The Morgaine Chronicles
To find out more about any of the E-books in the Morgaine Chronicles click on one of the pictures below. To learn more about the author, link to SFF World to view an interview or go to my blog page.
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Melody Trent, an attractive modern woman, dreams of dancing nude in the woods. In her quest to discover the meaning of this strange vision, she falls under the spell of a mysterious astrologer and psychic, Michael Ellul. Her involvement with this enigmatic man leads her into a universe populated with eccentrics whose strange paranormal beliefs and customs include pagan ceremonies and erotic acts. Melody begins to suspect that is that Michael is not simply a rich and famous student of the occult, but is a thousand-year old sorcerer who has sold his soul to the devil. Michael's terrifying secrets are slowly revealed to her as she is enticed into his eerie and magical world by his uncanny ability to dominate her with his eyes. Soon she questions whether he truly loves her or with the aid of the flamboyant, sexy Morgaine Fabiano, a self-proclaimed witch, has lured her into his world to sacrifice her to an evil demon in an attempt to gain immortality. A fate that would make her the slave of the demon until the end of time.
Michael Ellul was born in the tenth century A.D. At the turn of the second millennium, as a knight he is stricken with fear and runs away from his first battle to become an outlaw. His overwhelming desire to become immortal leads him to a sorcerer who for a payment of ten years of service grants him a thousand years of life. Throughout the centuries, he tries to discover the secret behind his longevity. In modern times, he struggles with a demon while two beautiful women battle for his love.
It was night, very late and I was wandering through the woods alone. Alone and lost. Moonlight shining through twigs and limbs cast a mottled silver glow on the narrow path. The surrounding black and mysterious forest seemed filled with wicked fairies and evil night creatures. I rubbed my arms with my hands against the light October breeze that chilled me through the thin material of my nightgown. My bare feet slid and slipped on damp, musty leaves. An awful stillness, the quiet of a tomb, hung over the forest. No insect buzzed, no bird sang, no animal scurried across my path. The silence amplified and made terrifying the sound of my own breathing, the thump-thump of my heart and the sharp crack of twigs breaking underfoot.
Not only was I lost but I was not even sure where I had intended to go. I could not recall why I had come to the woods so late and in such a state of undress. Yet somehow I had a feeling, a premonition, that I was about to make a wonderful discovery.
After a while I felt the presence of others, although I neither heard nor saw their approach. I could not imagine who else would be in the woods in the wee hours. Yet I did not feel threatened. The idea came into my mind that whoever these people were, they were not to be feared, that they were gathering to experience a marvelous event.
I stepped from the dark woods into a circular meadow which the moon had magically transformed into an arena of silver enchantment and soft shadows. The others appeared from every section of the wood, women and men in ankle-length white robes. I gazed about, hoping to spot a familiar face -- but they were all strangers. Strangers yes, but kindly strangers who, although no word passed between us, welcomed me with smiles and nods. Beautiful classical music surrounded us, a light and airy tune played by flute, strings and harp.
As if by a secret prearranged signal all at one time shrugged off their garments and stood naked in the moonlight. At first I was abashed and uncomfortable, but since nudity seemed important to what was to take place, my inhibitions left me and without shame, I let fall my nightgown. I joined hands with these strangers to form a circle and dance to the music like children around a May pole. Although the steps and figures were intricate and unfamiliar, I followed along with ease. I became exhilarated, laughing and gay, intoxicated. Dancing nude in the moonlight with strangers was delightful. Who would believe that I could do such a thing? Yet there I was.
After a while the beat of the music changed, becoming wild and strange, the dance frenzied. People paired off -- men with women, men with other men and women with other women. We gyrated in erotic ways. I became caught up in the mad, macabre whirling. Later I could not recall what my partner looked like. This insane revel went on until I became breathless.
Just as it climaxed, with everyone spinning like a top, I opened my eyes to the ceiling in my bedroom. My clock radio was blasting rock-and-roll into my ear. It was time to get up to go to work.
It had been such a strange and vivid dream that I stayed in bed for a while thinking about it. I recalled in exquisite detail my emotions, sounds and even odors. It had to have a hidden meaning. I resolved to ask my friend, Betty, about it. She was good at interpreting dreams.
I had contemplated the dream so long that I had to rush through my shower and breakfast and skipped my usual yoga and meditation.
* * *
I did not talk to Betty until lunch. My duties as an assistant editor at a downtown publishing firm kept me too busy to chat with her over the phone for a few minutes. The editor is nice, but really piles on the work. In addition, I'm responsible for taking down telephone messages, kicking the copier or fax machine into operation and placating authors and agents.
Around eleven, Betty called and we agreed to meet at a coffee shop on Wabash Avenue. Betty is a year or two younger than me -- I'll be thirty-five next May. What we have most in common is an interest in the paranormal -- astrology, psychic phenomenon, UFOs -- although I'm more skeptical than she is. She accepts everything written in the tabloids as true and calls psychic hotlines. Some things I believe; other things I'm sure are pure hogwash.
My interest in the occult stemmed from the years I lived with Aunt Jennifer, who made her living as a fortune teller. Dear Aunt Jennifer. She was my mother's sister but an outcast from our family because of her profession. She lived in Florida, and my parents seldom visited her when they were alive. My father used to make cracks like, "That's the right place for her. Right there in Dizzyworld."
My aunt is dead now of breast cancer, but when she was alive, she impressed me greatly. When I was on the brink of teenhood, my parents were killed in a car crash and my aunt took me into her home and her somewhat odd life.
I'll never forget the bus trip to Florida. At the age I was, traveling alone made me feel quite the adult. The people who I stayed with during the first weeks after the funeral drove me to the bus stations with admonitions not to speak to strangers. I broke that rule almost immediately, chatting with anyone who was even halfway friendly. I even had a romantic encounter with a fifteen-year-old southern gentleman traveling between Roanoke, Virginia and Raleigh, North Carolina.
* * *
When I entered my aunt's tiny cottage, I was appalled, revolted and yet strangely intrigued. Walking through her front door was like stepping through the fabric of time into a bygone era. Aunt Jen had no air conditioning although the temperature and humidity were both in the nineties,. To cool the house, dark drapes covered every window, making the interior murky and mysterious. Dusty haze and the odor of incense permeated the thick, musty air. I carried my suitcase into my aunt's living room, a crowded conglomeration of threadbare overstuffed sofas, shiny leather chairs with worn seats and round tables covered with colorful silk doilies with long fringes. She had so many plants that the living room could've been a tropical rain forest. Large ferns in pots sat squatly in the corners, flower and herbs graced every window sill and ivy trailed leafy tendrils from ceiling-hung planters. I gazed around at shelves and shelves of books and knickknacks in a chaotic order. A faded Oriental rug beneath my feet was covered with mysterious designs and mystical symbols.
I dropped my bag and glowered around the room until my eyes alighted upon a crystal ball on one of the tables. This magical object instantly fascinated me. "Can you really see the future, Aunt Jennifer?" I asked and added with the candor of the young, "Dad said, all that stuff is bunk."
From too many hours in the harsh Florida sun, Aunt Jennifer's face was as lined as a county road map. She smiled in a kindly way, her face breaking into a thousand cracks and gullies. "Meaning no disrespect to your poor departed dad, but he was wrong. I know only too well what he thought of the spiritual dimension. Well, he was not alone. Belief in the paranormal is scoffed at by many people. It takes open-mindedness to understand the truths of mysticism."
She ran her hand through thick gray-streaked curls which she seldom combed or brushed, so that strands stuck out in all directions. With her long skirt, her peasant blouse pulled down to bare her shoulders, her heavy jewelry and colorful scarf, to my youthful eyes she was the consummate gypsy fortune teller.
"To answer your question though, Melody," she went on, "yes, I believe I can see what may lie ahead -- not always, but sometimes, and then only darkly. You see, the future's not fixed. So what I do see may be changed. Otherwise there would be no reason to peer into it.
"But come girl, before I tell your fortune or cast your horoscope, let's get you settled. Let me show you to your room. Then we'll have a nice dinner and a long chat."
All evening we spoke about my parents sudden death, who was at the funeral, how I was getting along in school, what were my hobbies, did I have boy friends, what were my plans for the future and so forth.
The next morning she drove me around the area, introducing me to various people, most of whom were her age or older. In the afternoon, she had clients scheduled, so I strolled around her grounds. She lived in a rustic rural area. I explored a stand of trees, a dusty field and abandoned outbuildings. During my wanderings I did not meet anyone. Once I got a momentary glimpse of a doe at a distance before it quickly scampered away.
When I returned to my aunt's cottage, she was still with a client. I did not disturb them, but peered through the beads which separated the hallway from the living room and eavesdropped. My aunt was gazing intently into her crystal. The nervous young woman across from her was just as intently hanging on to her every word. As I listened, it seemed to me that Aunt Jen was merely giving the woman advice couched in metaphysical jargon rather than actually saying anything specific about the woman's future.
After a while, I got bored and went to my room to read. That evening at dinner, I asked Aunt Jennifer to tell my fortune.
"I'll do better than that, my dear. I'll cast your horoscope. It will tell you everything about your future, and how you should deal with the life that lies before you."
After we washed the supper dishes, my aunt rummaged in her messy desk until she found some battered old books, a compass (the kind for drawing circles), pencils and typing paper. First she drew a circle and with a ruler divided it neatly into twelve pie-shaped sections. At the bottom of the sheet she wrote the date of my birth. "Do you have any idea what time of day you was born? The closer to the exact moment, the more accurate your horoscope."
"Let me think. I'm sure mama told me once. Yeah, that's it. It was around five A.M. She told me her water broke at two in the morning and made a big mess on the bed. Dad was half-asleep and all nervous when he drove her to the hospital. They almost got into an accident. They laughed about it all the time." I choked up and tears welled up in my eyes when I recalled that I would never again hear them kid around like that.
Aunt Jennifer placed a comforting arm around me. "There, there, dear." She handed me a Kleenex and sighed. I tried to be as brave and stopped sniffling. My mother was her sister, and I knew she too was in pain. Mom and her had been close until mom married Dad.
"Go on with my horoscope, Aunt Jen, I'll be all right."
"Sure. Well, let's see now. We don't know the exact minute when you was born, but I'll assume that it was between five and five thirty."
Consulting her books often, she drew mysterious symbols in various places on the circle. When she finished, she studied the chart for a while, consulted another book and made cryptic notes. Finally she said, "Your life is going to be eventful, Melody. In a few years, there will be turmoil but you'll find happiness from the chaos. Then I see a dark period. A disaster will take the light from your life. Afterwards there will be a long period of seeking after truth for you. Eventually someone extremely exciting will come into your life. I see here that it will lead to a great spiritual awakening." She paused, frowning with concern. "But there will be danger too. Terrible danger."
"Is that all?" I asked. I don't know what I expected, but felt somehow cheated. Everybody has tragedies and exciting times in their life. A lot of people seek after truth and sometimes find "spiritual awakening." What she had described could be anyone's life.
"Yes, what we can see of the future is always dim and shadowy. I don't believe it's God's plan to allow us to see it any other way. He does not want us to know the exact details of what awaits us." She patted my hand. "Except sometimes when we get a clear premonition of some extreme danger or a great change to our life. These come to us as especially vivid dreams."
"Could you cast anyone's horoscope if you knew when they were born?"
"Certainly. Why do you ask?"
"Would you do President Nixon's?"
My aunt chuckled. "Sure, why not honey. Of course, we only know the date of his birth, not the hour or anything, so my prediction may be even vaguer than yours."
"But I do know the exact time. I read it in a magazine article."
"You did? Well, that's great. Tell me."
So I repeated what I had read and she worked up his horoscope. Afterwards she stared at it with strange expression.
"What does it say, Aunt Jennifer?"
"Funny. It says that he will make friends with a former enemy and that the conflict that brought him success will end in defeat. I wonder whether that means the Vietnam War. It also says something strange. Something to do with water will cause him much concern and may even cause him great pain."
After Watergate, I became somewhat of a believer in the occult, at least in my aunt's brand of astrology.
When Michael Ellul mysteriously disappears, Melody hires Raven Lenore, a tough young former cop, PI and modern witch, to find him. But, what starts out as an ordinary missing persons case soon turns out to be a dangerous game against mysterious demonic forces. During the investigation, Raven and Keith Borgenson (Raven's boy friend and partner) discover that two people committed suicide on the Ellul's estate, Michael Ellul's friend Lance Flebert is in an insane asylum and another friend, Jack Westcott is an alcoholic on the skids. The detectives run into more trouble when Morgaine returns to earth as Claudia Van Best from the Westchester Institute of the Occult, and the detectives are accosted by gunmen who question them about Westcott and Claudia. During a seance a channeled spirit warns of danger from an elemental. In Ellul's abandoned estate in the mountains, Raven finds a decomposed corpse and a computer printout that claims that Doctor Frankenstein was a real person. Claudia locks the detectives in Michael's laboratory, erases the file on the hard disk and absconds with the information. Then the real fun starts. This is a novel of mystery and suspense in the world of the occult.
My name is Raven Lenore, and I am a witch -- although I prefer the term Wiccan. I am twenty-seven old. I am not ugly, in fact I've been complimented on my good looks and figure by many a man. Also I am not wicked, or at least its debatable depending upon your definition of wickedness. Witchcraft is not what most people think. It is an earth religion, a linking of the human soul with the life force of nature, both on this planet and in the stars and space beyond. I meet with my coven periodically to raise my energy and commune with natural forces. I honor the old Goddesses and Gods as symbols of immanent nature.
Among the goddesses that I pay homage to is Hecate, goddess of the dark moon, the underworld and magic. Hecate is often pictured riding in a chariot pulled by dragons and is the goddess of witchcraft. We've named our coven after her, The Mystery Coven of Hecate. Among Her other aspects, Hecate is the guardian of crossroads. Little did I know that the evening would indeed be a crossroads for me. Appropriate coincidence or prophetic omen? Only Hecate knows. For whatever mysterious reason that gods and goddesses do what they do, She chose me to experience events that changed my life dramatically.
It started on a blustery night in early March. The moon was new and dark; the sky sparkled with a myriad stars. I roared up on my Harley to my friend Rachel's home to honor, with others of our coven, Hecate. Earlier that day the Tarot had foretold that I was about to enter a period of change and danger. I had dismissed this with amusement and forgot about its warning. Other times the cards had reported the same and nothing particular had happened. Thus, I climbed the steps of Rachel's porch without the faintest premonition that I was about to embark on a journey of terrible trials and emotional trauma. My only thought was to escape the brisk March wind that chilled me to the bone.
I lifted the skirt of my ceremonial robe to avoid dragging it through the dregs of dirty leftover snow and tapped the door three times, then five, the secret signal that would let Rachel know that a member of our coven was at her door.
After I entered, Rachel embraced me. "Welcome Raven, may Hecate find you well."
The house was dark except for the flickering light of candles set in a circle on the living room floor. They surrounded a thurible in which lay a glowing hot coal. In the gloom the women in various positions on the floor were mere shadows. Their raised hands in greeting, the warm air and the spicy odor of incense comforted me after the bitter cold outdoors.
"And may She find you in fine health and good spirits," I replied as I hugged my friend. "Is everyone here?"
"Yes, you're the last to arrive."
"Sorry I'm late. Heavy traffic leaving the city," I said as I removed my leather jacket and motorcycle helmet.
"No problem. We were about to begin."
I adjusted my black robe and touched the scabbard in which my athame, or ritual knife, rested. Women widened the circle to allow me to squat down among them. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I nodded to several dimly lit faces. All were familiar, except one. I assumed that she was a prospective member of the coven.
Rachel started the ceremony by staining our palms and soles of our feet with henna. I noticed that the newcomer waved her away. When Rachel finished this ritual, she raised her arms, gazed at the ceiling and said, "Tonight we do praise and honor the goddess Hecate, protectress of flocks, sailors and witches. The dark mother, sender of night visions. Most lovely one, distant one, silver-footed queen of night."
In reply, the rest of us called, "Who, who," in the manner of owls, as the night-calling owl is Hecate's messenger.
After Rachel sprinkled incense on the thurible, which smelled of sandalwood, cypress and peppermint, she lit a torch, Hecate's symbol, held it aloft, and said the following invocation:
"Hail great Hecate! Goddess of the Moon,
Goddess of witches in the dancing ring,
To thee all roads must lead us, late or soon
The end, and start, of all our wandering,
Thou offerest the never-ending choice
Left, right, or onward; every path is thine.
O great Hecate, let us hear thy voice!
Lighter of darkness, give us a sign!"
We responded with more "who, who's." This ended the ceremonial part of our gathering. Rachel turned on the lights, doused the torch and thurible and blew out the candles. She and two other women went to the kitchen and brought out goodies, little cakes, pretzels and potato chips, cauliflower and broccoli florets for the diet conscious, snack crackers, hors d'oeuvre, dip, beer, wine and soda.
Except that we wore black robes, carried athames and participated in a ceremony at the beginning, our meetings are not much different than any gathering of women friends. We gather together for an evening of spirituality, conversation, gossip and nibbling. We talk about our diets, the latest sales at Wal-Mart, our boy friends, husbands and our children, those of us who have them, as well as arcane subjects such as spiritual growth, magick, psychic healing and the occult. But, even non-witches discuss these subjects.
That evening I sat on Rachel's worn sofa near the bowl of chips with a Molsen in one hand yakking with a group about a recently enacted law and its effect on women. After a few minutes, however, Rachel tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, "There's someone I'd like you to meet."
I excused myself and followed her into the kitchen. The stranger leaned against the counter sipping a glass of white wine. Her hair was streaked with gray, and she had laugh lines around her eyes and mouth, but was otherwise extremely attractive, well put together and expensively dressed. I imagined that when she was younger she was a real heart breaker, a gal who men fawned over. I guessed her age as late forties, early fifties, and the wife or girl friend of a man who was loaded. I soon learned that my hunches were correct.
"Raven, I'd like you to meet Melody Ellul. Melody, my friend, Raven Lenore."
As I shook her hand, I thought, Ellul? Could this woman be any relation to the famous astrologer and psychic who disappeared a couple of years ago? "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Ms. Ellul. Are you interested in joining our coven?"
"Melody, please. And I'm happy to meet you, although I feel as though I already know you. We had a mutual acquaintance, Morgaine Fabiano. She spoke of you often. As far as joining your coven ... well, I'm a Catholic ... "
"Oh, we have Christian members. Nothing about Wicca really precludes a belief in your Christian god, as long as you can accept our Pagan ones as well. You knew Morgaine Fabiano?"
"Yes. I was present at her passing. It was a terrible tragedy. But I suppose it was her fate."
I gaped at her. Morgaine had been my friend. Although she was older than me, it was I who introduced her to the craft. Although she was a bit on the wild side and unpredictable, I admired her greatly, maybe because she and I were a lot alike. I lost touch with her after she became involved with Michael Ellul. Later I learned that she had committed suicide. That is what startled me about Melody's words. What the hell did she mean when she said that she was present at Morgaine's passing? And that remark about it being her fate; was this woman such a fatalist that she believed that the taking of one's own life was beyond the person's control?
"Are you saying that you saw her die?"
The Ellul woman crossed herself. "I'm afraid so. It was a horrible moment that I'll never forget."
"Couldn't you stop her? Wasn't there anything you could do?"
She shook her head. "Not under the circumstances. But please, Raven, I'd prefer not to discuss it right now. If you like, some day I'll tell you the whole awful story."
"Okay. But I'm holding you that. Smoke?" I took out a pack of Camel Wides and offered her one.
"Thank you."
But as she reached for it, Rachel cried, "Not in my house. If you must, it's out in the cold with you."
"Oh, I'm sorry Rachel." I started to put the pack away.
Melody said, "I could really use one. I don't mind going out on the porch. We can talk while we ruin our lungs and freeze our buns."
I was curious as to what this rich woman wanted from me, since she had no interest in joining the coven. "Okay."
I grabbed my jacket, and Melody took an expensive fur from the closet. We lit up out on the porch. "Melody, are you related to Michael Ellul, the astrologer?"
"He's my husband. He is who I came here to see you about."
"I believe the papers said that he'd disappeared under mysterious circumstances. This was a while ago."
"It's been two years, and the police have come up empty handed. I didn't know where to turn until I remember what Morgaine told me about you. She said that you were a detective with the NYPD. When I contacted the police department, however, they said that you had quit the force to become a private investigator. Morgaine thought highly of you, described you as 'investigatively gifted.' I want to hire you to find my husband."
I inhaled a deep breath of smoke and blew it out. So that was it. My boy friend Keith and I are in the PI business. To tell the truth, it wasn't doing well. Solving the disappearance of a famous astrologer could give us the publicity we needed to get our business off the ground. "What about the police? Have they given up?"
"They say not, but I don't see any evidence of activity on their part. I believe that they now think that he left of his own accord."
"What do you think about his disappearance? Was it is voluntary, kidnapping or foul play?"
She shrugged. "I don't know for sure. I went to work one morning, kissed him good-bye and that's the last I saw of him."
She flipped her cigarette into the darkness, took out a hanky and dabbed at her eyes.
"I don't want to upset you," I said, tossing my own butt into the dirty snow, "but if I take your case, I have to know; had you been quarreling just previous to his disappearance?"
"No. Everything's was fine between us."
"Any suspicions about him cheating?"
"No. If he had been having an affair, I would've sensed something."
They all say that, I thought. "I see. Okay, we'll probably take the case. You know PIs don't come cheap."
She smiled at me. "No worry on that score. Michael left me well off. I just want to find out where he is and whether he is alive."
I handed her our agency card. "Call me at your convenience, and we'll get together to discuss the details of your husband's disappearance. I'll need to pry into your private life somewhat."
She shook my offered hand. "Thank you, Raven. You may be my last chance to find him."
"I hope I don't disappoint you."
As I rode my Harley back to the city, I mentally went over our conversation. There seemed to be a lot the Ellul woman hadn't told me, but if we took her case, I figured I could pry the truth out of her. For one thing, I didn't buy her story about why she chose me. I wondered just what her relation to Morgaine really was. They seemed like opposites. I was also curious about the real facts behind Morgaine's death? I had a premonition, that there was more to the case than finding a missing husband -- a lot more. Oh how right I was. If I had only known. Anyway, I knew Keith would be happy when he learned that she was loaded. I was sure he'd want to set our fee high. And why not? She seemed rich enough.
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Denise Fabiano, a five-year-old girl, lives with her mother and her grandfather, Papa Joe, in an ancient farmhouse in the Catskill mountains. Papa Joe is a storyteller who amuses Denise with fabulous tales of fairies, gremlins, sorcerers and pirates. One stormy night Papa Joe tells her the story of Rip Van Winkle. At the end, he says, "When there's thunder and lightning in the mountains with no rain, that means that Henry Hudson and his men are bowling. Fairies and other odd folk also live in these woods. When you see tiny lights blinking on and off in the forest, those are fairies carrying lanterns." One day little Denise goes in the woods alone and meets the little people. They give her a charm to remember them by.
As time goes by, Denise comes to believe that all that stuff about meeting fairies and dwarves was simply her childish imagination. In college, she befriends Raven Lenore and join a Wiccan coven when she becomes interested in witchcraft and magic. She takes the name of Morgaine, after the sorceress of the Arthurian legend, Morgaine le Fay. When she learns that Papa Joe has Alzheimer's, she returns to her former home and learns that what she had attributed to her childish imagination was real. She meets a dwarf who takes her into the land of the fairies, whose queen promises to make her a sorceress.
The entrance to the University of Wizardry is in a painting at an art gallery. She enters the painting and learns magic from the spirits of such notables as Dr. Dee, Michael Scot, Theophilus, Peter of Abano, Nicholas Flannel, Robert Fludd, Count de Gebelin, Papus, Roger Bacon, Faust, Albertus Magnus, Edward Kelley, Parcelsus, Nostradamus, Cagliostro and Aleister Crowley. She learns numerous types of magic, both white and black. At the school, she falls in love with a sorcerer, Michael. But they must part when she returns to the real world. Will they ever meet again? And what consequences would result from of such a meeting, tragedy or happiness? Find out in this novel of love and sorcery.
It was a hazy, hot day in July. Behind the decaying Victorian farmhouse, the air above the knee-high grass shimmered and wavered in bright sunlight in a way that made the world a dreamy enchanted place and not quite real. Crickets, bees and cicadas droned high-pitched noteless music, ravens scolded loudly, and at the end of the meadow, stirred by an intermittent breeze, mysterious things moved in the shadowy woods. From the safety of an old tire that Papa Joe had tied to the branch of a lone oak, little Denise watched the waving somethings in among the forest gloom. As she swung slowly back and forth, she daydreamed stories about them and hummed low and tunelessly. Suddenly, to her surprise, a tiny man stepped out of the woods. At first she merely stared, not sure whether she should be frightened or not. Mommy warned her many times to be wary of strangers, but the man was shorter than her and dressed in funny clothes like the seven dwarves or Rumplestilskin from her book of fairy tales. From the shade of the trees, the dwarf returned her stare. (Denise had decided that he must be one of the seven dwarfs; he sort of resembled the picture of Grumpy in her book.) After a while he raised his hand and waved. Denise waved back, hopped off the tire and walked toward the funny-looking elf-like man. As she came near the dwarf, he took a step backward and vanished into the gloom. Denise ran toward the place where she had seen him, tripped on a gopher hole and fell, popped back up immediately and continued her waddley run. When she reached the exact spot where the little man had been, he was nowhere in sight. She called out to him, "Grumpy. Grumpy. Where are you?"
There was no reply except the raucous cawing of the ravens that she had heard before.
That night a terrible thunderstorm with loud booms of thunder and flashes of lightning crashed all about the old farmhouse. A hard rain rattled against the roof, the shutters banged and the wind howled when it was caught in odd corners. At bedtime, Denise asked Papa Joe to read a ghost story to her. She was a brave little girl who thought it deliciously shivery to hear tales of mysterious spirits and strange happenings on such a night. Mommy almost spoiled the fun by objecting, saying that she would have nightmares. In actuality it was Denise's mother, Maria Fabiano, who was frightened by storms and crossed herself at the mere mention of ghosts and spirits.
Papa Joe, Denise's grandfather, however, laughed in his deep-voiced way. "Oh c'mon, Maria, Denise ain't scared. Are you kid?"
"No, not all. Honest, Mommy," Denise replied hastily, her eyes going round at the thought of hearing a ghost story on such a night. Suddenly feeling a little chill, she pulled the comforter tight around her chin.
"Besides," Papa Joe said, "the one I have in mind ain't too scary."
Although Maria looked cross, she gave in and left the room, not wanting any part of ghost stories.
Papa Joe told the story of Rip Van Winkle, a favorite in the Hudson Valley of New York where they lived, since Washington Irving was a native son and the action took place locally in the Catskill Mountains. When he got to the part where Rip met the ghosts of Henry Hudson and his men, Denise asked, "Are they bowling now? Is that what's making the thunder?"
"It could be. But I really think its the storm. You can tell that it's Henry Hudson bowling if you hear thunder in the mountains with no lightning and no rain."
Denise's eyes opened wide again. She hesitated before asking her next question. "What do they look like?"
"Who?"
"That Henry guy ... and his men. I mean their ghosts."
Papa Joe rubbed his bristly chin, which made a noise like sandpaper. "Well, uh ... they was kinda short and sorta stout ... chubby like, from drinking too much beer, y'know." He patted his own round tummy.
"Do they wear old-fashioned clothes like in fairy stories?"
"Yeah, wide collars, wide belts with big buckles on them, funny hats with buckles on them too and boots with curled up toes."
Denise grinned, knowing she knew a secret, something that Papa Joe probably didn't know. "I saw him today."
"Saw who?"
"Henry watchmacallit, the ghost in the story. Or maybe it was one of his men."
Papa Joe gave her that "are you joshing me" look. "Oh yeah. Where?"
"In the woods in back." She described the entire sequence of events and what the little man looked like through her eyes.
Papa Joe became stern and looked directly into her face in that way he had when he suspected her of lying. "Are you making this up, little one?"
"No Papa Joe. I really saw him." Tears welled up. Her grandfather was frightening her with his attitude. She wondered whether she had done something that she might be punished for.
When Papa Joe saw this in her face, he patted her cheek. "Hey, no reason to cry, honey. I believe you. Did he talk to you?"
"No, he dish-disappeared (she had trouble pronouncing the big word) when I went by the woods."
"I see." His expression changed to a worried frown. "One thing kiddo. You ain't been around here long, so I can't put any blame on what you did. But, from now on, don't go near the woods. Never. For no reason. Okay?" Denise nodded convincingly. "Uh, it's getting late, darling. Kiss me goodnight. I'll finish the story tomorrow night." He pecked her on the cheek. "Goodnight, kiddo. Pleasant dreams."
"Night-night, Papa."
Papa Joe doused the lights except for one plug-in night light and left the room. By this time the storm had abated. Although the rain that rattatated on the roof and the sound of water dripping from the eaves still disturbed the night, the booming was distant, and the flashes of lightning less often and less bright. Denise curled up in her blanket and wondered whether she would meet the little man again. She liked the story Papa Joe had read a lot.
***
The next day the weather was cooler, and the air crisp and crystal clear so that the mountains appeared green and fuzzy instead of the hazy blue they had the day before. After breakfast Denise hurried out into the backyard in hopes of seeing the little man again. The fact was that she was lonely. She and Mommy had moved in with Papa Joe from the city after Mommy and Daddy had a big fight in which Daddy had hit Mommy. She shivered every time she thought of it. It was awfully scary when adults quarreled, especially when they hit each other and threw things. She was glad Mommy had gotten away from Daddy, although she hoped he would come for a visit sometime, as long as he didn't drink so much that it made him crazy.
Papa Joe's house was way out in the country. Although it was not a farm, it was down a narrow, badly-paved road and surrounded by woods. The nearest neighbor was several hundred yards away. As a result, Denise had not made any friends. Mommy had assured her that she would meet nice kids in the fall when she started second grade. She looked forward to that time, but it seemed a long way off.
Denise sat on the homemade swing until lunch time, but the little man did not make an appearance. At times she saw things moving in the woods, but she supposed they were squirrels or other small animals, maybe even a deer. After lunch, she set up her small table on the back porch, brought out her dolls and had a tea party. She became so engrossed, especially since her dolls were so quarrelsome, that she forgot all about the little man.
That evening, as it was getting dark, Papa Joe took her out on the porch to watch the stars. He told her that if she saw a shooting star, she should make a wish, and it would surely come true. When they first went out, the sky was red and pink and beautiful. A fat rosy sun rested on top of the mountain in back of the house, like a beach ball. As the light faded and the sky turned purple, bright Venus jumped into view, followed a little at time by lots and lots of other stars. Papa Joe pointed out The Big Dipper, The Little Dipper and the North Star, Orion and The Milky Way. They were the only constellations he knew for sure. When the moon rose, he told her the name of some of its larger features and pointed out where the first astronauts had landed.
A light streaked across the middle of the sky.
"What was that, Papa?"
"A shooting star. Make a wish, darling."
Denise squished her eyes shut and wished hard that Daddy would change and be nicer to her and Mommy. "If I see another one, can I make another wish?"
"Of course. You get a wish for each shooting star."
This was the night of the Delta Aquariads meteor shower, so Denise made many wishes. On the second one, she wished to meet a good friend. On the third, she wished she could do magic like a magician she saw on television.
"Oh look, there's shooting stars in the woods too." She saw hundreds of tiny lights flashing on and off and moving about in the forest.
"What? Oh, I see. No honey, those aren't shooting stars. Those are fairies. They carry little lanterns."
Denise's heart filled with joy at the thought they she was seeing actual fairies. "Really, Papa."
"Sure." He tousled her hair and bounced her on his knee a couple of times.
After a while, he told her that it was getting late, and they had to go in. Once Denise was tucked into bed, he finished the story about Rip Van Winkle. While she waited for sleep to come, she wondered whether "Henry" (her name for the little man since she had heard about the ghost of Henry Hudson) would ask her to play ten pins with him and his men. She knew she wouldn't drink any magic beer though. She sure didn't want to sleep for twenty years.
***
Two days later she saw the little man again. Like the time before, it was a hot, humid day when the haze made everything at a distance blurry and unreal. Also, like the time before, when he appeared she was just sitting, not doing much. She called to him, "Henry, don't run away."
He didn't. He motioned for her to come by him.
Denise recalled that Papa Joe had warned her against going into the woods. But maybe he wouldn't mind if she just went by them and not into them. She walked slowly this time, keeping Henry in sight at all times so that he would not vanish. When she reached the little man, she asked, "Are you really Henry?" Now that she was close-up, she saw that his face was wrinkly like an old, old man, older even than Papa Joe.
The dwarf bowed comically. "You may call me that."
Not knowing what else to say, Denise said, "Do you live around here?"
He pointed into the woods. "Back there. Would you like to see?"
Denise peered in the direction he pointed, but saw nothing except layers of fallen leaves, trees, and a tangle of rotted logs, vines, weeds, and shrubs. She remembered Papa Joe's warning, but thought that it might be all right since she would be with an adult, the little man, who seemed nice. She nodded her head and followed him. As he led her deep into the forest, she gazed around. This was her first time in a real woods. It was nothing like the park near her parent's apartment in the city. The trees were close together, and all sorts of things were underfoot, thick leaves, stumps, broken branches, twigs and logs. The cicadas were real loud, and lots of birds and butterflies fluttered about. She saw little critters, bushy-tailed squirrels, chipmunks, rabbits and tiny mice scurrying about in the underbrush. She even spotted a doe at a distance. "Oh look," she cried, but it bounded away. The shade was nice and cooling after the heat of the meadow although it made everything shadowy and mysterious.
After they had gone quite a way, Denise began worry. She glanced back the way they had come and hoped she would be able to find her way back. "Is your house very far?"
Henry turned and grinned at her. "That all depends." His voice was creaky and gravelly. "Some say that one cannot get where we are going. But someone like you only needs to take a few more steps." He turned and walked more rapidly. Although she wasn't sure what he meant, she hurried to keep up.
After a while the woods became quieter. The buzzing of cicadas had stopped, and there were no longer any bird songs. A white mist rose from the ground, obscuring the path. Out of the corner of her eye, Denise caught sight of strange creatures that, when she tried to look directly at them, vanished quite away. They seemed to be tiny flying people wearing no clothes and having wings like butterflies, animals with human faces that scurried up trees like squirrels, and little men and women in strange clothes like Henry's peeking from behind trees.
Finally she and Henry came to a small clearing in which stood a log cabin with a straw roof. Smoke drifted from its brick chimney. Outside, a couple of pigs in a muddy fenced-in area munched noisily from a trough and several chickens and goats wandered about.
Henry bowed in his funny way. "My humble home, my dear. Join me for lunch?"
Denise recalled seeing a movie about a little girl who lived in a palace, and how she would curtsy whenever the butler would announce mealtime, so she imitated her as best she could. "Thank you."
They entered Henry's crude home, which was as rustic inside as out. The floor was straw covered dirt. The furniture was badly made from twigs and branches. A huge bubbling cauldron hung on a hook in the hearth of the large fireplace. Henry waddled over to it, ladled out two bowls of the greenish liquid, placed them on the roughhewed table, sat on the backless bench and patted the seat next to him. "Sit down and have some soup, girlie."
Denise recalled that Rip Van Winkle had slept for twenty years after accepting the ghost's invitation to eat and drink. "No thank you. I'm not hungry. I think I'd better go home."
"Wait a couple minutes until my wife comes. She has a present for you. Oh, here she is now."
A little old woman, even smaller and more wrinkled than Henry, came through the door. She leaned on a walking stick carved from a knotted branch. Her other hand held something behind her back. "Hello, Denise."
"How do you know my name?"
"We heard you last night making wishes and want to grant them." Denise giggled a little bit. This was like the stories in her books. "But, you must wear this." She brought out the object from behind her back. It was a curious iron necklace with a five-pointed star pendant of the same material. "Put your head down."
Denise bowed her head so that the old woman could place the necklace around her neck. After she straightened, she picked up the star and examined it. It was carved with strange symbols. "Thank you kindly. Please show me the way home now."
"Surely. But remember, keep the charm with you at all times. Never let it out of your sight."
All at once Denise felt sleepy and yawned. The house seemed to spin and everything went black. When she woke up, she was lying at the edge of the woods, and it was getting dark. Mommy and Papa Joe ran toward her from the woods. Papa Joe swooped her up in his arms and carried her to the house. Meanwhile, Mommy was crying and yelling, "Jesus, Mary and saints, Denise. You had us scared to death. Where were you?"
Later when things calmed down, she told them how she had followed the little man into the woods. Papa Joe assured her mother that it was probably a dream. "What must've happened was that she got lost in the woods, tired herself out trying to find her way and fell asleep where we found her." He was so convincing that even Denise wondered whether she had dreamt the whole thing. But ... if it was a dream, where did the iron necklace with the star come from?
One evening Michael has a strange dream in which a man in a black suit hands him a pamphlet concerning the End of Days. When he awakes, the pamphlet, which is from a cult known as the Children of Aquarius, lays on the table next to his chair. He begins to suspect that his wife, Melody, is possessed. To find out the truth, he uses his magic crystal to learn that Morgaine has possessed Melody. He also has a vision of the End of Days with Morgaine as the Antichrist.
Michael hires Raven to spy on the Children of Aquarius. She becomes a priestess and learns of a mysterious book called the Book of Seven seals. As each seal is opened, she receives a vision of a future apocalypse, of horrible monsters taking over the earth, of cataclysmic events and of death and disease. Are these true visions? Is the world really coming to the end? Can Melody be saved from the demon witch who possesses her? How can Michael and Raven save the world? And what is the demon witch, Morgaine's, real plan? This novel is loosely based on events described in the Book of Revelations of the Christian Bible.
There came a knock at Michael Ellul's door. It startled him out of a sound sleep. He glanced at his watch. He wondered, Who could that be at this hour? He stumbled from the couch to the door. Standing there was a man in a black suit, black tie and black hat. Nonetheless, his face was bone white. Michael figured him for a religious fanatic.
"Isn't it kind of late to be out proselytizing?" Michael said, getting ready to slam the door in his face.
"Later than you think," he replied with a stern expression. "The end is near. Blessed is he that readeth, hear the words of this prophesy, and keep those things which are written therein; for the Time is at hand. The Patriarch - Endings 13.13. " He handed Michael a brochure.
Michael heard the cry of a raven, and saw the bird rise into the sky.
There came a knock at my door. It startled Michael out of his dream of the Mormon or whoever he was. He glanced at my watch. It was past midnight. He stumbled from the couch to the door. Standing there was his wife.
Looking sheepish, she said, "I forgot my key."
Michael smelled alcohol on her breath. "You're home late."
"Got tied up in traffic." She did not look him in the eye.
Nonetheless, all he said was, "I had the strangest dream."
Her lips brushed Michael's as she entered. While she removed her coat, she said, "Really? Tell me about it."
They sat on the sofa together, and Michael related his dream.
"It's an omen," she said. "Someone is going to die or something terrible is going to happen." Recently she had become a great believer in omens. She glanced down. "What's this?" Lying half under her thigh was a pamphlet identical to the one the Mormon in Michael's dream had given him. She picked it up and flipped through it. "Why it contains excerpts from the Book of Revelations with explanations of their meaning. It's a prophesy of the Apocalypse." She glanced up at Michael. "Don't tell me you've become interested in quasi-religious prophesies of doom and gloom, Sweetheart?"
"I have no idea where that came from." As Michael gazed into her eyes, he had the strange feeling that she was not the person he had married. In recent months, she had changed severely, going out alone at night, keeping late hours, drinking, a sudden interest in the occult that she never had before. Whenever he asked her where she goes evenings, she would simply pat his cheek and give him an evasive reply.
"What should I do with it?"
"Just leave it on the coffee table. I'll look at it tomorrow. Let's go to bed."
She glanced sideways at him and smiled lasciviously. "Of course, darling. As long as you're not too tired."
On the way back to Moonwood, Bridget told Tom about the rumors about the Elluls and the mansion. "At least two people have committed suicide there. People in town suspect the Elluls and their friends of being Satanists."
"Oh Bridget. Who did you hear this from? Some gossipy old priest?"
"Not all of it. Besides, Father Winters is only in his thirties, I believe. He only told me about the former priest and what people had seen."
"Jesus. Young or not, priests are like old women. The Church should let them marry. As far as what people have seen, they probably saw what we saw. Melody explained that to you. They're pagans or something, not Satanists."
"According to Father Winters, there's not much difference. They're idolaters. Idolatry is a mortal sin."
Tom shook his head in disgust. "So what. It's their souls that are going to hell, not ours. Let this Father Winters save them. That's his job. We should care less."
"Oh, Tom. Sometimes you talk like an atheist. Besides, the woman at a bookstore told me that there was a woman who committed suicide at Moonwood. After the Elluls left the place empty when they went to live in Manhattan, police found a dead body in one of the bedrooms."
"Bunch of crap. People like to make up stuff about old mansions, especially if they've been empty for a while."
"Well, maybe a lot of it is simply rumors made up by people with nothing better to do. But I think we need to find out more. That's why I went to consult a psychic today."
"Christ. I should've known. Still giving my hard earned money to those phonies. What did he tell you? That we're in danger from spooks at the mansion?"
"It was a she. And she told me nothing. She had me look into her crystal ball." Bridget described the scene she had witnessed.
"You're telling me that you actually saw this?"
"Yes, as unbelievable as it seems."
"Either she hypnotized you, or there was some kind of fakery involved."
"I know I wasn't hypnotized, and I don't see how anyone could project an image like that inside a crystal ball."
Tom gave her a sideways glance, as though he thought she was losing it. "What did this psychic say about what you saw?"
"She didn't know what to make of it either. That's why she's coming to Moonwood Saturday. To find out whether evil spirits reside in the house."
"Oh, for God's sake. You invited her to the house. What's she going to charge to rid the place of devils?"
"Nothing. She only takes contributions."
"I'll bet. How is she going to root out the evil spirits?"
"With a seance."
"A seance. That tears it. I don't know what to make of you sometime, Bridget. At times you're as gullible as ... I don't know what."
"And you're a closed minded bigot. Don't judge until you meet her."
"I can't wait."
The rest of the trip back to Moonwood, the two sat in silence. Each thought that the other was being unreasonable.
* * *
When Saturday evening came around, Tom was in a better mood. He said to Bridget, "At least this seance thing should be entertaining. I wonder whether this psychic of yours does card tricks too."
"I hope that you aren't going to act the skeptic and make fun of everything."
Tom took her chin in his great fist and gazed into her eyes. "Don't worry, Hon, I won't embarrass you. I'll try to keep an open mind unless I catch this seer pulling some kind of con."
"That's all I ask."
He kissed her tenderly. "You know I love you."
She smiled. "And I love you too. When you're not being a pain in the you-know-what."
A few minutes later the buzzer for the front gate to the property went off. The Elluls had a surveillance camera set up at that location. In the monitor, Bridget saw a red Camero parked in front of the gate. She said into the microphone, "Is that you, Morgaine?"
Morgaine stuck her head out of the car window. "Yes. It's me." She waved at the camera.
Bridget pressed the button to open the gate. A short time later, the Camero roared up the driveway. Bridget and Tom waited by the open front door. As Morgaine stepped onto the front porch and into the light, Tom's mouth dropped open. "You!" he cried. He couldn't believe his eyes. The person who had plagued his dreams was approaching. He was sure it was her. The dreams had been vivid. He could not mistake that face.
"Hi Bridget," Morgaine said. She turned to Tom, "Have we met before?"
He could hardly tell her that he had been having nightmares about her for weeks. "Uh no. At first glance I thought you resembled someone I knew a long time ago. But, of course, you're not her. I'm Tom, Bridget's fiancé." He held out his hand.
"Pleased to meet you, Tom."
They brought her into the den. Bridget asked whether she would like something to drink. She named coffee, tea, wine and beer.
"I wouldn't mind a beer."
"Sam Adams okay?"
"Great. It's my favorite."
After Bridget left the room, Tom couldn't help staring at her, not only because she was a beautiful desirable woman, but because of her resemblance to the witch in his dreams. He was especially taken by her eyes which seemed to have the same hypnotic fascination for him in real life as the witch's did in his dream.
"This is a beautiful house," she said, ignoring his obvious ogling. "Are you renting it from the Ellul's?"
"No. I'm a general contractor and carpenter. Bridget and I are staying here while I make repairs. They plan on moving back. Have you been living in Woodstock long?"
"I set up business a couple of months ago. I'm originally from Westchester county. For a long time I was living in Manhattan though. I needed a change."
With a wry smile, Tom said, "Bridget said she had a vision in your crystal ball." He was waiting for Morgaine to deny it. "How is that possible?"
"The vision was not really in the crystal. Crystals only cause people who have the proper concentration to reflect a scene from their psychic sense back into the crystal. What Bridget told me she saw was something dreadful. She's also told me about the terrible rumors about this place, which I've also heard. That's why I agreed to come here tonight." She winked at him. "I noticed you keep staring. Was the person I resemble a former girl friend? Is that why you denied it in front of Bridget?"
"No. Absolutely not. You claim to be a psychic. What if I told you that I dreamed of you?"
"Really? Perhaps you foresaw our meeting in your dream."
"The dreams weren't good."
"Here comes Bridget with our beer. Perhaps you would rather discuss this privately?"
"Yeah. Maybe I'll drop your place of business." Tom wondered why he said that. He didn't believe in any of that paranormal nonsense. Yet, he had to know how and why she had appeared as the witch in his dreams.
After Bridget served the beer, they chatted about the rumors about the house and about the Elluls. Tom confirmed seeing the pagan rituals.
"I wouldn't worry about that. I'm a Wiccan myself. It has absolutely nothing to do with Satanism or devil worship, believe me, regardless of what that priest said."
Tom said, "I agree with you. It's none of our business whether the Elluls want to perform pagan rituals or bay at the moon."
Morgaine chuckled.
Bridget said, "Okay. But I'd still like to know about this house. Do you feel any evil influences, Morgaine?"
"Not exactly evil spirits, but there is some kind of presence here. I felt that the moment I walked in."
Tom rolled his eyes. He thought, I knew she'd say something like that.
"Would you like to hold that seance now? Perhaps we can contact whoever or whatever is causing these vibrations."
Morgaine told them to set up a small round table with a single candle burning in the middle of it. Tom turned off the other lights in the room, and they sat around the table. Morgaine said, "Now we must hold hands to form a circle. While I try to contact the spirit, the circle must not be broken. Please stare into the candle flame and concentrate on my words. Oh spirit of the departed who has not left this house to go to your final reward, give us a sign of your presence." She repeated the last sentence several times. A low groan emanated from the darker shadows of the room.
Tom thought, I bet she does that with ventriloquism.
Morgaine said, "Speak to us. Show yourself if you can. Tell us why you are here." She repeated the three sentences several times in a chant-like fashion.
The groan grew louder. Tom couldn't believe his eyes. A ghostly image of a woman appeared, wispy and fog like.
Morgaine said, "Who are you?"
The phantasm said, "In life I was called Elizabeth." It began to sob. "My child. Free my child."
"Where is your child?"
"In bondage. Free him." It sobbed long and hard, and disappeared.
Morgaine said, "The spirit has departed but will be back. She wants us to find her child. The child she was talking about must be somewhere in this house."
"Impossible," Tom said. "There's no kids here." He got up and turned on the light.
Morgaine shrugged. "Perhaps the child is in a part of the house where you have never been."
Bridget said, "But if there was a child somewhere in the house, we'd have heard it crying or something."
"If it was alive."
"You think a dead child's body might be hidden in the mansion somewhere?"
"It's a possibility. The spirit of this Elizabeth was crying for our help. That's all I know. Well, it's late. I must be leaving now. I'm afraid I've done what I can. The rest is up to you if you so choose." She smiled at them.
Tom said, "What do we owe you?"
She stared at him in an almost coquettish way. "Nothing. If you would like to make a small contribution, drop it off at my place of business. I'm sure you and Bridget would like to discuss between yourselves what my services were worth. Goodnight. I'll find my own way out. Just open the gate when I get to the end of the driveway."
They wished her goodnight and walked to her to the door. When she was gone, Bridget turned to Tom. "Okay, my skeptical friend. You saw the ghost. Now tell me that the paranormal is not real."
Tom blushed. He still felt it was an illusion, but for the life of him, he could not figure out how it was done. "Yeah, I saw it. So what do we do about it. Are you going to call in that priest to do an exorcism?"
"I don't think he will. He sort of shrugged off what I told him about the Elluls' nighttime habits and the rumors that had to do with the paranormal. He thinks like you do. That it's all nonsense. Perhaps we should search the house and see whether a child's body is hidden somewhere."
"You can look if you like. I don't have the time. What about this Morgaine woman? What's the going rate for a house call seance these days?"
"I'll leave it up to you. I would think at least a hundred bucks."
A hundred buck, my ass. I'll give her fifty, Tom thought. "I need to hire one more guy for the outside work. I'll drop the money off Monday when I go into the village." And have a little chat with her.
* * *
Sunday mornings Tom liked to eat a big breakfast and read the newspaper. As they were sipping their coffee, Bridget asked, "Did the Elluls give you a key to the east wing?"
"Yeah. But they didn't want me to bother with it."
"Don't you think that's strange?"
"Not really. It's a big house. They probably don't want to spend the money to fix up a part of the house that they're never going to use."
"Give me the key. I'm going to look around."
"Why?"
"The child's body might be there."
Tom practically choked on his coffee. "Okay. They never forbid me to go into it. But leave me out of your detective work." He went to a drawer and took an old fashioned wrought iron key off of a large ring. "If you see anything that cries out for repairs, let me know, and I'll contact the Elluls."
Bridget took the key and climbed the stairs to second floor. The entrance to the east wing was at the end of the hall. After she opened the door, she was glad she had armed herself with a flashlight and broom. Enormous webs hung from the ceiling and on old furniture in the hallway, and a thick layer of dust covered everything. Before she proceeded the down passage, she swept it clean of webs. As she crept along, she opened doors and peeked into each room. Most of them were either empty or piled high with junk. One room was relatively intact as a bedroom. It had a four-poster bed and antique-looking furniture. She entered it and examined the wardrobe, which held clothes from the nineteenth century. She opened a chest. It was empty. There did not seem to be anywhere else a child's body could be hidden. She shuddered at the thought of it. Of course, a murderer might hide a child's body in an opening in the wall and plaster over it. She played her flashlight around the room. The walls were a dull green. No one section looked any different than any other. But that proved nothing.
As the light swept across the bed, Bridget thought she saw something on it. She walked over to the bed and screamed. Lying there was a mummified corpse of a woman who resembled the spirit who had appeared at the seance.
Nicholas, a child with strange powers is born to the Bongiglios. As an adult, Nicholas has a plan to rule the world. At the same time Michael is a prisoner of Morgaine. Can Michael's friends rescue him and stop another Armageddon from happening?
A female drifter by the name of Mandy Blake stumbles upon Moonwood, which has been abandoned by Melody. She meets Victor Legion, Sylvan Macrome, Isaac the robot, and various ghosts and demons that haunt the old place. She also falls victim to the crystal. A ghost warns Mandy about her coming meeting with Nicholas.
At the Freedom Party national convention, Nicholas Bongiglio, son of Tom and Bridget, is nominated as their candidate for president of the United States. He is supported by the Children of Aquarius cult. Morgaine appears to Nicholas and tells him that to win the presidency, he must visit Moonwood. There he falls in love with Mandy and hires Victor Legion. Nicholas is elected president and creates artificial men to conquer the earth.
Morgaine has made Michael her slave. Raven, Westcott, Flebert, Deju and Longfeathers meet to discuss how to save Michael from Morgaine's clutches. Each pursues the effort in his or her own way. All except Raven become lost in the Catacombs of Death and imprisoned by demons. Morgaine sends Michael and Raven to the planet where the robots that Bachman built reside. They use the robots to fight against Nicholas and Legion, who are finally defeated by two females, Mandy and Olivia, an artificial woman.
Mandy Blake was a restless sort, always thinking that the place over the next hill was going to be better than the last. After a couple of months in a town or a city, something always happened to make her unhappy with where she was; so she moved on. One hot midsummer day, her wanderings took her to the village of Woodstock in the Hudson Valley. It was a pleasant tourist town, with little souvenir shops, art galleries, antique emporiums and used book stores. It had gained notoriety because of the two Woodstock festivals that had occurred in the area, the famous one in 1969, and another twenty-five years later in 1994, but neither of which were actually held in the village. Woodstock had always been an artist colony. In the nineteen sixties and seventies, it overflowed with hippies and flower people.
Mandy was too broke to enjoy it, however. She had not worked for some time and had just enough change in her pocket to spring for a cheeseburger and coke at the local McDonalds. Since it was a pleasant summer day, she brought her lunch to the tiny park-like area in the middle of town. She sat next to an aging hippie and struck up a conversation. She was rewarded with puffs off his joint.
"Tell me," she said, "is there somewhere in this town where I can raise a little bread?"
The old man chuckled. "In Woodstock? No way. If you're looking for work, try one of the new stores in the town of Ulster." He gave her complicated directions about where they were located.
"How for are they from here?"
"About eight or ten miles, give or take."
Mandy's calves were sore. She had walked all the way from the New York Thruway entrance, an all-morning hike. "Too far to go today. I think I'll hang around here."
The old man shook his head, his greasy mane flopping around his shoulders. "You don't wanna do that, girlie. The cops here don't like people sleeping on the grass. And don't do any begging either. Not unless you want to spend a night in the poky."
"Oh crap. Is there anywhere around here I can flop for free?"
The man rubbed his matted beard. "Don't think so, unless you want to sleep in some farmer's barn." He took a long last puff on the maryjane, scorching his finger. "Wait a minute. Up the hill about a mile is an abandoned mansion. You could probably sneak in there."
Mandy hefted her backpack onto her shoulders. "Which way?"
"Up the county road. You'll know the entrance cause it's got a friggin' broken iron gate." He pointed.
"It's clouding up. Guess I'll head up there before the rain starts."
"One thing though. Some say the old place is haunted. Terrible things happened there before the owners left."
Mandy grinned. "Ghosts don't bother me none. It's the stinking pigs I don't like."
"Okay then. But don't say I didn't warn you. I've heard terrible stories about that place."
"Maybe you can tell them to me, someday. Well, I'd better get trucking."
They shook hands, and Mandy trudged up the road the old man had pointed out.
* * *
By the time Mandy reached the broken iron gate, she was cursing the old man. "That friggin' dude forgot to tell me that the road was all uphill," she mumbled under her breath. She turned in by the broken gate and groaned. Ahead was a long dirt road driveway. It ran up a high wooded hill. Also, the weather had worsened. A large storm was brewing. Black clouds, like ebony mountains, rose along the ridge line within which streaks of lightning flashed, followed by the distant rumbles of thunder. Mandy pulled her collar up as the air became wild and tumultuous. A couple of large drops fell upon her head, forerunners of the cascade to come.
She hurried up the hill. At the top, the house came into view, a bleak and decaying Victorian mansion. It was an impressive building. with wings and towers and porches and artistically carved gingerbread everywhere. It had to have at least a hundred rooms. For a few moments, Mandy gazed with wonder at it. She could see that It had been modified many times. The foundation and the left side of the main house were constructed of cut stone, gray granite and bluestone. The entrance was of Georgian architecture popular in mid-eighteenth century. The wings, copper roof, towers and gingerbread were pure Victorian.
The wind picked up and howled through the rotten edifice. Mandy jogged quickly toward it, knowing that the rain would start any moment. As she reached the porch, a great crash of thunder and simultaneous lightning made her flinch. She hesitated, as she recalled every horror movie she had ever seen, where old mansions groaned and moaned while chains clanked, strange faces peered from windows, and the walls dripped with blood. Gathering her courage she creaked open the rotted door and entered the dark foyer.
She raised her lighter to gaze around. It was the quintessential rich man's palace, beautiful oak paneling everywhere, but darkly streaked with mold where leaks had run down the walls. Large webs hung from the enormous chandelier chained to the three story high domed ceiling. In the center of the room was a theatre-sized staircase with broken balusters and railings. Thick dust lay on the once highly polished parquet floor. To one side were double doors and a hallway.
Mandy retched as the stench of dead things and rot reached her nostrils. She looked around for rats.
Outdoors the storm hit with a vengeance. The wind screeched and howled like the hideous laughter of a psychotic ax murderer. A hard rain battered the walls with hammer blows and dripped through the leaky roof.
Shivering from drafts that blew through the structure and the workings of her imagination, Mandy cautiously explored the building. The first room she entered had been a sitting room. The furniture was covered with dusty sheets. Another room was once a library with empty shelves, although a few volumes remained.
She yawned. It had been a long day. She crept up the broken threads of the stairway to the floor above. Halfway up, she brushed away a great sticky cobweb that clung to her face and arms. She crept along the corridor on the second floor. As she tried doors, the eyes of long dead people stared from portraits hung in the hallway. Finally she found a room with an abandoned four-poster bed. Although the bedding was a stained mattress, at this point in her life it seemed the height of luxury.
A shudder banged, startling her so that she jumped. She ran to the window, getting soaked as she slammed the shutter closed and drew the dark, heavy drapes. She rummaged around until she found the butt of a candle in a holder in a drawer of a battered desk. She had found an empty crate downstairs in the kitchen, which she used for a night stand. She placed the lighted candle on this, sat on the edge of the bed and took out a half of a candy bar from her jacket.
After she consumed this sparse dinner, she felt sweaty from the heat and humidity and stripped to her undies. She left on a hunting knife she had strapped on one calf for protection and laid back with her rolled up jeans as pillow and her denim jacket as a blanket. Although the mansion was frightening and the storm raged, she was so exhausted from walking all day in the heat and humidity that she soon fell asleep.
* * *
Some time later she was awakened by the crash and flash of a near lightning strike. As she turned around to go back to sleep, she felt a presence as though someone was in the room with her. She sat straight up and unsheathed her knife. She listened carefully, but heard nothing. She searched the pockets of her jeans for her lighter and lit the candle, which she held it high. She saw nothing. Nonetheless, she still had the odd feeling that someone was in the room. She put the candle down and hugged herself. She felt chilled and donned her clothing except for her sneakers.
Afterwards she tossed and turned and could no longer sleep. The storm was at its fiercest. The whole mansion trembled with the wind, and crashes of thunder and lightning were almost continuous. She worried that the ancient house would succumb to those terrible gusts. Finally, she sat at the edge of the bed and stared around.
In one particularly dark corner something seemed to move. She held the candle higher, but again saw nothing. As she approached the corner, a low moan issued from it. The hairs on the back of her neck rose. "There are no such things as ghosts," she whispered. She did not convince herself. She halted and waited to see whether she would hear the sound again. A flash of lightning lit up the room, followed by a rumble of thunder. Nonetheless, the corner remained dark as ever. Afterwards, she smelled the stench of death and decay.
Mandy stood frozen indecisively. Finally, a hollow woman's voice said, "Beware. He wants your blood."
Shocked, Mandy cried, "Who? Who wants my blood?"
"The undead one."
"Where is he?"
"Near."
Suddenly the presence Mandy felt previously was gone. She shuddered. She realized that she had an encounter with a real ghost. What was worse, the ghost had warned her of a menace, someone who wanted her blood.
She wondered what she should do. Although the most prudent thing to do was to leave the mansion, she dreaded going out into the raging storm. She retrieved a pack of cigarettes from her backpack, lit a cigarette from the candle and smoked while she decided what to do. She withdrew the small cross from between her breasts so that it lay outside her blouse on her ample chest and hoped that it would provide protection if there really was a vampire.
She smoked and shivered for a while. There no possibility of sleep any more. She decided to explore the house. Her stomach growled. Perhaps the previous owners left something in the kitchen that was not moldy or spoiled. She took her lone candle out in the hall. After she took two steps, she heard heavy footsteps on the steps. She ducked back into the bedroom, stood behind the ajar door and peeked out into the hallway.
A huge giant of a man, taller than a basketball player but broad in the shoulders, appeared at the head of the stairs. It was too dark to see his face. He held a flashlight, which he swung around as though searching for something -- or someone. Mandy thought, He must have heard me up here. She felt faint from fright as she wondered whether he was the vampire or an ax murderer.
She backed slowly into the room, blew out the candle and stood with her back against the wall next to the door. The man's heavy footfall came closer, and the door swung open. He entered the room and swung the light from his torch from side to side. Mandy tried to sink into the wall in back of the open door. She shifted the candle to her left hand and slid her knife out of its sheath.
The light from the torch fell on her backpack, which leaned against the bedpost. The enormous man growled, "And who does this belong to?" With sudden swiftness, he spun about and slammed the door shut. The flashlight glared into Mandy's eyes.
"Who are you?" he cried. "What are you doing here?" His voice was deep and odd.
Mandy's voice trembled. "I-I thought this place was abandoned. I just wanted a place to spend the night."
The man laughed. "That was a big mistake." He shifted the light away from Mandy's face and shown it on his own. It was ugly and full of scars. His skin was gray, like a dead person's. "Let me introduce myself. I call myself Victor Legion. But you would probably know me better as 'the Frankenstein monster.'
Mandy screamed once and fainted dead away.
The Morgaine Series of E-books can be obtained at Renaissance Page Turner Editions On Page Turner Editions, click on Futures/Past SF/F/H and then on Fantasy. At Fictionwise, search on Author - Vadalma. Available on Page Turner Editions and Fictionwise, Raven Lenore, Psychic Investigator, a new series featuring the character Raven Lenore from the Morgaine series.
