Summer in Paradise

By R. J. Hore

Only one road leads to paradise, and he found it.
 
University graduate James Witson needs a change of scene in order to get away from the English professor who ruined his life and the other painful memories James wants to forget. He randomly chooses a remote coastal village in which to find himself and write a great novel.

Paradise Cove is perched on the edge of the continent, a thin strip of civilization between the storm-tossed ocean and a thick, dark forest. Most of the locals appear friendly enough, although they hold a few odd beliefs such as little people in the forest and a White Lady who haunts the by-ways.
 
James has no use for ghosts or witches, but even he has to admit things in Paradise Cove are strange. From the mansion down by the harbor that looks more like a pagan temple than a home to the uncanny way the girl at the general store anticipates his wishes.
 
But James isn't the only one hunting for something. An archaeologist is already in the village, rummaging through her rental house, trying to find an old journal that is the key to a mysterious tomb and possible riches. When Dr. Edith Bernard's student helpers flee the dig site on the barrens, she enlists James as her assistant. As they try to understand why the original inhabitants abandoned the area over two thousand years before the Europeans arrived, there are more questions than answers.
 
Searching for himself, James Witson finds far more than he bargained for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Champagne Book Group
• Release date: Jun 8, 2024
• ISBN: 9781959036807

Book preview

Summer in Paradise

R. J. HORE

CHAMPAGNE BOOK GROUP

Summer in Paradise

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

Published by Champagne Book Group

712 SE Winchell Drive, Depoe Bay OR 97341 U.S.A.

~~~

First Edition 2024

eISBN: 978-1-959036-80-7

Copyright © 2024 R. J. Hore All rights reserved.

Cover Art by Sevannah Storm

Champagne Book Group supports copyright which encourages creativity and diverse voices, creates a rich culture, and promotes free speech. Thank you for complying by not scanning, uploading, and distributing this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher. Your purchase of an authorized electronic edition supports the author’s rights and hard work and allows Champagne Book Group to continue to bring readers fiction at its finest.

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Dedicated to my wife Barbara, who believes in me, and to my children and grandchildren who tolerate my quirks. A special thanks to the members of the Freelancers workshop for their critiquing, and to my beta reader Leia who reads this material when it can be pretty raw. A special thanks to my editor, Debbie Davis, who had to wrestle with this manuscript.

Dear Reader:

This is my first trip into a paranormal tale, but it does play with my love of history and archaeology and includes the bonus of an additional story that was one of the first I had published.

R. J.

Other Books by R.J.

Of Destiny’s Daughters

Expeditions to Earth, 3

Hammer Across the Stars, 2

Of Destiny’s Daughters, 1

The Queen

The Queen’s Game, 3

The Queen’s Man, 2

The Queen’s Pawn, 1

The Dark Lady

Dark Knights, 3

Dark Days, 2

The Dark Lady, 1

The Housetrap Chronicles

Silence of the Sands, 9

Murder on the Disoriented Express, 8

Menagerie a Trois, 7

The Treasure of the Sarah Madder, 6

Murder in the Rouge Mort, 5

Hounds of Basalt Ville, 4

House on Hollow Hill, 3

Dial M for Mudder, 2

Housetrap, 1

Knight’s Bridge

Alex in Wanderland

Prologue

The jagged claws of lightning sear her retinas, but through the cutting rain she catches a glimpse of towering cliffs. They are helpless, mast and sails shredded, steering long gone, icy water flooding over the hull, and most of the men already dead. A flash reveals a row of jagged rocks chewing the waves to foam. A gaping hungry maw, the doorway to the land of the dead. The gods and demons of air and sea have waited far too long for their sacrifice. Tonight, they will feast. Then a brilliant strobe strikes the cliffs, revealing a gap in the stone wall. A valley beyond and a possible safe harbor. She prepares to fling herself into the angry breakers. She may yet live.

Chapter One

I should have snatched up his precious gavel and smashed in Flaske’s thick skull before I resigned. Imagine him, of all the babbling self-important people in this world, rejecting my thesis. He did this without even the courtesy of reading.

Steel wheels rattling against rails did little to ease the throbbing deep inside my skull. Cheek pressed against the smeared glass, I watched blurred images of farms slipping by and fading from prosperous to impoverish the farther we fled from the city. Dark forest soon took over, stunted, twisted, with the distant shimmer of gray water brilliance beyond.

What was wrong with a dissertation titled The Negative Effect of a Belief in Fairies and Magical Little People on Susceptible and Weak Minds? The sub-title summarized my theme clearly. A Thesis on the Negative Effects of a Belief in the Supernatural.

Professor Edward Flaske was the dean of the bloody boring English Department and my nemesis. My spittle flecked the grime on the inside of the window.

Who does he think he is? Dean of an obsolete curriculum on a useless subject. I didn’t need his magic touch to create my brilliant first novel and launch my literary career. What had he ever really done, other than give out grades based on the skirt’s shortness or the pout of full lips promising nothing?

I pictured the bloodied body sprawled at my feet, that dull foreign sloth of a chain-smoking janitor entering the lab and probably sweeping around the cooling corpse while a dark red essence leaked across the worn tiles. That would have been a lovely sight to see.

The screeching of rusty brakes drew me back to the now. The train and time around me slowed. The vibrations were unable to dampen the sounds. Almost there, a year of isolation to answer the solemn pledge I made to self. A writer’s retreat to create a masterpiece. The car groaned to a halt.

The conductor bellowed, All out here for Paradise. One minute stop.

I stood, swaying, to reach overhead for the battered beige case holding all my worldly goods. A gift from my late father. That, and his meager check I would live on for the coming year. Thanks Dad, bet you never thought I’d find a good use for it.

The other half-dozen passengers in the car never moved. I couldn’t tell if they were asleep or auditioning for a zombie film. Chancing a glance through the window, I spotted a weathered wooden pole leaning into an imaginary wind. The loosely attached and faded sign advertised Paradise Cove.

The train started to move again as my foot left the step. I was the only one who got off.

The deserted platform was rotten, the station building collapsed onto its broken concrete foundation in a jumble of disintegrating blackened wood. A broad dirt road ran parallel to the tracks, a stretch of oiled gravel slicing through the tangled forest. There was no sign of human life or traffic in either direction.

A second, obviously less well-used roadway ended at the ruins and headed due east. Traces of tire marked the ruts and puddles. A crooked row of scrawny wooden poles hosting sagging lines hinted at a possibility of life somewhere beyond my sight. I checked my phone. No signal. No waiting taxi or bus stop, either.

This way lies paradise. I started striding. Must remember to walk facing traffic, which means keeping to the left. If anyone ever drove this desolate route.

A few tentative steps found little difference between either side of the road. There were crowded ditches along the shoulders filled with bushes reaching out and swarming tiny black flies. Inside the shelter of the trees, dark gnarled trunks bent away from my destination. The still air lay thick above unruly grasses, tall rushes, and tangled thickets.

I kept walking.

A scolding crow or raven, I couldn’t tell which, decided I needed another lecture. I bent to fire a rock in his direction. I don’t need advice from you. You’re not my crazy English Prof.

I missed. He called me unprintable names and drifted on ahead, chuckling.

After an hour I noticed the air growing cooler, the sky ahead turning slate gray. Behind me the sun kissed the treetops. The forest and the road back there were converting to black. The lonely row of dark utility poles continued bravely onward, although some appeared to be exhausted and tilting toward much needed rest.

I shifted the case to my left hand and stopped to shake a hitchhiking stone from my shoe. The wisdom of this self-imposed exile to a place I’d never visited gnawed at my tired brain. Would the hotel—or was it a motel—still be open at this hour? Or full? That was doubtful.

I set my jaw and took another weary stride. The luggage seemed much heavier now. The insects had quieted while stealthily sharpening their dining tools in preparation for an evening meal. Even the crow abandoned me.

How far was this bloody place and why did I ever think this was such a good idea? Night came hurtling at me from somewhere along the road ahead. The evening breeze took a turn from the arctic.

Would anyone miss me if they found my corpse on the side of the road? Was I on the wrong path and about to die, frozen and wandering toward the edge of the world? This would make for a far too stock and mundane death. I’d never write such a trite ending.

There came a sound from the gravel behind me. I almost stumbled into the ditch turning around, clutching my suitcase across my chest for protection.

A cyclops swerved to a stop and morphed through a dusty cloud to a single headlight mounted on the fender of a rust-red pickup truck which had witnessed its finest days while I still strived to survive kindergarten.

Almost hit ya. You lost? A round face materialized in the truck’s open window.

I gathered my breath, submerged the You idiot! bubbling in my throat, and took a step in the direction of the pickup. Is this the way to Paradise and can you give me a lift if it is? I sounded hoarse, worse than that damned, vagrant crow.

Depends on your definition of Paradise. Do you mean metaphorically, or the Cove? The cheeks showed a couple of weeks’ stubble, and the graying hair almost covered the sunken eyes. A crooked grin spread.

The Cove, Paradise Cove.

Hop in sonny, although why you’d want to go there is one of life’s mysteries an’ I do love a mystery. Throw your valise in the back.

The back consisted of an open bed with a wooden floor and a plaid blanket. The blanket stirred, rising into the shape of a black and white, medium-sized dog.

Don’t worry, Plato might slobber on it some, but he won’t chew.

Warily I reached over the side and set my suitcase in the corner farthest from the animal. I don’t know dogs. Never owned one. Don’t particularly like the shifty-eyed creatures, always secretly laughing at you.

The beast didn’t move. Just glared the way my high school Phys Ed teacher used to when I brought a note from my stepmother requesting I be excused from the more strenuous exercises, due to my delicate condition.

I opened the truck door and slid onto the passenger seat. It wobbled. It took two hefty pulls to close the door. We started up. The gear shift protested with an agonizing groan and then the truck lurched forward. My forehead barely avoided connecting with the dashboard.

Don’t bother searching for the belt. Removed it so I could get the seat out easier. Also, seat isn’t bolted down. Just keep a firm hold on the dash and the door an’ you’ll be all right. Name’s Sebastian. Most folk call me Sea Bass. What business you got in the Cove?

I’m staying there until the end of the year. Supposed to have a reservation at the hotel.

Did you call ahead?

Couldn’t find a phone number or an email so I wrote them.

Did they reply?

I didn’t have time to wait for one. No, is this strange?

Would have been stranger if they had. The ole Wharf Hotel burned to ashes ten years ago. Owners died in the fire.

I swallowed hard. Well, there’s also supposed to be a motel.

He laughed, almost choking. The truck strayed across the road, recovered. "What you been reading this nonsense in? We had a motel. Took care of the workers who built the new docks and fishing station back about fifteen, twenty years ago. When the work finished, they all moved back home an’ there was no need for a motel. Building fell over. What’s left is home to a tribe of drunken raccoons and a pair of deaf skunks." He swerved to avoid something on the roadside.

I almost went out the suddenly open door.

Told you to hang on.

We drove the next mile in silence, the track of the road getting harder to see. The headlight scoured the bushes at every hill and sharp corner like a faulty laser pointer, occasionally illuminating yellow eyes in the growing darkness. Faint wisps of fog licked at the ditches.

Just my luck, the magazine or newspaper where I read about Paradise Cove had been as out of date as Professor Flaske. Is there any place here I might stay or rent for the year? Maybe a B and B or cottage?

Well, old Sadie Carey has a room she could possibly spare until you find something else. I’ll drop you off there.

Thanks. I gazed toward the trees alongside us, catching hints of pale movement through the trunks. Deer tails, owls, mist? What’s out there in the woods? Anything dangerous?

Only foul thing you might see on the side of this stretch of road is the White Lady. If you do, don’t stop and offer to give her a lift.

We bounced through the wind-twisted trees as the truck topped a hill with a view of the water sparkling under the rising half-moon. The headlight swept across a seriously tilting sign on the roadside proclaiming, Welcome to Paradise Cove. A large, cartoon fish shedding scales of weathered, peeling paint wore a yellow sou-wester. I squinted at a scrawled second line, POP?

Why? I asked. Does she have an evil temper?

You would too if you’d been dead a thousand years.

Oh, come on, now you’re talking about a ghost?

Maybe somethin’ else, just sayin’.

The road rose and fell along the shore. Dense dark woods edged with mist to the left; on the right, rocks and inky water showing small white crests in the moon’s pallid light. Ahead lay scattered houses with lit windows hiding on the side away from the water. Smoke pillared from stone chimneys.

Welcome to the rumored birthplace of Professor Edward Flaske, I thought, hanging on tight. The home of the man who believes in nothing. Who boasted he’d never been back since he left as a youth. Why?

Streetlights consisting of single bulbs hung from the utility poles, and I could swear they were at a minimum a half mile apart. Clouds of something, vicious insects I supposed, swarmed each light, diming them and creating an illusion of a living fog. We swung left onto the narrow driveway belonging to a house set back from the road on a hillside.

She’ll be expecting us. Sebastian parked beside a covered porch running along the side of the building. The headlight gave up as the beam slowly faded into nothing.

How could that be? Do you have a landline in your magic pickup?

Simple, witchcraft. He matched my sarcasm, or he was serious.

Did he refer to simple, plain, witchcraft; or that the answer is simple, and can only mean witchcraft? Either was impossible.

He got out and rescued my suitcase. You just sit there, Plato, and enjoy the night air. Won’t be stopping long. He started up the steps and pounded on the door calling, We’re here. Then he turned to me. You coming? Can’t spend the night in the truck unless you want to cuddle Plato. Wouldn’t recommend it though, has bad breath and chases rabbits in his sleep most of the night. Never seems to catch them though.

I crawled out, barely avoided twisting my ankle in the dark, and followed. The breeze carried a faint scent of fish and a whisper of waves.

He opened the door, releasing a faint splash of yellow light across the porch. Hi there, Sadie me love, we’re back.

We stepped into a bright kitchen and the beaming smile of a middle-aged woman. She was comfortably built, topped with short-chopped dark hair splashed with gray. She wore a daisy-patterned apron, jeans, and a loose plaid shirt.

Sadie pointed a rolling pin at me. About time you got here. Expect you’re hungry.

An old-fashioned iron woodstove occupied most of one wall. The two rectangular windows on either side of the room were draped with calico curtains and small bundles of dried flowers. An overhead brass light fixture and various unlit candles scattered about the room added to the decor.

Does this meet your approval, or would you prefer to look elsewhere for maids and butlers? She glanced at Sebastian. Did he offer to pay for your gas?

Course not. Barely able to stay in the truck during the ride.

I fumbled for my wallet. How much do I owe you?

Now I’m insulted. Sebastian grinned and winked at Sadie. He blew her a kiss, waved to me, and headed out the door, calling over his shoulder, Should get home before the Wee Folk start their round dancing in the moonlight. G’night all.

I gawked at Sadie.

Well, do you come attached to a preferred name, or do I just call you James? Naw, like Jimmy better. Anyway, supper’s on the table in the next room and getting cold. You can take your case upstairs after you’ve eaten. Don’t want you passing out from hunger. It’s not much, moose stew, but it’s filling.

How is it you know my name? I clenched my suitcase’s handle. No wonder Flaske fled this place. The inhabitants were superstitious inbred relics. And don’t tell me it’s witchcraft. I wasn’t born yesterday. I have a good college education.

I trailed her to the dining room and sat while she scooped steaming lumps of meat and vegetables into a china bowl.

She chuckled. Okay, I won’t, and not yesterday. By the look of you, figure about early to mid-twenties, though it’s hard to tell, you being so scrawny. Eat. I’ll fetch some herbal tea. It’s too late for coffee. You need a good night’s rest.

I had to admit the stew was excellent. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was. Fortunately her name wasn’t Gretel. I know there’s a logical explanation for everything. Sebastian said you might have a room I could rent until I find a place.

Up the stairs, first door on the left. Not much, but there’s a bed, a table, and a window. Washroom’s the door beside the kitchen stove. Why do you want to find a place here? What brings the likes of you to Paradise?

She didn’t know everything about me. I sipped on the mug of tea, feeling the ice being leeched from my bones. A woodstove located behind me sent warm fingers scurrying up my back. I’ve finished with my schooling and need a quiet place where I can work on a book I’m writing. Heard about this village from someone I knew. Decided to try it for a year.

Suppose it beats working for a living. Well, you can stay here as long as you like. I’ll even throw in the meals if you do a few chores around the place. How’s a hundred a month sound?

I pushed the bowl aside and leaned back, suppressing a sigh. Sounds good. I’ll move on as soon as I find somewhere. If you don’t mind, I’m feeling a bit tired. I’ll head up to bed now.

The room was small, the bed a single, and the mattress on the lumpy side of life. The desk, a rolltop that had lost its roll, was matched to a wooden chair which didn’t strike me as all that sturdy. A calendar from twenty years ago decorated one wall, and a mounted copy of a yellowed newspaper photo of a wooded headland held sway on the other.

The threadbare throw rug on the wide floorboards looked to have been tossed around far beyond its expected natural lifespan. Faded curtains with a faint pattern of fish and rowboats covered the open window. I drew the curtains aside and peered out. At least there was a screen.

Aside from the lonely streetlight across the way, and the faint glow from a neighboring house, darkness seemed to be in control. There was no traffic on the road, just the gentle whisper of lapping waves, chirping insects, and the rustle of the nearby bushes. In the distance a dog barked, followed by a faint howl, then the dog’s silence.

The trees behind the house were a solid black barrier rising against the night sky. The sliver of yellow moon provided just enough to outline the rocky shore. There was the scent of salt and fish on the night air.

Well, James, so you have arrived here. Now what? My breath cast a soft mist over the pane, blurring the view.

Just because that overbearing asshole Flaske had come from this lonely hamlet at the edge of the world was no reason to believe the experience would do anything for me. He never had. The bastard ruined my life. Took everything important from me.

My fists clenched, nails digging into my palms. I should have…too late now. Maybe the sea air would clear my head and make me forget. Except everywhere I looked around this dead end of the road I’d be reminded of him.

Flopping back on the bed, I gazed at the ceiling. Lousy mattress. Should have closed the window. At any rate it was a place to hide. I’d likely lay awake all night, plagued by spiteful thoughts. Wrong again.

Chapter Two

Are you going to sleep all day?

I forced my weary eyelids apart and took a long minute to fire up my brain and start the blood flowing. This wasn’t all a nightmare. I was still here in Paradise Cove. Daydreams fade so quickly in the morning. Did I really imagine myself strangling Professor Flaske?

The curtains fluttered, spewing breaths of chill, fresh air. The light leaking in was somber and gray.

Breakfast is getting cold. The words drifted through the gap beneath my closed door.

Coming. Give me a couple of minutes. Or a wasted lifetime?

I searched to find where I’d flung my clothes and dressed. Ten minutes later I was downstairs sitting at the table.

Sadie set in front of me a platter of sturdy, fried pork strips and heaping chunks of leftover potatoes along with a large steaming mug of thick black coffee. Now that you’re almost awake, have any plans for the day?

Thought I’d take a day off from writing to explore Paradise. Get to know the place.

"Before you go sightseeing, fill the wood box in the living room. It’s beside the little stove. You’ll find the cut wood stacked outside by the drive. No need to chop any more, yet. And don’t expect to ever really get to know Paradise."

Finished eating, I returned to my room, took out the laptop, and placed it on the desk. I’ll get back to you later. It wasn’t raining and there were faint hints of blue out there. My light jacket would do.

She met me in the kitchen, waving a long wooden spoon for emphasis. Stick to the road and you’ll be safe enough, no wandering off into the trees. And no hiking way out to the north headland.

What’s in the forest? I suppose it’s crawling with Sasquatch?

No smarty, but there are bears, cats, and wolves. And other things. You might get lost. Haven’t seen a Big Toe around here, in oh, maybe five years or more. And the headland is too far on foot. Looks closer than it is. Best left alone.

Anymore more instructions? Did I look like a child? I was a man out in the real world, not one of her fantasies.

Yes. If you’re not coming back here for lunch at noon, the general store is the place to get something to eat.

Where is this store?

Can’t miss it, Jimmy. There’s only one road in the Cove. Store’s close by the wharf. Just across the road. Don’t forget to bring in the wood before you go.

Yes, Mother, I said on my way outside.

~ * ~

The breeze off the water was cold but the sun breaking through the gray cast was warm. I strode past several modest houses partially hidden from the road, their small rear fields and gardens backed up against the dark green forest wall.

Most of the homes were wood or stone, with ramshackle attached outbuildings wanting paint. About half the front yards were neat, with trees and swings and the occasional flower; the others overgrown and in need of serious mowing. No candidates for Homes and Gardens here. Any new paint I did see was far too bright, and probably leftover from decorating something else, like a boat.

The air tasted fresh, quite unlike the monoxide-filled stuff from back home. I still hadn’t figured out how Sadie knew my name but decided I wasn’t going to let some minor mystery spoil the walk. Ignore superstition, the explanation will be something rational: a direct quote from my thesis. The other mental resolution I made was refusing to even think about that sniveling little bastard, Professor Edward Flaske, may he rot in hell.

On the way down the hill toward the wharf I had the distinct feeling of being watched. Landside, crows sat silhouetted in silence along the peaks of several roofs. Sometimes only three or four birds, on other houses, the gallery took up the entire roofline. Most of the black devils seemed to be watching me.

On the water side, any structures such as sheds and the like, provided seating for a platoon of white gulls. Some gazed over the water, others gauged my progress. They were noisier than the crows, who tended to mutter at the most just under their breath.

There is even segregation in paradise, I said. The birds failed to bother with a reply. Or maybe they were two different gangs of ruffians strutting their colors.

The wharf, a pair of long concrete arms topped with huge boulders, stretched into the cove. Wooden pilings lined the interior. Within their embrace bobbed a quartet of fishing boats, complete with cabins, masts, and gear. A few open rowboats completed the on-water marine display.

A row of bright multicolored sheds stood between the wharf and the road. The largest building rested beyond the rocky hill just past the wharf. These included a house, square and yellow with a covered columned porch embracing the three sides I could see, and there was even a tiny walkway at the peak of the roof.

Two men perched on a low wall facing the water. Beside one sprawled a familiar black and white dog. Plato opened one eye as I approached. The tip of his tail twitched.

Mind if I join you gentleman?

Hear that, Sea Bass. You is now a gentleman. Better take a bath tonight.

He included you. My driver from the night before waved me to a seat on the concrete. Jimmy, this is Charles Woods. He answers to Charlie. Claims he knows everything.

Everything worth knowing.

We sat in silence for a few minutes. The seagulls grew bored and most rose and swirled away across the bay. I imagined I could feel my own heartbeat slowing to match the pace in Paradise Cove. "I’m supposed to go to the country store for lunch. Can you tell me where to find