(Note: This is not official version and may be removed in the near future. This do not reflect what is read in the podcast version, nor any other version you may encounter. I have preserved the rough form for posterity — or something like that. This novel has since been rewritten.) The Hansor Grounds were on the far edge of town. There was a schoolâraggedy, covered in snow, and falling apart at the seamsâa rusted playground, and the old Hansor Manor. It was here that James Fortright stood, his eyes tilted upward and his brow curved in concentration. Hansor Manor reached three stories, and unlike other houses in the small town of Woodton it looked like a relic from a time that never existed, at least not for anyone that had ever lived in the town. From the front, Hansor looked like a massive church. A tall stained glass window filled the space above the door, which had been boarded up and covered in condemned signs, while the sides curved up into a giant point. At the top of that point was a twisted weather vane that at one time had been the form of a snake. Now, after many years of abuse, it had contorted into an unrecognizable scrap of metal. Hansor stretched a hundred feet back and everything but the front resembled a giant cigar made of stone. What remained of the gold and white paint barely stuck to the walls. James focused on the stained glass as if he hoped to see something there in the bland, featureless colors. But the glass was blank except for the brilliant red and purple colors. He found it odd that someone had built such a magnificent structure and had left the most eye-catching piece featureless. The sky began to darken as thick gray clouds crawled in. Another snowstorm was coming. James was eleven. He had dark brown hair, hazel eyes, and an otherwise distant nature. His face was long and thin, and it matched his equally thin bodyâtall and gangly. He had one friend. One true friend. A quick wind flung snow and ice-cold air into his face. He shifted his weight, tucked himself farther in his winter jacket, pulled the festive blue and green cap down over his ears and resumed staring. âI think thereâs something wrong with those windows,â came a familiar voice, interrupting him. He turned, faced Laura, and smiled. âI always feel like the builders left something out. Left it unfinished or something.â He nodded. âSo what was this you wanted to show me?â She beamed up at him. He was a good foot taller than her, but she was always able to look him in the eye without standing on her toes. âOverheard Gil talking about some neat stuff he found in there,â she indicated the manor, âFigure we could take a look.â âThatâs breaking and entering.â âOnly if you get caught. Besides, weâll only be a minute.â Laura ran a few steps playfully toward Hansor Manor. James watched her. They had been friends for longer than he could remember, a friendship of oppositesâLaura the adventurous type and James the logical type. Yet, James recalled, it was always adventure that won the argument, never logic. It had always seemed to James like a strange twist of fate that he had befriended someone such as Laura, but he enjoyed her company, even when things went wrong. Quietly, slowly, he followed, one cautious step at a time. Laura hopped left, then right, digging her green boots into the snow. Her short sandy blonde hair was tucked into an emerald green fleece cap with a red and black stripe along the rim. They wound around the side, Laura bouncing about. He eyed the boarded windows and doors, all covered in condemned signs. As far as he could remember, Hansor Manor had always been condemned. Always. James gathered that the owners didnât care about the place. He also couldnât recall who the current owners were. There had been a story in the local paper that said it had been passed down from father to son three times, and a total of four times before that among private parties. After that, the records were blank. Nobody even knew who had built it. Something tickled the back of his neck. He chose to ignore it by habit. Around the back was a broken window. A hill of snow made a perfect slope to the base giving easy access to whatever was inside. The wood that had blocked this window had been shredded and chucked aside. James looked inside and saw footprints. They were fresh, no more than a day old. The mud and snow from the prints had not completely frozen over yet. âCareful of the edges,â Laura said. She grabbed the side of the window and slipped smoothly through the opening. James crept up to the edge. He knelt down and maneuvered himself feet first into the opening. With one grip supporting his weight against the snow and the other on the outside of the window, he reached for solid ground, reaching farther when he couldnât find it, and farther still. His grip didnât hold. The snow gave way and he tumbled through, tearing his jacket on the jagged remnants of glass. He landed with a squishy thud on the wood floor of a bedroom. âOw!â he said. A small trickle of blood fell from the fresh cut on his arm. Laura leaned in close. âThat mustâve hurt.â âLetâs go home. I need a bandage for this.â He pulled himself to his feet, winced. Taking another glance at the wound he said, âI might need stitches for thisâŚâ Laura frowned. âOh alright. Can we at least look around for a second?â She turned away from him, grabbed something from a nearby table. âHere.â She wrapped a blood red cloth over his wound, then tightened it. A jolt of stinging pain ran up his arm. He bit his lip. âJust
