by Joanne Pence
Ancient Illusions
Joanne Pence
Quail Hill Publishing
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Author’s Note
Plus …
About the Author
Chapter 1
Nightmare, the most awful form of dream … You feel afraid without knowing why. Then you have the impression that something is acting upon you … you wish to escape, to get away from the influence that is making you afraid. Then you find it not easy to escape…
—Lafcadio Hearn
* * *
Cape Cod, Massachusetts
* * *
Michael Rempart parked his rental car along the road on the ocean side of Cape Cod. The sky over the Atlantic was dark with clouds as a storm rolled in.
From this location he could see Wintersgate on a bleak rise near the water’s edge. A few stands of firs stood nearby, their limbs bent and stretching away from the ocean. The massive house was gray and forbidding with a high stone turret on one corner, as if the long-ago builder couldn’t decide between a grand manor or a castle, and ended up with a structure that was neither. Instead, it was monstrous and unsettling.
Sixteen years had passed since Michael last walked the floors of his family home. Sixteen years, during which he gained renown as an archaeologist, and traveled over much of the world, but had never ventured back to Cape Cod. “You aren’t welcome here,” were his father’s last words to him. There was nothing welcoming here; the place itself was threatening.
Now, he stood with shoulders hunched against the biting wind. Forty-two years old, he was tall, with a rangy build and a tan from time spent working remote dig sites. Solitary, with few friends, his coworkers felt he actively discouraged camaraderie. Even on digs where people often grew close, they stayed away as if an unseen barrier lay between them.
He had been that way most of his life, and he attributed it to his upbringing behind the morose walls of Wintersgate. That was why this sudden compulsion to return there made no sense to him. He had no idea why he would want to face the father he had spent his earliest years fearing, and his later years loathing. But he did. He struggled to ignore the feeling. And then his nightmares began.
In every one, he was back at Wintersgate facing his father, his all too present personal demons, and trying to find answers to the questions that had haunted him throughout his life.
In the end, he gave in. And now he was here.
The wind grew fierce as he got into the rental. He ran his hands through wavy, jet-black hair. No sense putting off the inevitable, he told himself. Still, as he started the car for the drive to Wintersgate, he felt a tightness in his chest and a quickening of his pulse over what he was about to face.
William Claude Rempart was at work, as usual, in his laboratory on the second floor of Wintersgate. Shelves with flasks and bottles of minerals, chemicals, reference books, and botched experiments, each carefully labeled, covered the room.
He moved slowly. His hands quivered with age as he gathered the chemicals he needed and placed them on one side of the lab table. Last of all, he picked up a philosopher’s stone, the prime agent of alchemy, and rubbed the stone with his thumb, feeling its warmth, its power. Those ignorant fools who knew nothing about alchemy would think he was caressing a chunk of reddish pink rock. Poor sots, he thought. In his hand, he held the key to life.
William Claude was an alchemist, a position past ages called a sorcerer or a wizard. He knew to be an alchemist meant doing more than mixing chemicals together. Any idiot could do that. It required the ability to imbue one’s creation with a life-force, an ability few people possessed. He believed it was a powerful family trait transmitted from one generation to the next.
Not that William Claude cared one whit about family. He cared about himself, and the aging wearing down his body. He looked at the sunken flesh of his hands, the sagging skin and brown age marks. His face’s wrinkled skin felt soft and thin, while his shoulders had become stooped. Each day he found it increasingly difficult to stand as straight and tall as he once had. He was eighty-eight years old, which made it imperative he learn to perfect the alchemy he had worked on all his life.
Most people thought the goal of alchemy was to create gold. They were wrong.
Alchemists not only wanted to create gold, the perfect metal that would not rot, but to develop the perfect man, one that would not age. In other words, one who would be immortal.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of rain hitting the windows as a streak of lightning flashed across the sky. Thunder soon followed.
He placed the philosopher’s stone on a solid gold plate on the worktable. He had already prepared beakers of chemicals, and they were in varying stages of development. He picked up the latest vial he had been working on when a stabbing headache struck. He gripped the edge of the table with one hand, his eyes squeezed shut until the pain began to recede. But then another bolt hit like a knife slashing into his temple, and he fell to his knees.
He dropped the vial and a pool of blue liquid puddled before him. In it, he saw his son, Michael. His only living child. He gasped for breath against the pain.
“Michael,” he whispered, touching the liquid with his fingertips. He pulled himself to his feet and tried to reach Michael’s thoughts with his mind. As always, he failed. But strangely, although he couldn’t penetrate Michael’s mind, William Claude knew his son was near.
“Finally, it must be working.” He was so pleased he almost smiled.
William Claude’s mind raced as he unlocked the cabinet door and removed a gold-filled elixir. He poured out a tablespoon of potion and drank it. Then he sat as it slowly warmed, enriched, and rejuvenated him. He had waited sixteen years for Michael to come home.
Now, he could put his plan in place.
Chapter 2
Oxford, England
Thunder shook the bedroom window.
Ceinwen Davies opened her eyes as lightning flashed, illuminating the dormitory room with its two beds, two bureaus, two desks, and one tiny closet. The room was yellow, with a sheer white c
urtain covering the lone window. Beyond that, everything was tasteless and utilitarian.
Her roommate, Rachel Gooding, tossed more vigorously with each peal of thunder. It wouldn’t be long now, Ceinwen thought.
“No!” Rachel awoke and sat bolt upright in her bed.
Ceinwen let out the breath she’d been holding. Right on time. “Are you okay, Rachel?” She asked as she switched on a bedside lamp.
Rachel had clamped both hands over her mouth as if she hoped to belatedly silence her cries. Her eyes were wide, frightened. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, lowering her hands. “It was a nightmare. Another stupid nightmare.”
“It’s okay. Everything will be all right. The storm will abate soon. It may have already.”
Rachel drank some water, then lay back in the bed. “I hope so.” Her voice was tiny. She rolled over to face the wall, but Ceinwen knew it would be at least an hour before the girl settled down enough to go back to sleep.
Ceinwen looked around the spartan space before shutting the light and lying down again, wondering for the umpteenth time what she should do, if anything, about this situation.
She was from Wales, something she never grew tired of pointing out to people who tried to pronounce her name “Sign-win” or some other such oddity. “Kane-when” was as close as most people could get to the Welsh pronunciation. Tall and attractive, with lush dark auburn hair and large eyes the color of jade, she had grown up in Cardiff where her father owned a pub, and her two older brothers were trying to make a living by running one of the few remaining textile mills in Wales. They nearly went bankrupt a few years back, but an uptick in the economy that brought a public willing to spend big bucks on quality, handmade Welsh woolens saved them. Ceinwen had no idea why her brothers found such a life fulfilling.
She didn’t. After attending the University of Cardiff, one of the top schools for journalism in the UK, she left home with her degree and never returned except for holidays, funerals, and weddings. That was eleven years ago.
Her dream was to see the world. She first went to Copenhagen where she found a job with the UK’s Daily Mail. To her surprise, her editor discovered she had an extraordinary ability to ferret out unexplained, potentially paranormal happenings. As a result, he sent her to cover stories about the supernatural throughout Europe. She could often provide her readers with plausible explanations to debunk claims being made. The most common explanation had to do with an overabundance of liquor, and once, with a secret test being conducted by a government entity.
She soon began scouting the globe for other strange phenomena. One of the most interesting, unfortunately too far from her territory for the newspaper to send her to investigate, was a bizarre occurrence that took place in the United States – hardly an area known for paranormal happenings.
Two years earlier, eight students and teachers from Boise State University in Idaho, led by a well-respected visiting professor of anthropology named Dr. Lionel Rempart, traveled to the interior of the state and disappeared. While conducting a massive search, an elite search party also vanished. Not until several months later did the few survivors, three members of the university group and three of the searchers, make their way back to civilization.
That so many individuals could vanish caused rampant speculation among paranormal experts. Their curiosity worsened when none of the survivors would talk about what had happened while they were missing.
Ceinwen wanted to know their story and periodically checked to see if any new information was available. She even set up news alerts on her phone. She knew that the sheriff who led the search had returned to his job, but the others had dropped from the public’s radar.
Then, while at her desk in Copenhagen some eight months ago, an alert sounded directing Ceinwen to a small article in an Idaho newspaper mentioning that Rachel Gooding, one of the survivors, had been awarded a full scholarship to Oxford University’s graduate program in archeology … or archaeology, as the British spelled it.
Ceinwen could hardly believe her luck. One of the people she most wanted to speak to would be in her own backyard.
She requested permission to audit some of Oxford’s archeology classes. When the request was denied, she pulled every string she could think of, and was finally given approval to sit in on some lectures. The newspaper granted her request for a year’s leave of absence to conduct and develop this undercover research. As an unrepentant workaholic, she had managed to save up enough money over the years to give up a salary for that period.
Once at Oxford, she tracked down Rachel Gooding. The girl was shy and awkward, but frighteningly brilliant. It was no mystery why the school awarded her a full scholarship. Also, it was the first time she’d traveled outside the US. She appreciated Ceinwen’s friendly attention since most of the other students found her somewhat odd.
To Ceinwen, Rachel’s background was almost as fascinating as her lost-in-the-wilderness experience. She had grown up on a farm in Eastern Idaho, near Utah, and was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Ceinwen once saw Book of Mormon in a London theater, but other than that, the religious group was a complete mystery to her.
Rachel willingly talked to Ceinwen about her home and religion, but whenever the topic of her disappearance came up, she said she couldn’t discuss it. Ceinwen explained to Rachel that she had been a journalist whose work mainly involved paranormal phenomena, and because of that she knew of Rachel’s experience in Idaho. Rachel had been amazed that anyone in England would have heard of it. Ceinwen then added a “white lie” to the story. She told Rachel she was tired of being a reporter, and since archeology interested her, she had returned to study it.
Ceinwen soon grew fond of the reserved young woman, and when she learned how little money Rachel had, she offered to room with her to cut expenses. It wasn’t complete altruism, of course. Rooming together gave more chance for Rachel to let something slip about her Idaho experience. Ceinwen was still waiting.
Ironically, Ceinwen believed she, more than Rachel, had been the one most affected by their friendship. Most people Ceinwen had dealt with over her years as a reporter had a devious streak a mile wide. Rachel helped her remember how likable and innocent people could be. She made Ceinwen feel like a cynic and a fraud, and had Ceinwen thinking journalism might not be the right field for her to be in.
But then, about three weeks ago, Rachel began having terrible nightmares. At first, just a few, but now they hit every night. Although Rachel wouldn’t say what she was dreaming about, it was clear to Ceinwen that the dreams were growing increasingly violent. It now had reached the point that Rachel was afraid to go to sleep, and once awakened by a nightmare, often remained awake the rest of the night. Even her professors noticed her exhaustion and increasingly unhealthy pallor.
The last few days, Rachel began taking sleeping pills. They did nothing to stop the nightmares. Ceinwen feared it wouldn’t be long before Rachel increased the dose and started on the path to dependency.
Chapter 3
As Michael approached the main doors of Wintersgate, he looked up at its frieze of winged griffins lurking over the entry and found their expressions to be as malevolent as he remembered.
Stedman, his father’s valet, opened the door. “Master Michael, welcome home.”
Michael shook hands with the man who had worked for the family over thirty years. His hair was thinner now, but he still had a cartoonish undertaker look about him, skinny and dour in an impeccable black suit, white shirt, and black bowtie.
“Good to see you, Stedman.” He realized he had never known the man’s first name. “Is my father home?”
“He is in his laboratory. Come in and make yourself comfortable. I’ll let him know you’re here.” Stedman picked up Michael’s suitcase.
As Michael stepped into the house, his head began to ache. The air felt stale, and he noticed a sour taste in his mouth.
He paused in the foyer. Once, he had believed Wintersgate’s massive entry ha
ll was beautiful with white marble floors, crimson wallpaper, and a white ceiling bordered by gold. But as he looked it over now, he saw that the wallpaper had darkened and turned blotchy with age, the white ceiling had yellowed, and the chandelier no longer sparkled.
To the right was an elegantly curved staircase, and to the left hung a grotesque tapestry of St. George bloodily killing a dragon. The tapestry had given Michael nightmares as a little boy. Near it, double doors led to a large, drafty drawing room.
He crossed the foyer to what his parents called the breakfast room, although they used it for much more than breakfast. Semi-circular, floor-to-ceiling bow windows at the far end provided a magnificent view of the Atlantic. A comfortable sitting area was set up in front of them while the center of the room held the table and chairs where the family ate all but the most formal meals. That is, when there had been a family.
It was the only “downstairs” room that Michael’s mother had decorated, and the only room Michael had ever liked besides his own and his mother’s tower room. The others were too big, dark, stultifying, and intimidating.
