by Lisa Morgan
Phoenix Rising
Maggie Henning & The Realm: Book One
Lisa C. Morgan
Phoenix Rising
Copyright © 2016 by Lisa C. Morgan
Edited by Melissa Ringsted
Phoenix Rising cover art by Brandy Martin http://www.brandrificus.deviantart.com and based on photo by Osipova Anastasia
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.
Phoenix Rising is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
If you’re reading this, thank a teacher.
Specifically, Mr. James Knodel, 8th grade English teacher at
Cooperstown Central School, who told me to “always carry a pen &
paper— you have stories to tell.” (See … I did listen!)
No matter what was going on in his own life, Mr. Knodel would take time out to talk to his students and encourage them to do their best.
There are not enough adequate words in the world to say thank you to him.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks go out to my friends, who endured listening to me rant and rave about this story and smiling while I did it. Especially Caroline T., Lisa P., Heather R., Mandie, Hope F., Patty B., Laurie F., Heidi L., and Brenda P. (And all those who were forced to endure many Facebook posts about it!).
Hugs to the “Wiki Women” for the encouragement; especially Jessica Spinks, Shi Dabney, “Glam”, Amy Tirelli, and Kristen Platts.
A huge thank you to my beta readers—Melissa C., Sara R., Leslie L., Chris G., Lyndsey G., and David S. They willingly read and gave feedback. Thank you so much for your support. Special love to Kym, Jeff, Willow, and Jenn for all of their love and support.
Much love to all the folks at Pizza Shack, who kept my family fed when I was stuck in Celine.
Many hugs and love to my parents, Flip & Connie, who never gave up on me, even when it would have been in their best interests to do so. I miss you, Mom.
To “Nemo & Bub”—miss you every day. Thanks for the sunshine!
To my own “Trust”—Sam, Keith, Claudia & Haley— my world spins because of you. Even when you complain, I love you!
My sincerest thanks go out to Brandy Martin for the cover design. “Skillz” is an understatement!
And a very special thank you to Brian—my best friend, sounding board, occasional maid/chef/babysitter, and husband. I couldn’t have done this without you. I love you—forever & always.
An update…
For the re-release, I wanted to do something special, a way to enhance the reading experience of Phoenix Rising. There are revisions to make the story read better, but I wanted to help get you, the reader, really invested in this first chapter of Maggie’s story.
This is the result; what I jokingly refer to as the “Sing-along” version. I’ve listed one of the songs that helped inspire each particular chapter. These are not necessarily the names of the chapter, just the inspiration. If you are so inclined, please consider purchasing the songs you do not currently own and creating a playlist to listen to as you read.
The complete list of the tracks is listed below in chapter order. Thank you for trying it out, and let me know what you think of the experience!
Chapter 1: “Howlin’ For You” by The Black Keys
Chapter 2: “Addict Me” by The Local NYC
Chapter 3: “Supermassive Black Hole” by MUSE
Chapter 4: “The Difference Between Us” by The Dead
Weather
Chapter 5: “Let Me Sign” by Rob Pattinson
Chapter 6: “Sweet Dreams” by Marilyn Manson
Chapter 7: “Crystallize” by Lindsey Stirling
Chapter 8: “Somebody Someone” by Korn
Chapter 9: “I Can’t Let You In” by Hannah Fury
Chapter 10: “Original of the Species” by U2
Chapter 11: “How Strange” by Emilie Autumn
Chapter 12: “Just Tonight” by The Pretty Reckless
Chapter 13: “Wake” by Linkin Park
Chapter 14: “So Far Away” by Avenged Sevenfold
Chapter 15: “From Yesterday” by 30 Seconds to Mars
Chapter 16: “Arms” by Christina Perri
Chapter 17: “What You Give” by Tesla
Chapter 18: “No Leaf Clover” by Metallica
Chapter 19: “Space Bound” by Eminem
Chapter 20: “Do You Believe in Angels” by The Last Dance
7
Chapter 21: “Faster Babe” by 2AM Club
Chapter 22: “My Best Theory” by Jimmy Eat World
Chapter 23: “Cold (But I’m Still Here)” by Evans Blue
Chapter 24: “Nine Crimes” by Damien Rice
Chapter 25: “Fallin” by JMSN
Chapter 26: “Mad World” by Adam Lambert
Chapter 27: “Indestructible (acoustic)” by Robyn
Chapter 28: “Immortal” by The Cruxshadows
Chapter 29: “Space & Time” by The Pierces
Chapter 30: “I Just Wanna Run” by The Downtown Fiction
Chapter 31: “Giving In” by Adema
Chapter 32: “Zombie” by The Cranberries
Chapter 33: “Absent Without Leave” by Sirenia
Chapter 34: “Ain’t No Grave” by Johnny Cash
Chapter 35: “In The Air Tonight” by Nonpoint
Chapter 36: “Hear Me Now” by Hollywood Undead
Chapter 37: “Did My Time” by Korn
Chapter 38: “Leave A Scar (Alt. Version)” by Marilyn Manson
Chapter 39: “We Stay Behind” by Rasputina
Chapter 40: “Everywhere I Go” by Lissie
Chapter 41: “Sally’s Song” by Amy Lee
Chapter 42: “Alone and Forsaken” by Dave Mathews & Neil
Young
Chapter 43: “Tears In Heaven” by Eric Clapton
Chapter 44: “Better Run” by Army of Me
Chapter 45: “Written in the Stars” by Tinie Tempah
Chapter 46: “Together Again” by Evanescense
A Warning
I’d never really given any thought to how much people take for granted. The everyday occurrences that happen in our lives, like peanut butter toast for breakfast, or knowing that MTV won’t really be playing music.
We wake up, get dressed, and make our way into the world, not bothering to think twice about it. We approach the coffee house drive-thru window to buy our overpriced cup of Joe, and then continue on about our merry way in the same fog we’ve been in since our eyes cracked open.
Never knowing or realizing what’s actually around us.
Yeah, we’ve felt our hair rise on the back of our necks, or had that I-know-someone-is-watching-me sensation, but we ignore the little buzz in the recesses of our minds that tries to warn us.
You know the one I mean? That little self-panic alert we all have but brush away because we don’t want Jim or Jane Smith to think we’ve lost our minds?
Come on, really?
Like something is out to get us, right?
Right?
One
The 6:30 alarm blaring out and ordering me to begin my day startles me less now. Back in early September, when the school year had first begun, I’d bounced out of bed at the sound, ready to start what had the potential of being a bright new day.
Now? I’m a little less bounce and a whole lot of crawl.
Don’t get me wrong, I
simply love school. What sixteen year old isn’t thrilled to rise before the sun to begin a day in pursuit of higher education? Of course there are some who frown upon the waking.
The guys on the football team, the girls who demand another thirty minutes of beauty rest, the Goth kids who need a few more hours to get the shade of black on their clothes just right.
Basically, all the kids who are breathing. Myself included.
I groaned as I made my way from my bedroom, greeted by the blinding lights in the hallway and the aroma of Mom’s scrambled eggs she’d gotten up early to make just for me. I knew she heard my feet padding toward the bathroom, but she’s learned not to acknowledge me until I’ve showered and made an attempt to tame my unruly mane of red curls.
After shuffling my way across the well-worn fraying carpet and shutting the door, I cranked on the hot water as high as I could stand it. The closet with a toilet we called the “upstairs bath” filled with steam as I pulled a towel from the cabinet and stepped out of my pajamas. The idea of a shower to help clear the cobwebs from my mind was one my body relished like Aunt Jemima at an all you can eat pancake buffet. I stepped into the spray and sighed, closing my eyes and praying the world came to an end right here, right now, just so I could avoid leaving the shower.
After my lather, rinse, and repeat routine, and waiting until I was thoroughly pruned, I realized that Armageddon was apparently postponed for today. Reluctantly, I turned off the water and stepped out, wrapping the towel around me as I moved. I dried, dressed, and made my way downstairs to the kitchen, only to find my over-excited mother.
“Morning, pumpkin!” she called to me, her luminescent smile inhumanly wide as she held a rubber spatula in her grip. It never ceased to amaze me how gleeful my mother was this early in the morning.
“Yup,” I responded begrudgingly, taking the plate of eggs she now offered and sitting at the kitchen island.
Mom poured herself what must have been her tenth cup of coffee and leaned against the counter. There really was no way any human could have the energy she possessed this early without a steady influx of caffeine, and I wondered to myself if she had a secret IV line somewhere that kept her java levels up.
“It isn’t that early,” Mom offered. She was smiling as she looked at me, using her eyes to silently persuade me to put the first fork full of eggs in my mouth.
I rolled my eyes and took the bite, reminding myself not to act like it was delicious, lest I lose my petulant teenager angst expression. I took a sip of the orange juice she’d poured for me before speaking. “Yes, it really is that early. How is it you always seem to be inside my thoughts? Is this some sort of Mom skill that takes effect after birthing your first offspring?”
Mom chuckled as she walked over to me, leaving her palm on the island. “Nope, no super powers here, Maggie. I was a teenager once, too, you know.”
“Yeah, in like the 1800s, Mom. If memory serves, coffee was a hot commodity back then.” I smirked, taking her mug and sniffing the rich Colombian aroma.
“You’re such a funny girl, Magpie.” She gave my forehead a quick peck and then grabbed her purse, heading toward the door. “And on that note, I have a 9:00 meeting with the folks looking at the Hempstead place. I should be home by 4:00. I was thinking we could take a drive out to Sunnybrook?”
My mood went from lighthearted to dismal instantly. “Do I have a choice?” I muttered under my breath, picking at my breakfast and avoiding eye contact.
“He knows when we’re there, Maggie. Could you at least pretend to be happy to see him?” Mom didn’t waste time waiting for my response. She knew it would be the same reply she’d heard for the last ten years when informing me we’re going to Sunnybrook.
“Love you, Magpie.” I heard the smile in her voice as she called out to me. The front door shut, confirming she was now out of earshot.
I dropped my fork on the counter and shoved away the eggs she’d plated for me. Even the juice had gone sour.
Sunnybrook. What a misleading name for a psychiatric hospital. I hear Sunnybrook and try to envision a babbling stream, a picnic lunch, and little white flowers in the grass around me.
Well, there’s babbling at least.
Maybe I’m too rough. Maybe I’m selfish, I admonished myself.
Sunnybrook Psychiatric Hospital had been my father’s home since his sentencing; since I was six years old.
John Henning had once been a pillar of the community—head of the local Elks club, PTA President at Foreston Central School, and a founding member of the law firm Henning and Rolsten with his best friend, John. That had all come to a screeching halt one cool, October evening a decade ago.
I don’t remember it happening. I only knew what I’d heard. The names I’d been called. Passing by the burned foundation of the First Church of Our Lady every day on my way to school …
The story, so I’d been told, was that my father had rushed inside the church during some sort of gathering, screaming like a lunatic. He threw Molotov cocktails against the walls and burned the sanctuary to the ground, killing eight people inside.
John Henning, my father. The Murderer. There’s a label you want to carry with you through school.
I sometimes thought I was lucky I didn’t remember the events that led to his imprisonment. My recollections were of being little and swinging at the park with my father, seeing his smiling face as he chased me about until my legs would give out and I’d fall, a fit of laughter replacing my squeals. We’d spend hours there, giggling and running, until my mother would show up with her hands on her hips to scold us for not being home in time for dinner. Dad would pick her up, swing her around, and offer a peck on the cheek as his way of apologizing.
All of that was nothing more than a memory now, replaced with heavy sedation and tormenting comments from classmates whose parents had relayed to them the tale of the night John Henning had gone mad. My father’s name had supplanted the Boogeyman and closet monsters, more frightening because the tale was true.
I’d tried to talk to my mother about what had happened that night several times, but each attempt met with the same result—a complete shutdown. She’d put her hands in the air, shake her head back and forth in denial, and tell me my father had “issues” that I should just try to accept.
Easy for her to say, I supposed. She didn’t have to go to school here every day. She didn’t have to walk the halls and listen to the murmurs of the passersby or see the kids whispering. She didn’t have to open her locker and find construction paper cutouts of tombstones, or find warning posters scattered around the hallways, alerting classmates that I could “snap at any moment”.
I’d begged her all through middle school to let us move, but she’d dismissed my pleas. She’d justified it by explaining we were closer to my father for visiting purposes. At the age of thirteen, I’d refused to visit him at all and threatened to call child protective services.
“For what?” my mother had asked. “Because I’m making you visit your father?”
It wasn’t fair.
It still isn’t fair.
My cell phone began to ring, shaking me out of my thoughts and forcing me back into the moment. “Hey there, Maggie!” It was Stephanie Rolston, my father’s former partner’s daughter, and my only friend.
“Steph,” I spoke as my way of hello, not trying to shield my gloom from my BFF. “Tell me something good?”
“Well,” she pondered for a few seconds, and I could picture her twirling her blonde hair in between her fingers. “I’m still hot!”
“Fabulous,” I murmured, not replicating her enthusiastic tone.
“Visiting day?” my friend queried. Stephanie could always tell by my tone of voice when it was time to make the trip and visit dear old dad.
“When my mom gets home tonight. I tried to get out of it, but it isn’t happening. I don’t understand why I have to go watch him drool. He doesn’t even know we’re there for Christ’s sake!”
Stephanie knew
my moods well enough to realize I was on edge. “I know how to help. Are you dressed? Good. Be there in fifteen minutes.” She hung up, not waiting for my reply. She had a joy in her voice that I couldn’t echo. Steph’s glee could mean only one thing … retail therapy.
I glanced at the clock and estimated how long it would take me to slap on a little gloss and liner. I decided if I hurried, I could be semi-presentable by the time Steph arrived.
I had a small pang of guilt for ditching school, but I scrubbed it away. How many times did I need to hear the kids at school and their nasty names for me? I wondered if there was a new credit requirement that said students can’t graduate until they can prove they’d made me cry.
After putting my plate in the sink, I opened the cookie jar shaped like an obese chef where Mom hid spare cash and pulled out a wad of bills, counting out twenty bucks. Remembering how pissed I was about having to go visit, I grabbed another twenty and blew a raspberry at the jar.
To hell with school and with my mother.
I chose to forgo the trip back upstairs, instead using the foyer mirror to apply the little bit of make-up I was planning to wear. I rummaged through my purse for the right shade of gloss, but in my rush, knocked a pile of unopened bills and magazines to the floor. I muttered a curse as I bent to pick up the mess.
As I stacked the items back on the table in some sort of order, I noticed an envelope addressed to me. The return address read Sunnybrook Psychiatric Hospital, but instead of the self-stick, computer printout address label I’d seen time and again, my home address was handwritten in cursive.
I set the letter aside, not wanting to be at all interested in its contents, but in spite of what my desire was, I couldn’t take my eyes off of it.
Why had Mom hidden it under a pile of mail?
It didn’t matter, I tried to reason with myself. I don’t even want to visit, what do I care about a letter from the asylum?
I continued to try to ignore it while I smoothed the pink gloss over my lips, but my gaze kept drifting to it like a moth to a flame. Knowing it was from the hospital didn’t seem to be working as a deterrent.
Unable to stand it any longer, I picked up the envelope, ripping at the glued edges, and pulled out a single scrap of paper. It seemed to be fairly expensive stationary, not what I assumed Sunnybrook would give their patients, and was folded three times. I hesitated before taking a deep breath and mustered the courage to open it.
