Rise from the Ashes: Part I

By George Kellogg E.

Story for the Ages



Gregory Keller was a world-renowned author, beloved by millions. He possessed a Midas touch that turned words into gold. Keller books charmed kings and peasants, the wealthy and destitute, professors and students, and average people young and old.

Despite all his success, he was a quiet and modest man. His lifetime devotion was to his family, his friends and community. Generations old, the Village of Mooresbury had no interest in keeping up with the times.

Then, one day on a holiday outing, tragedy struck! In the blink of an eye, Gregory lost everything! His family, money, home, friends and reputation were taken from him suddenly and with a horrible finality.

Once a beloved best-selling author, Greg found himself destitute, alone on the street and seriously injured with just the rags on his back and no one to trust.

Unbeknownst to him spiritual forces were afoot. Good and Evil were engaging in a tug-of-war with Gregory Keller as the prize.

A century-old document linked to the author was being concealed and guarded by darkness. Death, destruction and mayhem nip at the heels of Gregory Keller as he grapples with a mystery that he unwittingly holds the key to unlock.

Will Greg survive the terrible onslaught? Is he strong enough to discover what happened to him and why?

Guided solely by his wits and with the help of some unforgettable characters from the past, Gregory Keller may yet bring to light critical truths from long ago and rise from the ashes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Spines
• Release date: Jun 3, 2024
• ISBN: 9798893832549

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Blackness.

She was immersed in a sea of black, cold fire. Misery was her only companion.

Horror continuously filled her entirety. Every erg of her being was now embroiled in icy cold, burning fear. She was no longer capable of normal human cognizance. All she could do now was drift about in the darkness among the myriad of creatures imprisoned with her. She was now trapped in the gloom and misery with which she tried to curse others in mortality.

In life, Donatienne Coffenayle was completely loyal and devoted to darkness. She became a master of the most obscure and blackest of magical arts. She was taught that if she completely devoted herself to the cause of evil she could dominate souls by the thousands. Her master said that to do so she must divest herself of all light, of all love, and become completely devoid of decency and conscience. Once she lost all capacity to feel regret, he said, she would be prepared to become a queen tormentor in Hell. If there was any light, decency, or kindness left in her, it would cause her to suffer the pains of the condemned. She would be tormented, instead of becoming a tormentor.

She was told that if she followed perfectly the laws that Master Malovent taught her, she would assume a golden throne of fire. She was told that she would rule over the denizens in her kingdom, one of many queens and sovereigns in the bottomless pit. She would cause agony in the souls allotted to her for all eternity. The souls under her reign would forever suffer at her whim. He said that denizens of darkness were consigned to this place by their actions. They would be hers to toy with and torment for eternity. He told her that she would drink of their suffering and rejoice in it!

Instead, she died in agony only to feel more agony. Before she lost her mind to this place, Donatienne realized the full reality of her situation. She recognized that she had fallen for partial truths. She was now in the darkness, but not as a monarch. She was a tormentor, true, but only as much as all the others.

She was only a ruler in the sense that she could, like every one of them, pass through another’s being. Then she could inject into her host some of her torment. This did nothing to alleviate her suffering. The injections allowed her and the rest of them to cause one another more and more eternal pain. It was pain that could never end, pain that never would subside, pain that only increased exponentially, forever.

Their bodies were no longer defined, in this place. Their bodies were now shapeless, dark spirit energy. They were separate entities, yes. They were still individuals, but they could not fully remember who they were anymore. Many could not even remember their own name. Their only hope was for someone to call their name out loud. Only hearing their name would remind them that they were an individual. Only this would separate them from the rest of the sufferers.

If someone did that, then they could gather themselves and somewhat reclaim who they were. They could even become cognizant again if someone claimed them by name. To do so, a claimant would have to brave the darkness to find them. Then the claimant would have to call the name of the condemned one and invite them out of the dark.

The problem was, though, how could someone visiting this place of complete, total gloom, ignorance, and self-centeredness ever recognize the one they sought? How could the one being called remember their name? They were shapeless, formless, all but completely bereft of free will. In the dark, none could see. In the fear, none could think. In the horror, none could generate hope enough to reach out. Herein was the trap from which there was, in every practical sense, no escape.

Certainly, Donatienne Coffenayle was in the deepest pits of horror and misery. The horror and misery only grew deeper with every passing second. Not that seconds mattered in this place. Their suffering was absolutely timeless. Donatienne was in the severest possible despair which was everlastingly manifested as an ever-folding misery, doubling over on itself ad infinitum. Each fold would exponentially compound suffering, terror, and burning. The fires of Hell were not what she imagined, no. The fire in this place was as cold as ice and colder still, becoming ever crueler with the passage of timeless time. This was a place of eternal shady manifestations, a place of no escape. It was a kingdom of sticky blackness that grew stickier, thicker, and darker with each passing thought.

But… suddenly it happened! Someone recognized Donatienne Coffenayle! A squeaky, helium-filled voice shouted, Donatienne! Donatienne Coffenayle! Where are you? I am seeking Donatienne Coffenayle!

It seemed to her that her name had been called only once. The reality was that it had been called many thousands of times in the darkness. She could not recognize her own name at first, even after thousands of times, because of the thick veil of ignorance and self-centeredness that prevented her from hearing. But then, yes, she finally did hear her name in that familiar voice of… someone… someone that she once knew. But who was it? She could not recognize that voice yet, but she did recognize herself! And now she finally remembered that she had an identity. Could this be true? Could this be happening? Then she realized that had nothing to lose by trying… to… what was that word again? Trying to… um… to… speech?

Here, she stated simply and thickly in a croaking baritone and yet squeaky voice. The effort needed to say even a single word was tremendous. Me… Wait? She had an identity, a mind, a will that was separate from the others, separate from the shadow that was who they all were now. She… felt again, something more than the pain. So, Donatienne tried again to speak through the black, sticky tar that occluded her natural intelligence. Here, who be? Her mind was filled with thick sludge that she was not able to pierce on her own. She needed that voice to continue to summon her, to recognize her being… her self.

I am coming, Donatienne Coffenayle, repeated the incredibly squeaky voice. Keep talking and I will come to you.

Why? Who be?

Yes. Keep talking.

Why come? Who be ya?

Never mind the questions, Donatienne Coffenayle. Keep talking.

I talk. Talk good.

Yes. Yes. I am growing closer.

Good to know you. I keep talking.

That’s right. Keep talking.

Her memories were starting to come back. Sluggish at first, yes. But there were memories. Yes, she could now think a little more. She remembered that place, now. Everyone was in striped clothes. She remembered that pain of dying. She recalled a corrosive sensation that compelled itself through her nervous system. It instantly pierced her limbs, digestive organs, heart, and brain. Yes, the pain of the electric chair now seemed like a pinprick or even less as compared to what she was now suffering. And yet, the suffering seemed to ease just a bit when she made crude efforts to converse.

I talk. I hear. I talk. Donatienne was working very hard at gathering herself together. She was dispersed across the darkness, but the more she conversed, the more she was able to draw herself back together. This was a tremendous step toward her identity and she thought that the pain might be decreasing. Or, for certain, the pain, desolation, and terror were no longer folding over on each other exponentially. She was becoming more and more herself each time she spoke or made a conscious, independent thought about speaking.

At the other end of the conversation, Malovent was tuning into Coffenayle’s intelligence signal more fully. He was able to close in on his former pupil the more he concentrated on her. He was feeling her grow stronger in intellect and that allowed him to get a stronger and better idea of where she might be (as if where had any meaning in this place). He almost regretted making her as weak as he had, but regret was not part of Malovent’s vocabulary.

To suggest that he would feel actual regret would be to suggest that he had a conscience. He had not felt any stirrings of conscience since before the Great War when he and many others were cast from the presence of that place. It was the domain of that Being, the One who ruled over them. No, regret was not his to have anymore. What he experienced in its place was mere annoyance at the difficulty he passed through to find her. Everything was all about his personal convenience, now. All beings, things, creatures, and situations were just there for him to toy with at his leisure. He wished she could go faster; there was much evil afoot and he had the most remarkable plans for their future.

The memory of the Great War was what kept him motivated to find her. Malovent was trying to gather an army great enough to help him overrun the mortals on planet Earth. He wanted evil to subjugate the planet and all who lived upon it. To do so, he would need deeply corrupted souls to fight on his side. There was none more corrupt than Donatienne Coffenayle. Not even in his thousands of years of tempting and collecting souls had he met one as debauched and committed to evil as Donatienne Coffenayle. She was the darkest of them all, surpassing even the other Coffenayle Clan members in his ranks.

The present connection between Malovent and Coffenayle grew stronger and stronger and enabled him to move faster and faster toward her. Eventually, Donatienne was able to move toward her old master as well, with increasing speed. As her speed increased, so did her belief and determination. She knew she could reunite with him. She knew she wanted to meet him again, to see him, to destroy him! To throttle him with her bare hands, to kill him over and over!

With both of them determined and believing in their connection, they found one another in the darkness. All of this happened in either the blink of an eye or maybe five of Earth’s years. Who knew? Ultimately it did not matter. What mattered was that he found her. And she was ready to be used again. So was Malovent. They hated one another intolerably. Even so, he was willing to call an uneasy truce because they had the same goal of making the whole Earth suffer the same as they did.

Donatienne, it has been a while, squawked and squeaked Malovent. He felt her hatred of him, which was all the better. She held him in total contempt. Ah, yes, that rage and poisonous hatred feels so familiar. So very complete, thought the old goblin silently.

You miserable, disgusting wretched imp! Wait ‘til I wrap my fingers around your scrawny throat! barked Donatienne, now fully formed. He could not see her in the blackness but sensed her shape so fully that he knew her fists were clenched. Her teeth were gnashed together. He knew she wanted to consume him with black fire, but alas, could not!

Ha! Just try it, fool, he said, in reminiscence of their old times together when she was still in her mortal body and he was so very powerful and bold in appearance. She remembered those days, too. And now, despite the love and devotion she once felt… she wanted to kill him. Even though murdering him was the thought that drew her to him, though revenge was her goal, her intelligence told her that such was impossible. After all, how does one ghost kill another?

I wish I could. But I know better. Why did I ever listen to your lies?

Do I detect regret? he mocked her.

You know me better than that! Besides, you are an impish, pink toady now, so what right have you to mock me? I don’t regret what I did. I only regret that you could not keep your promises. I should have followed a different master.

After all you have suffered, Donatienne, and all you have learned here, do you seriously believe that it would have made any difference? He stopped talking to allow her to mull that over. She thought and finally concluded that no, it would have made no difference.

In the background, the creatures of the Dark no longer penetrated Coffenayle. Her free will had returned and they sought softer, easier targets purely out of instinct. Not being thinking creatures anymore, they simply ricocheted off her and pierced each other purely by nature. There was no Oh blast! Coffenayle found her will and is resisting us. They only noticed her resistance and, being lazy beasts, they simply moved on. No compassion, no free will, only suffering. They never even noticed that two beings were actually holding an intelligent conversation in this thick, black place.

Well, perhaps not, she retorted. But I still hate you, no matter what. You misled me.

What did you think, woman? Did you think that I was going to tell you the truth? You had to have some inkling at some time that I was lying through my teeth. Or was I really, after all? Don’t you realize that you have everything I promised, even if it’s not as good as you hoped?

You promised me a throne of fire and gold as a tormenting queen in Hell.

Are you not a queen? Are you not a tormentor?

No more than anyone else. They also torment me. They are also kings and queens, if you look at it that way.

Precisely.

Well, he had her there, but then she asked, So, where is my fiery gold throne?

Concentrate on that image.

Donatienne followed his advice, for some reason, and concentrated on a gold throne of flames. Soon, she was sitting on one. She could see it in the dark, even if others could not. She could even see herself now, still dressed in her prison stripes, the clothes that wrapped her corpse now moldering in the prison cemetery.

There, understand? hissed the sly Master of Darkness.

I want to change clothes.

Then do it!

She concentrated on her Napoleon uniform, complete with shiny boots, gold epaulets, and a sword. She even added a crown to her head, as though that made a difference. Now she sat on the throne she had seen in so many visions and dreams presented to her as an apprentice of evil. She now had the entire package she knew she would have as a Master of Evil. She was now queen! But she was disappointed. She was not satisfied, she was not feeling free of pain and able to torture others like she thought she would be.

I still suffer! she screamed.

You are condemned to darkness. What did you expect? he asked as though his point was obvious.

I expected to not suffer, once I was purged of all conscience.

That is not even reasonable.

It was what you led me to believe.

"It is what you wanted to believe. I told you nothing more than what you were willing to believe. It was your will that I followed. I cannot do anything with you unless you allow it."

What? You mean that I was in command of you the whole time?

"Yes, fool. You were in charge the whole time. Don’t you remember what Angel Mentor told you?"

Donatienne turned her mind back, as it was now perfectly clear. She remembered the day of the Great Humiliation that ended the years of what the victorious mortals call the Struggle. Yes. She remembered how that day went and how she learned that she was actually the one in charge. Yes… now she understood.

All right, she said. I have nothing to lose by joining with you again if that is what you came for. I know that you did not come here for my sake, so there must be something in it for you.

Yes, replied Malovent in his squawky, terrible voice. The rewards for both of us will be great. The story of our defeat was written down and hidden. A world-renowned author from this generation on Earth, a man named Gregory Keller, is to find the document and publish it for the world to see. We will kill Gregory Keller before he finds and publishes the document that reveals how soundly we were beaten. We will rewrite the history and cause the world to glory in us! Now, Donatienne Coffenayle of the Coffenayle line... you know that you are condemned, correct?

Yes.

You know that you have no hope of ever seeing Heaven, correct?

Yes.

"Do you hate the ones that defeated and humiliated you?"

Yes, I hate them all and wish that-- her voice trailed off.

Wish what?

I wish that they would be here instead of me.

But you are forever condemned.

Yes! I know! So then, I wish them to suffer with me, too.

Why?

Because I don’t want them to be better than I am. I don’t want them to have light and joy when I cannot. I was better than them on Earth and I am better than them now. Why should I suffer alone? I want them here with me to torment them, even if they get to torment me too, at least they won’t be any better off than I am. I will join you to make this happen. I allow you, Malovent, to work with me again. We will defeat Greg Keller, stop the publication. We will rewrite history to suit ourselves! We will convince the world that we are more powerful than good! We will destroy many souls that way!

With that statement, Malovent was able to take back his old power. He was able to transmute from the short, stumpy crooked little wretch he had become into his old, tall, black-robed self. Ah, that felt better! He was becoming tall again, hooded and mysterious. Now that she was running things as before, he could stay in this form. This was the form she preferred because it was so imposing. He was able to assume it because it was her wish deep down, even if she was not fully aware of it.

Yes, Malovent replied in his fully restored, rich baritone voice. We are now rejoined. What more do you wish?

I wish for you to help me to this end, to the destruction of the souls of those who oppose me, she said in her normal voice.

You wish for me to help you? Do you wish for me to work for you? Why, the honor would be all mine, Malovent replied. I and my army are yours to command, he bowed before her. She began to sense him in the darkness. She felt that he was just as she knew him in mortality. Now, knew Malovent, they could plan to destroy Gregory Keller before he did more damage. All she had to do was say the words.

Lead me out of here, said Donatienne. "And I will make a Pactum Pactorum with you once more."

As you wish, milady.

CHAPTER 1

The End.

To Gregory Keller, the internationally best-selling author, this was the most beautiful phrase in the English language. He loved books and he loved to finish reading them for as long as he could remember. He was a fan of science fiction prophets -as he loved to call them- and the classics. He was a great fan of history and of stories by Twain, London, and Hemingway. He loved stories with spiritual subtexts. This made him a very natural fan of JRR Tolkien and the Middle Earth tales. He would read European and Asian writers as well when he could get good translations. Yes, Gregory loved to read books. Science fiction movies were a second favorite of his.

Greg was a very pleasant man, but he never was one for socializing much. He preferred his writing to associating with people outside of his family. It was an odd thing, how he loved to communicate messages to many people all at once, but not talk with them. He was an anxious man in public and ill at ease with large social gatherings. Despite that, he made many public appearances. He lectured at universities, high schools, libraries, grade schools, corporate gatherings, and even prisons. His mind was sharp and he was an engaging, entertaining, and inspiring speaker, one who was high in demand. One would think that such a personality would be at ease with people. But he was not.

Instead of shaking hands and enjoying the company of his readers and listeners, he shied away from his fan base. He very rarely did personal public book signings because he was so uneasy with being crowded by people. Even though he appeared publicly at sold-out events, he would not stay after to greet folks. It was always a disappointment to his fans. People longed to meet him, to spend even a few seconds with him, but he refused to do so in large numbers.

It was not that he disliked people; in fact, he loved them. Oddly, though, he could stand being near only two or three fans at a time. This was a very unique and overtly peculiar eccentricity. It was something that his fans did not like but had to tolerate. Some critics publicly speculated that he did so to create a market niche for his books. If one had a signed Gregory Keller copy, it was a rare thing and quite valuable. Such books were rare strictly because of Greg’s social habits.

Though some people speculated otherwise, Greg stayed isolated for some very legitimate reasons. Gregory would tire out, physically, after seeing only a few fans. He could sign perhaps twenty copies but had to call it a day. He did not mind signing his fans’ books. He looked forward to it, on the occasions where he did so. At the end of his twenty or so autographs, though, he was simply exhausted and could not continue. He had to go home and sleep.

In fact, today, he was at home. In his open study at the top of the stairs, next to his library, he typed the final ‘D’ on his latest book to make "The End". He saved the finalized work on his computer. Then he sat back and looked at the screen, his finished product, pondering the many nuances offered by the words The End. The end of what, exactly? Then his mind began to run off with the whole idea of how nothing ever ends.

For something to truly end, he believed, there had to be no trace of it left anywhere. It would have to be annihilated. The story may be complete, true, but it never really ends. When somebody reads the story, they carry it inside of them in some way. And because they carry it, their life is affected by that story. The effects of the story go on and on, throughout the generations. That was why he loved writing so much. He knew that his stories would be passed on, even if by some subtle change in a person’s way of thinking.

After all, thoughts alter behavior. Some, such as his wife Jolynn, say that thoughts are things. He thought she might be right on some level. He studied the topic and found that physicists had proven that thoughts are energy. They proved that thought energy had the properties of both wave and particle and was very similar to light. Greg briefly wondered whether thoughts had mass, but then he moved on. Let the scientists figure out the science. He was content with the notion alone, proof or no proof.

With his story now finished, Greg stretched and got up out of his office chair. His desk was a very practical place to work. He had some knickknacks that his wife, Jolynn, had given him. Then he had his stuff organized the way he liked it. Greg was never one who required neatness, but his wife certainly was. He did not care for the changes when they were first married. Soon after the changes, he realized how much time he wasted in a day, looking for things. He usually found things he was looking for underneath other things. He finally agreed that having a neatly organized desk was much more efficient than looking for things all the time. So, he kept things orderly enough to keep track of them.

To call his working space an office was to stretch the point. He had a desk, yes, but it lived in the library that took up the whole upper floor of the house. The library was an open space occupied by his bookshelves. The shelves were arranged behind the desk. The desk sat snugly against the pine railing supported by glass panels that went all around the upper floor.

The effect was interesting because Greg could see the entire first floor from his perch. All of the occupants of the first floor could also see him at work. They could see him reading, looking for books, or simply lounging in his big leather desk chair. Despite its openness, Greg still called his writing space his office.

He was satisfied with the novel he finished, so left his office and wandered downstairs to the kitchen where he would meet Jolynn. He put a teapot of water on the stovetop to heat. He figured Pumpkin Spice would be perfect for that morning. She loved that flavor. It thrilled him to think that anyone as wonderful as she would have any interest in one such as he. She had a mutual idea of him. How could one with such a genius with words, a master storyteller, historical researcher, and brilliant writer have any interest in her? For whatever reason, they were very deeply in love with one another.

The clock on the kitchen stove promised that he could expect her back any minute from the store. She was buying some groceries for breakfast. She wanted to make something special for them to celebrate his latest book. She was a fine cook. In fact, to him, she was fine in everything she did. He could not take his eyes off her, whenever she was busy. Often, he secretly watched her, fascinated by how her mind worked, how she put her best self into all she did. Their children were grown, but despite the snow on the roof⁠—

He heard the familiar sound of her Lincoln SUV’s engine pulling up, the car coming to a stop. His kettle was whistling now and he set up two cups, each with a pumpkin-flavored teabag in the bottom. He poured the water after it cooled for a moment, ensuring that was not boiling. Jo claimed that boiling tea destroyed some of the benefits of the herbs. She also claimed it bruised the flavor. He watched the bags emerge and float for a moment, saturate, and then sink to the bottom of each cup. The teabags then resigned themselves to giving up their flavor and benefit. He added just enough honey to each.

Greg could never tell the difference, but Jo always managed to know when he failed to cool the water below the boiling point. She could tell by the flavor of the tea. Each and every time. That amazing, sensitive, and kind woman was coming up the sidewalk now. She paused, unlocked the door, and opened it on her own. She had only one small grocery bag.

She made her way down the hallway and to the kitchen, where stood her beloved, genius husband. She paused and smiled, admiring him. His thin and graying hair, some completely gone, and little potbelly never changed the way she thrilled inside every time she saw him. She could not help it. She was still that college girl in love. In love with a man her parents said was a nobody from nowhere who would never become anyone or anything worth being.

Despite that dire, hopeless prophecy, Greg Keller became quite a somebody, a man known everywhere. He was very public and insistent in claiming that Jolynn was his inspiration. No one ever thought that a communications major would become world-renowned. No one but her. She always knew Gregory Keller would one day become great! There was no need for I told you so. Her parents very well knew that his work spoke for itself. And they grew to love Greg, even before he became famous. They loved him dearly, and they knew that he deeply loved their daughter and always looked after her.

They certainly had their reasons, though, for their predictions. Standing there in the kitchen, the old author was pondering his past. Greg never was shy about his background. He was raised by the system, as a ward of the state. As an orphaned foster child, it seemed that he could never really get his feet under him. He struggled in everything he attempted back in the 1990’s when the Gulf War was in full swing.

His wife broke into his musings as she greeted him with a hug and a kiss. She had with her a few small items. I plan to shop for the rest of the groceries, after breakfast. I will get all but the perishables, and then meet Kathy and the kids for lunch. She needs to talk to me, but I don’t think it’s anything all that serious. After lunch, I will get all the rest of what we will need for two weeks.

Ah, well, until then, m’lady, enjoy a spot of tea, Greg said, handing her a cup.

Hmm… Smells wonderful, she said with a flirty tone and took a sip. "Tastes wonderful, kind sirrah! I give this an A+!" They sat for a moment and enjoyed their tea. But, good things never last forever, and their day awaited! They rinsed their cups, put them in the dishwasher and then she deftly shooed him out of the kitchen. She donned her apron and made blueberry waffles, eggs, and bacon. He watched and waited at the table. He knew better than to offer to help. The kitchen was hers. She brought everything over to him.

So, nothing serious with Kathy?

No, I think things are fine. How’s your breakfast?

Wonderful.

Good. Remember that this is to celebrate your latest book!

Yes, and thank you.

They continued to chat about the weather, how things were, what his next projects might be, and so on.

They finished up their meal and he helped put the dishes in the dishwasher, a job she would do properly later. Jo cleaned up the table. Neat and efficient! She embraced her husband and then promised to cook dinner for them tonight.

He had hoped to spend some time with her this morning, but she was in a hurry. This was how it was when Jo got busy with the family and community. Greg did not have much to do with her community dealings, due to his fear of crowds. After they put the dishes in the washer, she pecked him on the cheek, gave him another lingering hug, and then rushed back out the door.

After a shower, Greg sat at his desk. He was mulling over some things in his mind. He had no idea how many books he had written. That was for his publishers to track. He also had no idea how much money he made, or how much he had in the bank at the moment. That is why he hired accountants. His numbers men -as Greg referred to them tongue-in-cheek- were separate and independent of one another. The one did not know that the other worked on the Keller accounts.

From this open office, he ran a brilliant writing campaign. A large desk, his computer, and his ideas. All were backed up by one of the grandest private literature collections in the nation. Museums would give their eye teeth to have some of those volumes. These were the things that represented a multi-million-dollar book-writing business captained by a man who did not care about money.

His writing was organized, and his office was organized. It may not appear well organized to the uninitiated eye, because esthetics were not very important to Greg, but he knew where everything was. That was the important thing. Jo let him have his way in this space, even though everyone could see. While he was grateful for her organized hand in every other room, this was his world. She respected his brilliance and the special alchemy of the writing space. She promised and kept her promise to never disturb it. When the clutter started bothering her too much, she simply shut her eyes to it. He would get to it… eventually. And he always did, in his own time and special way.

Greg sat there and considered some new ideas. He wanted to write a book about the village. Yes, that was what he would do. He would use a pseudonym for their little community, to avoid drawing undue attention to their people. He did not want to attract any tourism. He did not want to bring a bunch of strangers in to create problems. They already had their tourists, their hunters, their fishermen, the sightseers, and that was plenty. Their sheriff, Deacon Deke Pettibone was on top of things, keeping the Village quiet, and did not need any more to do.

Greg did not want to bring a bunch of people there who were curious to find out what made things tick with these small-town folks. So, what to name the town? Ah, yes. That was a good name. Bedfordshire. He once wrote a book about a county in England by that name. It was a general history of rural England. To add a little flair to the name, he decided upon West Bedfordshire.

He spent the rest of his morning and afternoon writing. He wrote all through lunch, never stopping to eat. He never had any idea of how much time passed when he was writing. He also knew that he could count on Jo to pull him away from the word processor when it was time to eat dinner or attend to other important duties.

CHAPTER 2

Jo went by the Harrison’s & Co. Grocers to do her grocery shopping. She was completely unaware of the blonde woman who followed her in there, dressed in a black gown. No one could see the female figure that was wisping about, nearly shapeless, following Jolynn wherever she went. Occasionally, an infant would point at nothing and a parent would blow it off as the game that little ones often play.

Once, though, Donatienne formed enough of a face to actually show one of the infants, who suddenly burst into tears with no apparent provocation. The face she created was misshapen and had hollow eyes. The old witch was proud of herself for that! At least one of Malovent’s promises was being kept. He told her that she would learn to control her form in the mortal realm. She was still every bit as miserable as she was in the Darkness, but at least now she could see around her and felt there was a purpose to her existence. She delighted in doing evil again and knew that she would wreak all the havoc she could before the darkness became permanent.

The village grocery store was just the right fit for the little village where Jo and Greg raised their family. The Keller’s were considered one of the founding families, for indeed they were. Their village had all the conveniences and items that they could find in the bigger cities, only in smaller quantities. Harrison’s also had some fine wines and gourmet foods. The store had the right mix of everything for their village clientele. Some folks were millionaires, others were just getting by.

Despite the economic disparity, nobody went hungry, mind you! In their village, they took of each other! When someone needed a hand-up