doors and window frames. The very air was saturated with it. Ah history, if only I had pursued another venue, the tragedies I have witnessed might never have occurred.

My steps had taken me to the college library where I, like so many of my colleagues, spent many a night perusing the works of past historians: Polybius, Herodotus, Gibbons, von Ranke and Macaulay. As I wandered about my second home, motes of sunlit dust swirling in my wake, my gaze settled on the busts' of several of these historical giants. Oh, how I yearned to be as they, my name and image immortalized for all of eternity.

I continued into a little used section of the library, of interest only to historians as myself. The immense oaken shelves ran from floor to a height whose upper reaches could only be accessed with the aid of a ladder.

I ran my hand along the worn and cracked leather bindings, my fingers leaving trails on the dusty surfaces. The familiar, musty, scent of ancient tomes filled my nostrils. All about my person, I sensed the ghosts of historians past and pictured myself among them as an equal. During my narcissistic musings, I inadvertently dislodged a book precariously balanced on the fourth shelf and sent it crashing to the hardwood floor. I was thankful that it was Saturday, for the resounding crash would have drawn the harsh reprimand of the Eton College librarian, an elderly gent whose countenance and demeanor were second only to his voice, which in of itself was reminiscent of nails on a chalkboard. Still, I could not help but hunch up my shoulders and guiltily peer about. Having assured myself that I was indeed alone, I knelt down along the shelving to retrieve the fallen volume. It was then that I noticed what appeared to be an empty spot on the lowest shelf. Upon further investigation, I discovered the slot was not empty, but contained a tome set back in the recess.

Having retrieved and replaced the fallen volume, I knelt once again and withdrew the recessed book. As the tome slid into view, a sense of excitement and wonder filled me. Obviously, the book had not seen the light of day for quite some time judging by the layer of dust and cobwebs attached to the tome's surface. Oddly, though as I carefully brushed away the debris, instead of a worn and faded binding, the tome glistened like a newly waxed floor, almost as if the leather binding absorbed the oils from my skin.

No title embossed the tome; however, the lower right hand corner displayed a rather curious symbol: a lightning bolt, crossed at the top, and a small circle on the right arm of the crosspiece. A small dash lay horizontally near the bottom of the bolt and a similar line, this one lying diagonally beneath the circle. Gently I opened the tome, desiring not to destroy any fragile pages, only to be amazed once again, for the irregularly cut pages, although yellowed with age, were as supple and pliable as a new born babe's skin.

Eagerly I perused the volume, noting the script within, written in a hodgepodge of Latin, Greek, Arabic and an unknown language (unknown to me at least). Along the borders of the pages were symbols of runic origin. Odd sketches placed throughout the tome, both delighted and repulsed me. The ink was a vibrant red and black, almost like blood, fresh and old at the same time.

Shadows climbed higher in the library as the sun began its descent. I closed the tome, with the intention of returning it to the niche, when I felt an overwhelming desire to take the volume back to my lodging. I abhor thievery of any sort, but I could not prevent myself from absconding with my discovery.

Tucking the volume beneath my arm, I left the library and hastily walked back towards my lodgings. As I passed the statue of King Henry VI, the founder of Eton Preparatory School, a waxen moon hovered over the campus, creating a black and silver landscape that was devoid of life, for which I was grateful for, as I did not wish to explain my illicit behavior. Having gone no more than several steps, I halted. Ahead I could discern the sound of movement coming towards me out of the shadows. I hid myself in a heavily shadowed doorway.

I waited, motionless, when who should appear moments later, but the Eton College librarian and his cocker spaniel; a rambunctious dog with the unlikely name of Vulcan. A more unwanted meeting I could not imagine. I attempted to press myself into the heavy door behind me and held my breath, lest I give myself away.

The librarian paused and produced from an inner jacket pocket a large cigar. All the while Vulcan strained at his leash in a vain attempt to pull his master in my direction. The librarian bit the end off the cigar, spit it into the street, and then gave a gentle tug of the leash, admonishing the spaniel to desist. Vulcan ignoring his master's command, began straining more vigorously, accompanying this with fervent barking. Sweat appeared above my clean-shaven upper lip, my heart racing and the blood pounding in my ears. I could see the librarian peering into the shadowed recess. I prayed silently, hoping against hope that the darkness and his failing eyesight would be enough for my continued concealment. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the old fellow lit his cigar and pulled the annoying pet away from my hidden location, all the while reprimanding the dog to be silent as there was nothing there.

I delayed my departure for several moments to ensure that I would not encounter anyone else. Shaken by the thought of almost being discovered, I very nearly ran all the way home, but with great restraint, I managed to contain myself. I have never been so joyous of viewing the front door of my Berkshire flat, as I was that night. Quickly, I unlocked the door and just as quickly entered. Refastening the bolt, I then rushed into my study.

I placed the stolen volume on my maple wood desk, amid other lesser books and notes. Lighting candles and an oil lamp (preferring the somber glow to that of the harsh electric lights), I then drew the heavy drapery, closing out the outside world. I moved to the bar and poured myself a healthy amount of apricot brandy, my nervousness apparent in the clinking of decanter and glass. I took a small sip, and relished in the burning but yet soothing sensation of the amber liquid.

Although I reside alone, thanks to a substantial inheritance, I secured the study against intrusion. Having at last recovered a modicum of safety, I made my way back to the desk and sat in the large, comfortable, leather chair. For some time I could only stare at the unknown tome. My mind raced between thought of my illegal activity and the belief that this book was somehow meant for me. I sipped slowly on the brandy, contemplating the tome. Where had it come from? What did the odd sigil mean? Who was the author of this magnum opus?

Reverently, I stroked the tome, running a finger over the embossed symbol. Thoughts of other lost writings entered my mind: the original 'Sibylline Books of Prophecy', the books of 'Vennii', the 'Olgathi Manuscript', the 'Scrolls of Alexander' and that most infamous of books, the 'Necronomicon'. Mayhap the tome I now possessed could belong to one of these legendary compositions.

Opening the tome, I examined the intricate design of the ornamental lining, which while books of modern day may contain, seemed out of spec with the writings within. However, after constant scrutiny, the visage of a demonic leering imp revealed itself. I reached out a trembling forefinger and traced the imprinted pattern, marking a cold tingling sensation as it progressed from page to hand to arm. I withdrew my hand and sat in abject terror, for as I did so, the lining returned to its former design. I rationalized this disturbance as being under the influence of stress and alcohol.

Having justified my brief imaginative delusion, I once again set to translating the bizarre writings. Although I am literate in Latin, Greek and to some extent Arabic and excited at the prospect of the task before me, the process of translating such text was tedious and difficult owing to the lengthy passages and the unknown language dispersed throughout the pages.

The hour having grown late, I closed the tome, extinguished the candles, picked up the oil lamp and headed for my bedchamber. However, as I began exiting the study, I was overcome by a sense of panic. I rushed back to my desk and snatched up the unknown tome. Only then did my panic subside. I resumed my trek to my bed chamber, pondering the intense feeling of loss brought on by the thought of being parted from my ill-gotten treasure.

I placed the stolen volume and oil lamp on the nightstand and prepared myself for sleep. I climbed into the four-poster bed and slipped beneath the light covers. A slight chill racked my body and I was seized once again with a moment of panic. It was some time before the stress and alcohol wearied me enough to allow sleep to come. That was the first night of the dreams.

**II**

In the ethereal world of dreams, I found myself floating high amongst the clouds. I have had fanciful dreams of flight before, however I felt this to be something of far more significance. A pervasive tugging sensation began in the midst of my abdomen and I felt myself drifting. Below me, the shadowed streets of Berkshire fell away, my momentum increasing as the coastline drew near. Soon I was soaring out over the opaque, turbulent, waters of the Atlantic and I exulted in the freedom of unfettered flight. All too quickly, my avian experience ended, as I alighted upon the shores of a mist-covered isle.

I could see before me a foliage-choked path; winding its way through a dense tropical jungle. Having no other recourse, I followed the trail, noting as I did so the preternatural silence. Unnerved as I was by the quiet, I could no more resist the incessant pull than I could resist gravity in the waking world. Shortly I arrived at a small glen, containing an entrance to a dark cave. A warm, damp, breeze, coupled with the cloying scent of musk and decay billowed out from the inky darkness. Hesitantly, I took a step forward and immediately I was struck by what I can only describe as a wall of evil, the force so strong that I was driven to my knees. Breathing became difficult as the pressure mounted. After some minutes, the presence vanished. Frightened, I bound to my feet and turned to flee, only to discover that the trail was no more.

Desperately, I attempted to awaken but to no avail. A torrential rain arrived as if called up and then to my utter horror the trees and vines blackened and began encroaching upon the glen, forcing me to seek shelter in the ominous cave. With my first step into the cave, a great shaking and rumbling occurred and very nearly beneath my feet, a great maw opened in the earth, revealing a rock-hewn stairwell, the walls covered by a phosphorescent moss. The width of the stairwell was such that with my arms fully extended to both sides, I could just touch the walls with my fingertips.

The insistent pull drew me onward. I began my descent into the earth, the bioluminescence lighting the way. Along the moss-covered walls, I could vaguely distinguish various pictographs and glyphs. A droning, unintelligible whisper drifted up to meet me, the voices filling me with anticipation, the earlier sensation of evil forgotten in my excitement. I continued my descent, counting the steps as I went, but upon reaching 500, I gave up the task as a hopeless endeavor. Finally leg-weary and foot-sore (odd for a dream) the steps ended at an immense obsidian door, its glassy surface carved with intricate bas-relief characters. As I reached out to touch the frozen faces, torches set in corroded, iron, wall sconces flared to life, momentarily blinding me. Once my eyesight adjusted to the brightness, I sought a way to open the door, yet I could not locate a way to do so.

The voices continued to whisper, drawing me onward. Gently I ran my hands over the rough textures, marveling at the detailed features and gaunt characters, which were somehow familiar. A sudden throbbing vibrated through the glass-like barrier, matching the beat of the pulse in my wrist and I was astonished to see that the door appeared to be . . . breathing. The flaring torches sputtered and sparked, causing shadows to dance across the bas-relief surface. Mesmerized, I was unaware that my right hand had begun to sink into the door, until all of my fingers were submerged. Panicked, I attempted to remove my hand, but the door held it fast. I struggled mightily, yet I was drawn further into the obsidian surface.

I suddenly awoke screaming in terror, my heart beating so hard that I thought it would erupt. Gradually I calmed after realizing that I was lying tangled in my sheets. A powerful thirst and a desire for nourishment decided my next course of action. Freeing myself from the sweat-soaked, tangled mass, I stood and my legs were seized by a severe cramp forcing me to sit until the pain subsided. Afterwards, I went to the window and drew aside the drapery. I peered out the window and could see that dawn was still a faint blush on the eastern horizon. Once again, feeling the pang of hunger, I turned from the window, when I heard the familiar sound of milk bottles rattling. Turning back, I opened the window and thrust my head out. I could see the local milkman making a delivery next door. I called out a greeting.

"Since when do you make deliveries on Sunday?" I asked, genuinely confused.

"Sunday?" came the reply, "Monday it is, Mr. Seaborn. Lost a day 'ave you?"

Dumbstruck, I pulled my head back in, closed the window and returned to my bed, sitting on the still warm edge. How could I have slept a full day and night? My eyes drifted towards the unknown tome. Suddenly, the dream of what I presumed to be the previous night returned with a vibrancy of an electric shock; my trek through the jungle, the rain, my descent into the earth and that strange door. A shudder danced up my spine as I recalled how the door seemed to breathe with a life of its own.

The image of the bas-relief door struck a chord of familiarity and I picked up the tome, scanning its pages. There near the center of the book was an engraving of the very door. Perhaps I had seen the same engraving earlier and incorporated the picture in my dreams. On the opposite page, mention of the door appeared throughout the strange text. What I read terrified me to my inner soul. I was correct in assuming the door to be a living being, or rather an entity. The door was in actuality a daemon, one of four guardian daemons of a school of magicks. What I, in my ignorance, assumed to be stylized, bas-relief carvings were in truth those unfortunate souls, whom lacking the proper turn of phrase to appease the guardian, instead became entrapped, and tormented for all eternity.

From the passages that I could partially translate, I discerned that Dom-Daniel, the school of four-thousand steps, was created by the arch-magi Hal-Il-Mau-Graby as a training ground for those willing to surrender their immortal souls in exchange for supreme, godlike power. The school was thought destroyed by the caliph of Syria, al-Mansur. It was instead, shifted in time and place. My nerves danced on edge. Was Dom-Daniel a place of substance? Could my dreams be a gateway to this school? If so, then the importance to history, not to mention my career, would be tremendous.

Excited by the prospect of a new discovery, I made plans to visit Sydney Myers, a scholar like myself, his specialty being that of cultural myths, and set about making myself presentable. After bathing and dressing, I headed for my kitchen to prepare a quick meal, but could not bear to leave the unusual tome unattended. Taking up the tome, I resumed my trek to the kitchen.

While I ate a quick meal of porridge and tea, I found myself continuingly caressing the leather binding of the tome. Over and over, my fingers traced the embossed sigil. Staring at the tome, an odd thought occurred to me; the tome seemed to have gained a new thickness. Knowing that this could not in fact be true, I dismissed the thought from my mind and finished my morning meal. As it was still early, I returned to my study and continued the translation of the tome.

At 9:00am, I grudgingly put aside the text and rang up Sydney. Not wanting to discuss the tome over the telephone, I arranged to meet him at his London flat, under the pretext of discussing Syrian historic culture.

I drove into London, the sun shining brightly and the tome secured in my carryall on the seat beside me. Fortune was with me and I made excellent time, arriving at Sydney's front door around noon. Gathering up the carryall, I exited the auto and hurried to the steps, when chills wracked my body. As the chills passed, the front door opened and Sydney, his cherubic face beaming, the sunlight glinting off his round spectacles, welcomed me heartily.

Sydney ushered me into his flat and offered me afternoon tea. After we exchanged pleasantries, I began to steer the conversation towards my true intent for the visit. I explained to my long time friend that I was involved in a bit of research that involved the caliph al-Mansur.

Sydney tapped his lips with a forefinger (a habit he had begun at university), excused himself and left the room. Several moments later, he returned with an armload of books and papers.

The books and papers contained the usual information available to any historian: The Abbasid caliphate begun in 750 is firmly established by al-Mansur, 42, who succeeds his brother Abu-I-Abbas to begin a 21-year reign, and so on and so forth, but there was no mention of Hal-Il-Mau-Graby or his school of magicks. Sipping on my tea, I contemplated my next course of action.

Sydney interrupted my thoughts, "I say old boy are you afraid that someone will jaunt off with your valise?"

Confused, I looked down at my carryall. Only then did I realize that I the whole time we had had been searching through the information, I never relaxed my grip on the case. Releasing the case, I gave a nervous laugh and made a poor joke of the rough streets of London. Not wanting to discuss my hidden treasure unless necessary, I questioned Sydney further about al-Mansur.

"I'm afraid my knowledge of the caliph is rather limited to what you have before you." Reluctantly, I brought up the subject of the caliph destroying a school of magicks.

My friend gave a slight chuckle. "You must be referring to Dom-Daniel."

"So you have heard of it?" I said with barely contained excitement.

"Yes, I am an expert in cultural mythology after all." Here Sydney paused, a quizzical look in his eyes. "Why would you, a historian, a dealer in facts, be interested in a mythical realm?"

I now arrived at a dilemma. I needed the information that Sydney possessed, but I did not wish to expose my treasure. After an internal debate, I reached into the valise and withdrew the unknown tome. Again, a slight chill wracked my body, though from excitement or ague I knew not.

Sydney's eyes widened at the sight of the book and reached out to take hold of it. A bout of irrational jealously stirred within me as I handed the tome over. I stared hard at my longtime friend as he thumbed through the yellowed, though still supple pages, all the while resisting the urge to seize my treasured tome.

After what seemed an eternity, Sydney finally spoke. "Where did you find such a remarkable book?"

Not wanting to explain my illegal actions, I brushed aside the question, instead asking one of my won. "Do you recognize the strange language?"

Sydney returned his gaze to the pages. "If I am not mistaken, the language is a variation of Cthlothian, most likely a Cysperion dialect. This is an incredible find. Do you have any idea who penned the tome?"

I could see the flush of excitement on my friends face and the stirrings of jealousy began within me once more. Pushing down my irrational behavior, I told Sydney that I thought that the author might be Hal-Il-Mau-Graby. Sydney shook his head and opened the tome to the first page of text.

Indicating the last paragraph of the passage, Sydney, in a stuttering pattern, translated the strange words: "I, Artiseas the blessed, say unto all seekers of destiny, herein lies the true knowledge of the elder gods as heard by the faithful. My travels through foreign lands, both known and unknown, fraught with pain and sacrifice require that I bequeath the blessings of the ancient ones unto them that follow."

Closing the book, Sydney smiled and removed his spectacles. "Artiseas was supposedly a Greek philosopher, poet, warrior and teacher of Homer. I say supposedly because he is regarded as more myth than man. It is said that he would travel to all the mythical lands: Mu, Emin, Lirth and Atlantis. They also said that Artiseas would disappear and reappear throughout history every 100 years. Some believe that the names of well-known magic users throughout history: St. Germain, Abramelin the mage, Merlin and such were in truth Artiseas. There is even some speculation that he went by the name Nostradamus."

Two things struck me; first, that Sydney would be able to help me decipher much of the tome and second, I was certain that the passage he had translated had not been there the first time I opened the tome. A puzzled look must have crossed my face, for my friend asked if all was well.

Perhaps the pages had stuck together. I put the question of the text out of my mind; I needed to know about Dom-Daniel. Opening the tome to the etching of the door, I showed it to Sydney and inquired about the possibility of its existence.

Sydney chortled and then coughed to hide the fact that he found my exuberance amusing. "Dear boy, the book while undoubtedly valuable is still nothing more than an ancient storyteller's ramblings."

Seeing that I would not retract my question, Sydney donned his spectacles and examined the opened page. "If what I am reading is correct, then this doorway or rather daemon is the first guardian to the school."

Impatiently I told Sydney that I knew all of this already. "How would one get past such a daemon?"

Sydney sighed, "My friend, do you honestly believe that Dom-Daniel truly exists?"

When I did not answer, Sydney read the text again. "As I can see, the daemon is a 'glare' or a mirror daemon if you will. To pass, one would need to put the daemon to rest. If I translate this correctly, you would use the phrase 'Somulus'."

Eagerly, I packed away the tome and thanked Sydney for his time. As I left his dwelling, Sydney stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. "William, there are things in this world that should be left alone?"

My smile was forced. "Sydney, I thought you did not believe in myths."

A sad look came upon his face. "The mind is a powerful instrument; it can cause people to see or hear things that are not there. Be careful." I walked to my auto and waved at Sydney as I drove away.

That was the last time I saw my friend...alive.

III

Arriving home, I secluded myself once again in my study. Seated at my desk, I eagerly perused the tome, seeking clues as to what might lie beyond the obsidian door. An hour of futile searching left me frustrated and depleted. A rumbling in my stomach reminded me that I had not eaten anything of substance since my morning meal. As it was nearly three in the afternoon, I thought an early supper would be on this occasion quite appropriate. Putting the tome aside, I rose and went to sate my hunger. I had gone no more than several steps, when my vision clouded draining the study of its color and my legs began to tremble. It was if my entire reserve of energy had fled my body, causing me to rely on a nearby bookcase for support. It took all my resolve to remain erect.

It was after the chills had passed and my strength returned, that I realized how famished I truly was. I hurried to the kitchen and prepared a meal of sausages, potatoes and greens, nibbling at some fruits as I did so. After a second helping, I ingested a large portion of kidney pudding. I admit that it was a rather larger meal than I was accustomed to eating, but I could not help myself. While clearing away the tableware, it dawned on me that I had left the tome unattended in the study. At once, I returned to the study, irrationally worried that the tome would not be there. Relief flooded through me as I spied the tome exactly where I had left it. Following this thought, came the notion that until this moment, the tome had not been out of my sight since coming into my possession.

Several questions plagued my mind, as I poured myself an apricot brandy. Would I dream again of 'Dom-Daniel'? Was it truly a place of substance or nothing more than a dream fragment? What lay beyond the 'glare'? Seating myself behind the desk, I contemplated the enigma of the tome.

As I flipped absently through the tome, a folded square of parchment fluttered to the floor. Retrieving the slip, I scrutinized the note, the handwriting cramped and erratic, declaiming the tome as a horror upon humanity. The note rambled on for the length of the parchment sheet, telling of nightmares, daemons and allusions to ancient gods and peoples. What astounded me more than the message itself was the name of the apparent author: Charles VI, King of France.

Charles the sixth, more commonly referred to as 'Charles the Mad', had assumed the throne of France in the year 1380 at the age of 12. In the year 1392, a still young Charles succumbed to a fever and convulsions (the first of 44 fits and seizures), spiraling into madness. Historic records indicate that 'Mad' Charles was wont to sit upon his throne, mumbling continuously about an accursed tome of ancient lore.

My mind raced with the possibilities. Surely, having found the slip of parchment in the unknown tome gave credence to the ramblings of a lunatic and yet being a man of facts, I could scarcely credit an inanimate object for driving a man insane. Although I did recall in my days at university, a seminar involving rare historic texts, that certain so-called forbidden writings were supposedly protected from the uninitiated by infusing the inks with poison. The poison, absorbed through the skin by contact, would afflict the transgressor with headaches, fevers and chills, and ultimately death.

My eyes drifted towards the tome and I was seized by a moment of dread. Had I not lately experienced chills, nausea and weakness? Had I not experienced an odd dream and lost a full day and night? Did not these events coincide with my obtaining the unusual tome? Moreover, what of my strange compulsion to keep the tome close at hand?

My pulse quickened and my fear began to overwhelm me. Taking several cleansing breaths (along with a large dose of brandy), I calmed myself and gathered my wits about me. My rationale returned I reread the startling claims of Charles. Truly, this message could be nothing more than the ranting of a disturbed mind. Surely the illness that haunted Charles the 'Mad' were of a natural affliction and not a supernatural one.

Setting aside the dilemma of the mad king, I instead focused on several points he had raised. That he once possessed the tome could not be denied, nor could I argue against his claims of strange and disturbing dreams. Most intriguing (and looking back ominous) was Charles' belief that his dreams had commenced to seep into the waking world. His comments on incoherent whisperings in his private chambers and throne room, sent shivers down my spine. Charles also posed the theory that the tome had connections to ancient forgotten gods, similar to those mention in the 'Necronomicon': Cthlulhu, Yog-Sothoth, Shudde-M'ell, and Ithaqua. He also believed that sub aqueous cities, with the odd names of R'leyeh and Y'ha-Nthlei, existed in the unreachable fathoms of the oceans.

Weariness suffused my mind and I leaned back in the comfortable leather chair, allowing my tired eyes to close. Soon I was sound asleep and slipped into the world of dreams.

I found myself once more confronting the obsidian door, the daemon a silent block of frozen night. Torchlight danced across its glassy reflective surface. As I approached the 'glare', the daemon stirred, its dark surface undulating, throbbing in synchronicity with my own pulse rate. I hesitated before this enigmatic denizen, studying the myriad forms trapped within the daemons dark embrace. The flickering shadows gave the frozen forms an eerie semblance of animation. Several minutes passed before I realized that I could discern the presence of the indistinct whisperings, the incessant mumblings striking a chord of fear and excitement within me. Suppressing a shudder, I composed myself and uttered the phrase, "Somulus".

A sigh like that of a thousand voices sounded throughout the alcove, as the daemon faded from view. Beyond lay an inky blackness so deep that at first I took it to be solid rock. Although I knew that I was asleep safe at home in my study, I tentatively reached out a trembling hand and meeting no resistance, allowed myself to relax... slightly.

The whispering voices continued, somewhat increased in volume but not clarity. The darkness too thick (not to mention too frightening) for easy passage, I retrieved a torch from the corroded, iron, wall sconce and passed beneath the archway.

Holding the flaming brand high, its feeble light pushing back a small area of shadows, I noticed that the flames did not consume the wood. Confident that I would not find myself suddenly plunged into absolute darkness; I followed the uneven path, all the while listening to the maddening sounds of incoherent whispers.

Traveling along the labyrinthine tunnel, torchlight illuminating the lichen-encrusted walls, I thought of how much time was passing in the waking world. I had lost a full day and night on my last visit to this surreal dominion. Would I awaken to find much more time had elapsed? As I pondered this notion, I became aware that a tepid stale draft floated along the tunnel, causing the torch flame to dwindle, robbing me of the little light it provided. As the gloom around me deepened, I could see a blush of light beckoning me forward. Cautiously I advanced, my high-strung nerves dancing on edge.

Drawing a deep breath, I stepped into a stalagmite-filled cavern, onto a natural rock bridge. Below me flowed a molten river of lava, the source of the light.

Slowly I walked along the bridge, greeted by a sight that stole the very breath from my lungs. All around the cavern were enormous alcoves, each containing colossal stone statues. I wondered how these magnificent idols were placed in such precarious locations, for there did not appear to be any easy access to the lofty perches. However, why so many and why place them so far from the tunnel entrance, if they were meant to frighten people away?

As these questions occupied my thoughts, I continued my trek across the rock-bridge. Near the bridge center, I halted as a great keening sound occurred, buffeting me from all sides. The piercing wail rose steadily in volume, causing me to drop the flaming brand and clasp my hands over my ears. I lurched and stumbled my way towards the far end, when a tremor ran through the rock bridge, upsetting my equilibrium, pitching me onto my hands and knees. The screeching ended as suddenly as it had begun. The sound of falling stone reached my ears as another tremor shook the foundation beneath me.

Afraid that the bridge would soon collapse, I rose to my feet and froze. Feeling a presence behind me, I peered over my shoulder and nearly fainted. There, looming over me stood an enormous creature, its misshapen torso sat on thick, squat legs, huge stone wings protruded from its massive back, powerful arms ended in rocky, clawed hands, a thing out of legend...a gargoyle.

Coal black eyes regarded me. Suddenly the creature let loose a roar of unsuppressed rage, a roar so loud and terrifying that had this been the waking world, I would most certainly have fouled my trousers. The scream motivated me and I raced for the far end of the bridge and the safety of the tunnel opening.

A rush of air over my head alerted me to the closeness of the beast. The gargoyle landed heavily upon the bridge before me, sending another shockwave through the stone. A swipe of a stone claw raked across my chest, sending me spinning towards the bridge edge. The gargoyle released another roar and advanced upon me, freezing the blood in my veins.

Desperately I struggled to my feet. With a final lumbering step, a huge crack appeared beneath the feet of the beast. Mesmerized, I could only stare in horror as the crack widened and the section beneath my feet gave way. I screamed helplessly as I plunged towards the molten lava until...I awoke to strange surroundings.

IV

My gaze wandered about the room. Gone were the accruements of my study, replaced by the austere walls of a hospital room, its pale green paint chipped and peeling. Guessing that I had been brought to the local hospital (King George Memorial), I re-traced the events that led up to my awakening here, the twisting labyrinth, my terrifying ordeal with the gargoyle and my seemingly fatal plunge towards the river of lava. My thoughts were interrupted by a loud voice.

"Ah, awake at last I see."

Startled, I sat up albeit, all too quickly as evident by the pounding headache and swimming vision. Returning to a reclining position, I closed my eyes and waited for the room to cease its nauseating rotation.

"How are we feeling this morning Mr. Seaborn?"

Slowly I opened my eyes and studied the man before me. Even without the clipboard, lab coat and the obligatory stethoscope draped about his neck, one would almost assuredly take him for a doctor. I informed the doctor of my dizziness and headache, my voice sounding raspy to my ears. Patiently (no pun intended), I waited as the doctor's pen scratched across the clipboard. Finally, the doctor looked up from his jottings. He remarked that it was to be expected, as I had been unconscious for some time now.

I questioned the doctor as to how I had come to be in the hospital. He related to me that I had been brought in the day before, after my housekeeper discovered me unconscious in the study. The shock of his statement must have been apparent on my face, for the doctor paused and studied me closely. How could I explain to him that I had fallen asleep late Monday afternoon and my housekeeper would have arrived on Thursday!

Dr. Blaine (as I later learned his name to be) asked me several typical questions, which I answered automatically, while my mind raced with thoughts of my predicament. Why was I losing so much time? Why now was I dreaming for what seemed a short period and awakening several days later? Losing first one day and then three caused me much concern. Would I eventually lose a week, a month, or a year? Perhaps I did not dream the moment I fell asleep, as I had thought, but instead I dreamt only on the verge of waking. The possibility of this occurring un-nerved me.

Dr. Blaine snapped his fingers in front of my face. Apologizing for my inattention, I assured the good doctor that all was well and voiced my desire to return to my home. The doctor attempted to dissuade me, believing that I needed to stay another night.

I explained to the doctor that although I appreciated his concerns, I needed to return to my home, as I resided alone and wished to see to its upkeep. Dr. Blaine's next statement cast a pall of trepidation upon me. He informed me that my worries were unfounded that my good friend, Sydney Myers, having heard of my sudden unexplained illness, had gone to secure my home. Recalling the gleam in Sydney's eyes, my thoughts turned to the tome, left unprotected upon my desk. I leapt out of bed and ignoring the doctor's protestations hurriedly dressed and demanded that I be allowed to check out of the hospital. Having no choice, the doctor consented to my request. A hansom was called to take me home. The entire ride home I fretted about the tome.

When my front door came into sight, I lit out of the hansom before the driver had even halted the vehicle, tossing a few quid over the seat. Rushing to the door, I fumbled my key into the lock and ran to my study, not bothering to close the door behind me.

The drapery closed, the study was dark and musty, not having been aired in several days. Switching on the lights, I ran to my desk and swore. The tome, my new prized possession, was gone. Grasping the telephone, I dialed Sydney's number, my anger mounting. After several rings, the telephone was picked up by Sydney's wife Margery.

Unable to contain my anger, I demanded to speak to Sydney. Margery's voice normally jovial and light became strained and subdued as she haltingly told me that Sydney had suffered a fatal heart attack two nights prior.

Shocked into silence, I could only listen as Margery softly cried. I apologized for my rudeness and offered my condolences. Apologizing once more, I questioned Margery about Sydney's recent trip to my home. Margery, believing that I was blaming myself for her husband's death, attempted to assure me that I was not at fault. Guilt and shame warred with my desire to reclaim the tome. The poor woman had gone through a terrible ordeal. Unable to bring myself to ask for the tome, I offered my assistance in her time of need. Margery thanked me and hung up. I sat for a time with the telephone in my hand and did not release it until the operator came on and asked if I needed assistance.

I resolved myself to waiting a respectable amount of time before I would again call Margery and inquiring about my tome. My tome yes, I had begun to feel that the tome was my personal property, a feeling I should have taken as a warning. Seating myself in the leather chair, I began formulating a plan to re-acquire my tome, when I heard voices coming from the hall. Recalling that in my haste to check on the tome I had not closed the front door, I left the study to do so. Peering out the doorway, I found it odd that no one was about.

Returning to my study, I decided on a brandy. As the amber liquid poured into the glass, it occurred to me that while I enjoyed the occasional drink in the past, I had increased my consumption of brandy since obtaining the enigmatic book. Drink in hand; I started to go back to my desk, when an unusual sound, quite out of place in the study caught my ear. An icy finger of dread stroked my spine when I recognized the sound... a whisper.

Surely I was mistaken, the stress of awaking in a hospital, the loss of my tome and the death of my long time friend were too much for my nerves to cope with. But no, the whispers continued and as in my dream, I could make neither heads nor tails of the constant chatter. The glass fell from my nerveless fingers, shattering on the hardwood floor, a gunshot among the whispers. Turning abruptly, my elbow struck the bookcase, jarring loose a book and sending it crashing to the floor. Startled as I was by the consecutive loud noises, I was even more astounded by the book itself, a book that should not have been on the bookshelves...my tome.

Excitedly I retrieved my tome, relieved that it had not fallen into the amber puddle and broken glass. Assuming that either my housekeeper or Sydney (the former surely) had placed the tome on the shelf for safekeeping, I placed the tome on my desk thankful (and slightly guilty) that I would not have to call Margery once more. The atmosphere of the study suddenly shifted. Muscles tensed as I sought the cause of my discomfort, then it dawned on me, the whispers had ceased.

After clearing away the broken glass and spilled brandy, I sat at my desk, contemplating the mysteries of the tome, the dreams and the whispers, especially the whispers. Was I losing touch with reality? Was I to become like the pitiful Charles the Mad, mumbling to myself, cursing the existence of a book? Certainly, I must have imagined the whispers. With these questions plaguing my mind and still weak from my recent bout of unconsciousness, coupled with the day's stress, I thought to take an afternoon nap. Tucking the tome beneath my arm, I went up to my bedchamber and lay down to rest, not bothering to undress. As sleep overcame me, I realized that I still clutched the tome.

Yet again, I found myself standing at the tunnel exit before the rock bridge. I could see the magma sluggishly flowing below the intact bridge. Signs of my earlier visit were non-existent. Aware that the second guardian, the gargoyle, would attempt to prevent my crossing, I decided that I would no longer comply with the dreams. I would sit and wait to awaken, or so I thought. The whispering voices called to me, hypnotic and enticing. If I was to free myself from this continuing nightmare, I knew that I must see it to the end. But first, I would have to pass the second guardian.

Try as I might, I could not think of any useful information regarding gargoyles. My only option appeared to be a mad dash across the bridge. Steeling myself against the upcoming piercing screams, I ran out onto the bridge, determined to reach the haven of the opposite tunnel. As before, the keening sounds assailed me. Running pell-mell, as if the hounds of hell were chasing me, I strove to reach the far side of the bridge, fearing the assault of the gargoyle. Several yards from the tunnel entrance and sanctuary, the roaring gargoyle sailed down from the shadowed cavern heights, forcing me to halt my flight.

The creature stood before me, its visage terrible to behold. Flat black eyes fixed upon me and I knew that I was done for, my death assured. The gargoyle advanced on me, yet I stood motionless, trapped by its dark gaze. Still the whispers called to me, urging me onward. Then among the confusing babble a name became clear...Jamshid. Without thinking, I spoke the name aloud. The gargoyle hesitated. Emboldened I again spoke the name, this time commanding, "In the name of Jamshid, allow me to pass!" With that, the gargoyle let free a screeching howl, squatted down and folded its stone-like wings. Its coal black eyes shined briefly and then shut, becoming a lifeless statue once more. Cautiously, I stepped past the inanimate beast, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger, but the gargoyle remained inert.

The whispers continued to call me, incoherent once again. I made my way to the tunnel entrance and followed the twisting corridor to a manmade chamber, its floor covered by a swirling ground fog. In the center of the chamber sat twin obelisks, ten meters in height and approximately three meters apart, their ivory surfaces carved with ancient runes. Imbedded along the chamber wall were irregular shaped crystals. Each crystal glowed with an inner light, giving the chamber an eldritch ambience. Closer inspection revealed symbols similar to the obelisk runes were etched into each crystal.

Intrigued, I began a circuitous route of the chambers, whisper thin tendrils of mist coiling about my legs. After making the complete circuit, leaving small eddies in my wake, I arrived back at the chamber entrance, encountering no other exits. It seemed the chamber was a dead end. Putting the matter aside, I turned my attention to the twin obelisks.

I reached out to touch the left-hand obelisk and received a surprise as my hand passed through. I attempted to touch the right-hand obelisk only to meet the same result. It appeared that the obelisk were nothing more than illusionary objects. Perplexed, I decided to backtrack along the twisting tunnel that led to the chamber, to see if I had missed a side tunnel, and received yet another surprise.

During my observations of the chamber, a gel-like substance had covered the entrance, not unlike a spider's web. I stared, dumfounded as the substance expanded and became opaque, effectively sealing me in. The whispers grew in volume and I spun back towards the obelisks. The roiling ground mist began to swirl faster. I watched as forms began to coalesce, taking on shapes, humanoid shapes. With nowhere to run, I backed as close to the solid webbing as I dared. Among the whispers, I heard a name that turned my insides to water...William. Frozen with fear, I watched as the faceless wraiths parted and a singular form stepped forth. Tears welled up in my eyes, as I recognized the apparition before me...Sydney.

V

A mixture of joy and sadness infused my soul. I stood trembling as I faced the shade of my recently departed friend. How could Sydney's spirit reside here? Was his brief encounter with the tome enough to entrap him here? Would my spirit also reside here upon my death, never knowing peace? The thought shook me to my core. The forms of other specters milled about Sydney, fading in and out of focus. I realized then that the disembodied voice that had reached out to me on the bridge had been that of Sydney. Still in shock at his timely appearance, I could think of nothing else to say except to ask, "Jamshid?"

A subtle smile played about Sydney's lips. "In mythology, Jamshid is the king of the Genii and the creator of the original gargoyles eons past." Sydney's form fluctuated almost dispersing completely before solidifying once again. "William, it is difficult to maintain this shape, you must listen to me. You must destroy the tome."

My joy at seeing Sydney quickly turned to an irrational rage. How dare he make demands concerning my property. "Leave me; you are nothing more than a dream!" A wail of protest sounded from the milling throng surrounding Sydney. A forlorn look crossed Sydney's once cherubic face.

"William, my friend, do you not know the truth of this place? This is more than the dream world; it is a dimension of its own. You are physically here and in your own world simultaneously. Please, I beg of you retrieve the tome from my flat and destroy it."

Truly confused I said nothing, for I knew the tome to be in my possession. I asked of my one time friend, "What are you talking about? I have the tome. My housekeeper (so I thought) placed the tome on my bookshelf."

Sydney shook his head. "That cannot be possible. When you left my flat with the book, I felt an overwhelming desire to possess it. Upon hearing of your sudden illness, I went to your home and convinced your housekeeper to allow me access to your study. I obtained the book and returned to my home. Shortly after, I fell asleep but the stress of falling from the bridge claimed my life. I ..."

Sydney halted his speech, raising his head to the shadowed chamber ceiling. I followed his gaze, but I could not discern what had drawn Sydney's attention. From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of several forms dissipating into shapeless fog. Looking back to Sydney, I could see his form wavering. As he faded from view, Sydney whispered a final word...shimmer.

Once more, I stood in the swirling ground mist. The quiet of the chamber was disrupted by the sound of a falling pebble. Reacting, I spun about, looking for the source of the falling stone and barely managed to refrain from screaming. A gargantuan arachnid crept down the chamber wall. I thought to secure a weapon, yet nothing presented itself. The arachnid made its way inexorably towards the mist-shrouded floor.

Desperate, I called out to Sydney but my plea went unanswered. Thinking that I must have missed an exit, I fled to the opposite side of the chamber. Frantically I scoured the surrounding area, aware that death was creeping towards me. I screamed with absolute terror as I felt a foreleg brush my back. Panicked, I leapt forward and struck my head against one of the crystals protruding from the chamber wall. Starburst clouded my vision as I slumped to the floor. I lay there helpless, my last sensation one of terror as the image of the deadly arachnid filled my fading sight. Then all I knew was darkness.

I awoke to the sound of a soft rain pelting the glass of my bedchamber window. Sitting up, I steadied myself as a wave of dizziness washed through me. I made to rise and inadvertently knocked the tome to the floor, opening to an image of the very chamber I had so recently been in (an image I do not recall seeing before). Taking up the tome and thinking to ignore the text, my attention was drawn by a single word... shimmer. With the volume in hand, I headed for my study, only to pause at the mirror hanging near the bedchamber door. I was surprised to see a purplish bruise on my forehead, exactly where I had struck it in my dream. Gently I probed the area, wincing at the tenderness. All that Sydney had related to me in my dream state came rushing back to me. Did I truly exist physically both here and in the dream world? The bruise indicated that this was so. But what of Sydney's other assertion? Had he taken the tome? If so, how then had it been returned to me? Confused, I returned to the study.

I sat at my desk (brandy in hand of course), debating a course of action. I studied the text describing the chamber of echoes, a place where lost souls were wont to gather. The fragmented text, spoke of a shimmer or a gateway demon, used for passage to an otherwise secluded region. According to the text, the 'shimmer' resided between time and space, called forth by the sound of ringing crystal.

Closing the tome, I could not help but ponder how fortunate I had been in coming across bits of information that would further my progress through Dom-Daniel. I could not help but recall how the book seemed larger than when I first acquired it, almost as if pages were being added. It was as if the tome knowing my need, presented the text for my benefit...or maybe its own.

That thought decided my next step. I would no longer be a pawn in some unknown game. Taking the tome, I placed it in the wall safe above the fireplace. There it would remain until I could find a semblance of control.

Over the next several months, I regained some composure, no longer plagued by dreams of the school of four thousand steps. Summer faded to autumn and I made ready to begin a career instructing the next generation of historians. September through November passed without incident and I began to believe that my troubling dreams had indeed ended. My joy of the academic life would be short lived however, as once again the whispers intruded on my waking time.

At first, I believed the whispers to be rebellious students showing a lack of respect, but when confronting the class I was met by confused stares. The whispers were heard only by me. Shaken, I dismissed the class early and returned to my home. The whispering voices rode the cold December winds, dogging my every step. Rushing to my study, I opened the safe to assure myself that the tome was still in my possession. The tome sat in the small vault, a beacon of darkness and mystery. I began to close the safe, when an overpowering desire to hold the book engulfed me. Retrieving the tome, I was overcome by a sense of movement. The study seemed to warp and darken. I found myself falling to the floor.

It was a moment before my vision cleared and I received a frightening shock. The study was no more; in its stead was the chamber of echoes. Never before had I arrived in the dream world without first falling asleep.

The chamber stood as before, the eldritch glow lighting the walls, the ground mist undulating on the floor and the chamber opening sealed by the solid webbing. I approached the obelisks and once again passed through as if they were not there. Fearing that the arachnid would soon appear, I sought a way to cause the crystals to ring.

Studying each crystal in turn, I noticed a pattern that matched the obelisks. Running a hand across the surface of one crystal caused the etched rune to warm, emitting a low ring tone, while the matching rune on the obelisk flared to life. Believing I had stumbled upon the key to summoning the gateway demon, I set about matching and touching the etched crystals. As each rune flared to life, the ring tone grew more insistent. After the sixth crystal, a blinding flash illuminated the chamber.

Stretched between the twin obelisk sat what I can only describe as a screen of silver, similar in texture to mercury. I stepped closer to inspect this new arrival, this shimmer. Tentatively, I reached out touching the mercury-like object. My finger broke the surface tension, sending small pool-like ripples across its gleaming surface. Withdrawing my hand and feeling no ill effects, I drew in a deep breath, closed my eyes and plunged through the shimmer.

I felt myself moving forward, although I myself had ceased to walk. Still I kept my eyes tightly shut for fear of losing myself. Finally unable to hold my breath any longer, I expelled the trapped air in my lungs and opened my eyes. My surroundings nearly stole the remainder of my breath.

I stood in a vast cathedral-like chamber, its walls layered in gold sheaf. In the center of the room rose an altar of black marble, surrounded by ornate gem-encrusted, statuary, depicting gods known, and unknown. So lifelike were the sculptures, I hesitated for fear that they would come to life and strike me down for desecrating their presence. From a distance, I could seed smokeless candles and a chalice adorning the altar. Assuring myself that the gateway demon yet remained behind me, I stepped forward to examine the altar.

As I climbed the steps my gaze focused on the lustrous marble altar, I became aware of the whispers once more, stronger than ever. What awaited me atop the altar nearly broke my resolve. Amidst candles, chalice and implements sat a tome, no not a tome, but my tome. The whispers grew more energetic, though of a language neither others nor I had ever heard vocalized. Unquestionably, no one of my world could produce the necessary phonetic variations to recreate the words.

The sound of footsteps broke my reverie. Tearing my gaze from the tome, I looked up across the altar into the eyes of ... myself. Dread suffused my being. I now knew the cause of my bouts of weakness, my loss of time. This creature before me had been stealing my strength and will and assumed my guise, was a doppelganger.

On instinct, I snatched up the tome and fled towards the shimmer, only to be halted by a wall of mist. Sydney's voice called out to me from the mist, warning me of removing the tome. A hand fell upon my shoulder and without thinking I swung the tome, striking the doppelganger. The creature staggered back a step before recovering. It then made to grab me once more but the mist enveloped the creature, effectively separating it from me. Sydney's voice cried out, "Leave the tome!", whereupon I dropped the book and fled through the shimmer. Once more, I passed through the gateway demon, the warm sensation slightly different from before. Believing that I would exit into the chamber of echoes I was taken aback to find myself standing in my study.

Not wanting to relive any more of my nightmares, I set a fire in the hearth and retrieved the tome from where it had fallen. Determined to see an end to this horror, I set the tome into the fire and watched as the flames licked hungrily at the leather binding. My relief did not last. As the flames devoured the tome, a dense black cloud of soot gathered above the tome. At first, I thought I had forgotten to open the flue, but soon I realized the truth. The visage of an imp formed in the roiling black cloud, the same image I had seen when first I opened the cursed book. My heart pounded hard against my breast, for upon scrutinizing the image, I could see a distorted version of myself.

Helpless, I watched as the gathered smoke rose up the chimney. I raced outside and witnessed the cloud expand and race away from my Berkshire home. The winds increased and a heavy rain began to fall. Hugging myself, I returned to my study thinking that at last it was over.

Several days later, I learned that a dark cloud deposited 5 tons of grime and soot on the city of London. Oh how I wept. Still I was glad to hear that the cloud had dispersed. But much to my chagrin, I later learned that it was not the end.

The following year was filled with an increasing amount of so-called natural disasters throughout the world: Jan 31, The Princess Victoria sank in a severe storm, 132 people lost, Jan 31 – Feb 5, Severe storms cause flooding in Britain, Belgium and the Netherlands, Nov 27-28, Seven lightship tenders are lost as the Goodwin Sands Lightship is wracked by heavy gales winds lashing the British Isles. In all cases, a report of a roiling dark cloud had been present, in itself not uncommon except that by all reports, the cloud seemed to move against the wind.

As I sit and write this tale, I had hoped for some peace of mind, but moments ago the hearth, which had remained unused since the burning of the tome flared to life. Startled I watched as the flames burned a bright blue and then died out, leaving not ash, but the unscathed tome! Lord, am I never to be free of this cursed book?

###

### Bonus Material

### Dawn's Knight:

### The Travels of Caleb Walker

### Episode 1: Sunset House

From the Journal of Caleb Walker

March 5, 1848

It is hard to believe that a year has passed since the loss of my Ellie and Jesse. With their passing, I have since lost faith in my God and myself. I have spent the last year wandering the Arizona Territories in search of a place to call home, but how can anywhere truly be a home without my loved ones to fill it. Some might say that I am actually searching for myself. Either way, I continue my travels.

#

"Momma!"

"Don't move baby, don't move. Just hold real still."

The woman edged closer to her son, panic straining her features. Her terrified gaze flitted back and forth between her child and the rattlesnake at his feet. Every tear that ran down the little boy's cheek was a stab to her heart. She said a silent prayer. Lord please, he's only four years old. It's my fault, I should have been watching him closer, don't make him pay for my carelessness. Gently she slid her right foot forward. The last thing she wanted to do was startle the snake. She was still too far away to make a grab for the boy. The strong Arizona sun beat down upon mother and child, adding to the unbearable tension. The rattler shook its tail, the rattling sound warning of imminent attack, freezing the woman in her tracks. Her child stood trembling, an imploring look of desperation written across his tear-streaked face. Another warning rattle sounded. It was then that the young child's nerve broke and he made to flee towards his mother.

Almost simultaneously, three things occurred: the rattler struck out at the child, the mother screamed and a gunshot erupted. The woman was stunned to silence as the rattlesnake disappeared in an explosion of dirt, blood and sinew. Gathering her frightened child into her arms, the woman turned towards the gunshot source. Her gaze fell on a stranger sitting astride a palomino, his gun still drawn, smoke rising listlessly from the barrel.

"Thank God for your timely arrival," she said, relief etched on her face.

The stranger holstered his weapon, drawing his travel-worn, duster over the gun butt, but not before the woman spied the cross hanging around his neck. Cold gray eyes peered out beneath his flat-crowned hat. "God don't have no say in what I do these days ma'am." With a touch to the brim, the stranger turned his horse. Making soothing sounds to her sobbing child, the woman watched the gunman ride away.

#

Time lost all meaning in the Arizona territory, with its vast tracks of desert, saguaro cactus plants, mesquite trees, and dry heat. Caleb Walker rode into the desert, lost in his memories that the endangered child had ignited: the Indian attack on the wagon train, followed almost immediately by the painful loss of his own son to fever and then the loss of his wife, Ellie, to the same illness just days later. In the span of just two weeks, Caleb had lost everything he cared about, including his faith. No, God had no say now in the former preacher's life. Caleb glanced up at the afternoon sky, taking a drink from his canteen. Silence followed the gunman as his horse plodded across the sere plain, shrouding him in a cocoon of false peace.

Stopping to get his bearings, Caleb heard the screeching cries of vultures. Ahead on the horizon, he could see the ungainly birds plunge to the earth. Hidden by a small dune, he could not see what the scavengers were feasting upon, but he could imagine the grim scene.

Coming over the rise, Caleb took in the horde of vultures gorging themselves on two corpses. Disgusted, he drew his Colt Dragoon and fired a shot into the air. Startled, the vultures launched into the sky, with the exception of one.

The lone predator craned its neck about to peer at the gunman. Odd red eyes bored into Caleb's gray ones, before joining the rest of the fleeing birds. Holstering the heavy six-gun, he rode down the dune to view the carnage.

Dismounting, the gunman stalked to the desecrated human remains. Both were men who appeared to be or were (he silently amended) in their early twenties. Entrails lay exposed to the dry Arizona heat, one with his eyes staring sightlessly into the blue sky. Caleb closed the eyes and more from habit than any true faith, he recited the Lord's Prayer.

The former preacher spent the next hour digging a shallow grave and dumping the bodies within. After covering the corpses and taking time to reload his gun, Caleb mounted his palomino and resumed his journey. As he rode, it occurred to him that the men must have been dead for some time, as there was very little blood, despite the ravaging by the vultures.

#

The sun had begun its descent, when a sandstorm struck without warning, virtually blinding him. Keeping the grating wind at his back, Caleb guided his horse southwest. He rode wearily on, aware that the nearest town, Gila City was more than a day away.

Several times during his trek, Caleb got the sensation of eyes tracking him. Scanning his bleak surroundings through the wind-born sand, Caleb thought he glimpsed a rough outline of a figure in the distance but when he blinked the grit from his eyes, the figure had vanished. Probably just a cactus he thought, still he could not shake the feeling of someone watching him.

The sun had nearly set, when he stumbled upon the house, the sun's rays painting the house in varying shades of red, from the pilaster-flanked front entry to the heavy stone sills and the ornate roof balustrades. Caleb dismounted and led his horse to the front steps, as a young woman exited the house. Caleb felt his gut tighten and caught himself reaching for his gun. The young woman wore a buckskin dress and had bead and feather-work, woven into her long, silky black hair. Irrational though it may be, since the wagon attack, Caleb was distrustful of all Indian people.

"Good evening sir. I have been sent to see to your animal." Despite the harsh winds, Caleb had little trouble hearing her words, her voice carrying clearly, as if she had shouted. She held out her hands expectantly, yet the Indian maiden did not meet his gaze, focusing instead on the cross around his neck. Noticing her gaze, he tucked the cross beneath his shirt, as he handed her the reins and took down his saddlebags. Giving the horse a pat, the former preacher mounted the steps while the young woman led the palomino around back, glancing over her shoulder as she did so.

Heavy drapes covered the windows, preventing Caleb from seeing inside. Only one type of establishment uses such drapery he thought. Twin setting suns reflected from the door's brass hardware. Before he reached for the handle, the door opened, spilling forth light and soft music to greet him. A stunning blonde-haired woman stood in the doorway, beckoning him inside.

As Caleb passed the threshold, he could see several women lounging around in various stages of undress. While Caleb no longer thought of himself as a man of God, he could not help but feel uncomfortable in such a place. A petite, dark-skinned woman offered him a glass of sherry, which he graciously declined.

"I believe our guest would prefer a more potent drink. Bring him some whiskey, Leanne." The dark-skinned woman nodded and silently withdrew.

Caleb placed his saddlebags on the floor, studying the new arrival. Candlelight sparkled in her green eyes, her luxurious red, curly, hair falling in cascading waves to her slim waist, her dusky hued skin radiating health and vitality. Although the top of her head barely reached Caleb Walker's shoulder, she projected an aura of tremendous strength and authority.

"Greetings and welcome to Sunset House. I am the proprietor, Cassandra Jenkins."

Her smile was warm and inviting. Caleb could feel his pulse quicken and his throat constricting. It took a moment before he could find his voice. "Evening ma'am, name's Caleb Walker. 'fraid I'm a might lost. I don't recall a house like this on the trail to Gila City."

"Gila City? My, you certainly are lost. It's the storm. It can mislead a body. Gila City is miles away in the opposite direction, but that's not such a bad thing is it?" Again, her smile made Caleb's heart skip a beat. Leanne returned with a silver tray bearing a glass of whiskey, which he gratefully accepted. While he downed the drink, Caleb caught a glimpse of the young Indian woman peering from behind a thick velveteen curtain. Outside, the storm's clamor began to fade, indicating its passage.

The red-haired woman spoke, her voice sultry and full of promise. "Perhaps I can offer you the company of one our ladies." A smattering of subdued laughter sang throughout the room. The way Cassandra emphasized the word 'company' caused Caleb additional discomfort and he could feel the blush rising up his neck and face. Returning the glass to the waiting tray, Caleb retrieved his saddlebags and shook his head. "Thanks anyway ma'am, but I believe I should be on my way."

"Well at least stay a while until the storm ebbs," said Cassandra. Her presence so close to his own seemed to draw the very breath from his lungs.

"Sounds to me as if the storm has already passed," Caleb countered.

"It's just a lull, I assure you. Storms around these parts are a might tricky." As if on cue, the wind sent up an unearthly howl, rattling the glass and setting the house to trembling.

Caleb paused in his exit. "Guess your right about that."

Smiling, Cassandra looped an arm through his and escorted him down a dimly lit hall. "Why don't I show you to a room where you can rest a spell?"

Strolling together arm-in-arm, Caleb wondered at the fact that with the obvious business transactions that would take place in such an establishment, that he seemed to be the only male in attendance. He voiced his concern.

"I reckon the storm is keeping the regular clientele away," replied his host.

Cassandra ushered Caleb into a sparsely furnished room, containing little more than a bed, a large chest and a small table supporting an oil lamp. Dim shadows danced about the walls from the flickering, smoky lamp. Caleb felt a prickle at the nape of his neck, something about the room tickled the edge of his senses. Surveying the room, it finally clicked . . . there were no windows. Before he could make an inquiry, the former preacher sensed movement directly behind him. Caleb reacted, but moved too slow. Struck from behind, stars exploded in his eyes. As darkness filled his vision, Caleb Walker glimpsed the young Indian woman staring at him, from behind Cassandra.

Read the rest of this and the further Travels of Caleb Walker this November

Thank you for reading my book. If you enjoyed it, won't you please take a moment to leave me a review at your favorite retailer?

Thanks!

Thomas James

About the Author

Thomas James is an aspiring writer with interests in Web Design, Art, Weight Training, Fitness Instruction and Horror stories, novels and movies. His favorite and inspirational authors are H.P. Lovecraft, Edgar Allan Poe, Brian Lumely and Stephen King, and on occasion Shakespeare which he finds truly scary.

Thomas James currently resides year-round in Monmouth County, New Jersey, mostly because he cannot afford to move to Hawaii.

You can visit his website <http://www.tjendeavors.com/>

