Chapter Two: Lights
(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.) James woke, groggy, head throbbing rhythmically. He kept his eyes closed and groaned. He didn’t dare touch whatever bruise had formed on his skull for fear of the pain. A whistling sound, like a train in a deep cavern, played brightly in the back of his ears. Radio reception, he thought. Someone had told him once that the high pitch sounds in his ears were unfiltered radio frequencies. He never believed it—after all, it was pure nonsense—but for some reason it had stuck. Finally he worked up the nerve to open his eyes. He took it slow, half-expecting there to be bright light shining through the window. But the room was utterly dark, empty. Without any source of light the bedroom on the second floor of Hansor Manor was as dark as during a solar eclipse. Thick mats of clouds hid the moon and rid the landscape of any shadows. In a way James was glad for the darkness. It meant his head wouldn’t hurt, at least not any more than it already did. At a snails’ pace, James lifted himself up and gently felt the back of his head. He let out a groan as his fingers touched the small bulge there. Then the entirety of all that had happened hit him hard. He took a few groggy steps forward and blindly knelt and ran his hands where the burnt circle had been. The charred wood crumbled like dried bread beneath his fingers. His movement released a fresh scent of burning wood. “Laura,” he said. His voice quivered. There was no answer, just the call of wind rushing against the side of the Manor and the faint roar of thunder in the distance. He hadn’t expected an answer, but had hoped for it. James held back the urge to panic. Now, more than ever, he had to resist temptation. He had to be more like Laura. It had never occurred to him that there would ever come a time when he could not rely on Laura’s unending adventurous personality. He wanted to scream out her name and the urge to cry welled up. His legs twitched as if they could bolt at any moment. He resisted. Every instinct he had he resisted. Silently his hand brushed along the smooth fabric of the satin bag. He ripped his hand back momentarily as if just touching it would set off whatever had happened to Laura. For a moment he stood still, and then he slowly lifted the bag to his face. His eyes were adjusting to the darkness and he could begin to make out the outline of the shield knot. He took hold of the drawstring, pulled it tight, tied a thick knot, and then leaned back slightly relieved. What am I going to do with this thing? What about Laura? The thought brought a bad taste to his mouth. She had disappeared right before his eyes and somewhere, someplace, she still lived. The flames hadn’t killed her. He was sure of that. He shivered. Then something twitched against the side of the satin bag. It wasn’t the wind or the bag itself, but something inside. The bag moved again and he nearly dropped it out of shock. Then the bag burst into continuous motion, thumping like a sporadic heartbeat. He dropped it. The bag thumped on the wood floor and sagged over creating a bulbous mass of fabric, squiggling as if it was filled with little worms. A thundering clap rang in every direction and he looked up. Items all over the room began to wiggle like the bag, but he quickly noticed that only the things adorned with a Celtic symbol were in motion. The dresser, bed, and chairs remained motionless. He stood straight. With his eyes adjusted to the darkness he could make out the shapes rustling about. To his surprise, as if nothing else could possibly make the situation any more frightening, an inhuman cry burst from the bag, jolting his gaze back to the floor. The noise resembled the sound of an eagle, bear, and the airy hiss of a snake melded together. The unnatural noise ripped through the air loud enough so that he had to clasp both hands over his ears. As he did so, the shield knot on the satin bag slowly lit up as little orange embers followed the pattern until every inch glowed red. Then symbols across the entire room burst alight until it seemed like daylight—bright and overwhelming. James backed away, weary and slightly afraid. Again his panic reflex called, but he ignored it. He eyed the window nonetheless. He saw his reflection in the window and realized that the cloth wrapped tightly over his wound glowed bright red as well. Backing away farther until he touched the wall with his back, he pulled one of his hands from his ear and began to tug at the knot. It wouldn’t come loose; Laura had tied it tight. Tugging harder and harder he kept his gaze partly on his arm and partly on the room. The terrible noise changed pitch. Suddenly several glowing items hopped into the air from various parts of the room, flew across and circled the satin bag. The knot he had tied burst open and a bright white light shot up through the center of the room producing a swift wind that circled like a vortex. James tried to move farther away but kept running into the wall. He looked around for a door; the bag, whirling items, and circle of wind blocked access to the window. The door sat along the wall he clung to at the far end of the room. He
Chapter One: Hansor Manor
(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 school—raggedy, covered in snow, and falling apart at the seams—a 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 body—tall 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. “I think there’s something wrong with those windows,” came a familiar voice, interrupting him. He turned, faced Laura, and smiled. “I always feel like the builders left something out. Left it unfinished or something.” He nodded. “So what was this you wanted to show me?” 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. “Overheard Gil talking about some neat stuff he found in there,” she indicated the manor, “Figure we could take a look.” “That’s breaking and entering.” “Only if you get caught. Besides, we’ll only be a minute.” 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 opposites—Laura 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 didn’t care about the place. He also couldn’t 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. “Careful of the edges,” 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 couldn’t find it, and farther still. His grip didn’t 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. “Ow!” he said. A small trickle of blood fell from the fresh cut on his arm. Laura leaned in close. “That must’ve hurt.” “Let’s go home. I need a bandage for this.” He pulled himself to his feet, winced. Taking another glance at the wound he said, “I might need stitches for this…” Laura frowned. “Oh alright. Can we at least look around for a second?” She turned away from him, grabbed something from a nearby table. “Here.” 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. “Just