The Barrier Island Chronicles: Stories Told to Me by an Immortal

By Buddy Worrell

After a widowed executive receives terrible news that he has incurable lung cancer, he retires, moves to Ocean Isle Beach, North Carolina, and purchases a home on an eroded end of the island that is predicted to be swept into the ocean in mere months. He thinks the timing is perfect. But when he stumbles onto a box on the beach that holds an ancient jinn who offers him a bargain to record and transcribe his tales, everything changes.

Now as the narrator of the jinn’s tales, the retiree shares insight into the lives of a diverse group of characters who each must find their way through challenges. Priscilla is an immense tiger shark who, when her life intertwines with that of a corrupt human, reminds the world of her immense power. Ira Mortenson is the kind of guy one would brush by on the sidewalk and never notice. Fear has been his companion for as long as he can remember. But when he begins to witness a series of miracles, Ira’s life becomes more exciting than he ever imagined.

The Barrier Island Chronicles is an anthology of seven short tales narrated by a retiree with a new lease on life after making a bargain with an ancient jinn.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Sep 24, 2019
• ISBN: 9781458222435

Buddy Worrell

Buddy Worrell is a retired business executive, living in Ocean Isle Beach, NC with his high school sweetheart and wife of 50 years. They have two grown daughters and two grandchildren. Buddy has written two novels of historical fiction and an anthology of spooky short stories. In addition, Worrell is currently working on two more novels to be released in late 2021.

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Copyright © 2019 Buddy Worrell.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Abbott Press

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-4582-2244-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-2243-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019914410

Abbott Press rev. date: 9/18/2019

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank Mary Ann Crimi, Elsa Bonstein, and the entire cast of characters at the Brunswick County Writers Bloc for their unflagging support and encouragement.

I also want to thank my long-term friend and colleague Becky Weaver for guiding me through the purgatory of word processing.

To Donna, Kathy, and Sara

Contents

Introduction

Gone Fishin’

The Future Is Crystal Clear

Mount Misery Road

A Rock-Solid Bet

The Guns of November

Tokens of Affection

A Friend of the Family

Remember Me

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Introduction

You don’t know me, and I have chosen to keep it that way. It’s not that I am a hermit or curmudgeon or anyone you should fear; I just don’t want my identity to influence these fantastic tales in any way. For now, you can call me the narrator.

You will need a little background on me to learn how I ended up talking to an immortal creature. I retired six months ago from a forty-year career in sales and marketing in the pharmaceutical industry. I did okay; I made it to the level of vice president. I lost my wife to cancer fifteen years ago, and I never remarried. We had no children, so I am quite alone in this world.

I was about a year away from retirement when a persistent and troubling cough sent me to my physician, an internal medicine specialist who subjected me to a long list of tests and scans. I think I already knew the outcome, but I was still shocked when her words registered in my brain—Stage four small-cell lung cancer. It’s aggressive and has metastasized to your liver and colon.

I asked her, How long?

Four to six months. Longer if we can shrink some of the tumors with radiation.

She suggested that I move up my retirement date and live as hard as I could during the time I had left; you know, go to Hawaii or Tahiti or someplace like that. She could arrange the radiation treatments in most hospitals if they were not in the Third World.

So I retired a few months early, but I didn’t go to Hawaii or Tahiti. I sold my condo in Philadelphia and found a small oceanfront bungalow on the far east side of Ocean Isle Beach, NC. It was surrounded by huge sandbags placed around its pilings in hopes that storm tides wouldn’t wash it away. Beach replenishment from the previous year had bought it some time, so I thought, What the hell.

My real estate broker told me I was crazy. That place will be out to sea in less than a year! she said matter-of-factly.

I said, Sounds about right.

My physician was as good as her word; she set my radiation treatments up at New Hanover Regional Hospital, about an hour away in Wilmington, NC. The radiation seemed to help, and on days when I was not too wiped out, I walked along the beach at low tide, picking up shells and talking to fishermen.

In early April not long ago, all the barrier islands in southern Brunswick County—Holden Beach, Ocean Isle, and Sunset Beach—experienced extraordinary tides both high and low. High tides were coming nearer and nearer to the sandbags surrounding my house, and I wondered if I or the house would ever be found after being washed out to sea.

One low tide revealed parts of the beach that were rarely dry. As I walked along the newly uncovered sand, I spotted something shiny. As I got closer, I saw that it was an exposed corner of a partially buried box. I dug it out and found that it was about the size of a Black and Decker toaster oven. It was covered with a thin veneer of metal that showed no signs of saltwater corrosion. The box had a lid that was latched with a small clasp. The box and lid bore inlaid markings of black and gold resembling ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs.

I took it right home, then cleared my dining room table and set the box in the center. I was tempted to shake it, but I thought it better to open it gently to not disturb the contents whatever they might have been. A screwdriver and a small pliers were all I needed to break the clasp and pry the lid off. I fully expected a dank, ancient odor, but I smelled nothing of note. I examined its contents.

Neatly arranged and secured by velvety threads to the interior of the box was a golden ring with a lightning bolt engraved on its face. I figured that if it was real gold, it could be worth a few thousand bucks. The next several items seemed random—a small vial of what looked to be blood, a golf tee, some shark’s teeth, a tollbooth token, several acorns, a crystal radio kit (I had built one as a boy) and what appeared to be a Spanish gold coin from the 1700s. It all made me scratch my head.

It was on toward dinner time. I prepared my evening meal of chicken noodle soup, saltines, and a protein shake. That was about all my cancer would allow. I always saved that double Jack Daniel’s for bedtime to help me get to sleep.

It was still light outside. The April sunset was beautiful, but my earlier walk had left me exhausted. I lay down in the recliner, switched on the TV, and passed out.

Hours later, I dreamed I heard a voice telling me to wake up. The voice also told me to put on the ring I had found in the treasure box—Third finger, left hand!

My eyes fluttered momentarily but then relaxed.

I said wake up! the voice ordered in that tone of from one who was used to commanding.

My eyes shot open, and I scanned the room for intruders. Some of my exhaustion was gone. I slowly rose and walked to the box.

You said put the ring on my left hand, third finger? I asked. My question was met with silence. Are you sure only the left hand and third finger will do? More silence. I felt quite ridiculous, but I opened the box, took the ring out, and slipped it onto the third finger of my left hand. The ring fit as if it had been personally sized for me. It even fit over my edema-filled knuckles. I held out my hand to admire it. I saw a fleck of the box’s interior stuck to the top of the ring and brushed it off.

Instantaneously, the ring began to glow—red at first but then refining into a blinding white. I was shaken up and terrified to the point of fainting, but I felt strength emanating from the ring. I felt a gentle warmth spread down my arm and out to the rest of my body. The walls of my home seemed to melt away, and I found myself on the beach facing a shoeless man in a gray business suit. He smiled at me, and I swear I saw large, white, shiny canines. Who are you? I stammered. Better yet, what are you?

I am known by many names and have many faces. But you can call me Amir, the entity said. I have a proposition for you that will benefit us both.

With a sudden blast of fortitude, I asked, Are you Satan coming to bargain for my soul?

The man’s stolid expression changed to one of utter disdain. Oh please! We haven’t spoken to each other in ages.

Spoken to whom? .

Lucifer of course! He rolled his eyes, which began emitting sparks.

"Give me one reason why I should trust or even listen to anything you have