ERIK'S JOURNAL - SEQUEL TO THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS

Good to see you Slitherliggie. Thank you for the kind words. That toast was a bit foreboding.

Here is the next chapter for you reading pleasure. Please R&R. Enjoy!

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CHAPTER 63

Hermes' House - Day

The food seemed endless as Phantom Doone and Raoul le Vicomte de Chagny hungrily devoured the tasty display on the table. Hermes, Winged Messenger of the Gods helped himself to the baked chicken and the variety of fruit and cheeses.

Whether their last or first of many victory meals, they knew they had to eat. During the meal, Hermes kept the conversation light. The most important and complicated discussions he saved for later.






As the men all sat back in their chairs to sip wine the messenger of the gods began a new topic. All that Doone envisioned from the crystal would come true, with one more item to ponder. In order to obtain the Staff of Osiris he, Doone, would have to kill whoever possessed it. He couldn’t just take it from him. Blood had to be spilled. In turn, he couldn’t just put the Spear and Staff away for safekeeping. This victory would make him a god. Declining the tasks before him he could do. Then Erik, in all his maniacal glory would proceed to usurp the power of all the gods, as he did Hathor, including Zeus, Jupiter, Amun Ra or whatever you called the chief god. He would be unstoppable.

“Then you know who currently possesses the Staff of Osiris?” le Vicomte sipped his drink and popped another piece of cheese in his mouth.

Hermes smiled. “Of course. All the gods know.”

“If I became a god, then how would this be any different? Wouldn’t I go mad and become what Erik is now?” Phantom Doone stared at the messenger.

“Not necessarily. We would make you immortal first. For the one you call Erik, it is too late to make him immortal. The power surging through him has become corrupted. It has affected his mind. Whatever good was in him is gone, died, vanished,” Hermes gulped down his wine like water.

“I don’t want to kill Erik. He’s my friend. There has to be another way.” Doone sat down his glass and refused more wine.

“There is but killing him is the easiest and most effective. You can’t be sure that any part of the man you knew still exists. Trying to talk to him is madness in itself. What is the saying? You cannot reason with a crazy man? Yes, that’s it you can’t reason with the insane. Take my advice. Seize the chance to plunge that spear deep into his heart, as you did the Minotaur. If you look him in the eye or indulge in idle chatter he will kill you without hesitation.” With that, Hermes filled his own glass and downed the wine before anyone could say a word.

Neither Phantom Doone nor le Vicomte knew what to say. The future looked grim if they planned on saving the world or the gods. How did such a burden fall upon one mortal man?

Finally, Doone found words and asked, “What is the other way? The not so easy way?”

“Restore what you mortals call humanity. The gods call it love. There is a slim chance that you can find it, but the risk is extremely high. Even if you found it, humanity/love, restoring it could be the death of you both. Mortals are unstable beings. Full of imperfections, doubts and fears. Give me immortality any day,” the messenger gave a cheerful smile like he’d just delivered a victory report. Once again, he downed another glass of wine.

Raoul frowned and his brows knitted together. “How are we supposed to find his humanity/love? I’m confused.”

“There, another flaw of mortals. Confusion,” Hermes pointed out as he poured himself another glass of wine.

Phantom Doone didn’t feel well at hearing this. His stomach churned and the food seemed to do flip-flops.

“Please, Hermes, answer the question,” Doone demanded politely.

“You’d have to restore what he’s lost the same way he lost it. Through the Staff.” By now the hour grew late and Hermes offered them rooms where they could bathe and rest.

The house seemed bigger inside then it looked outside. The rooms seemed roomy, modern and clean. Nothing fancy. It had been a long time since Doone used a shower. He’d almost forgotten how. After his shower, he dressed in the clean nightclothes Hermes had left on the bed. New clothes hung in the closet for him as well. Raoul found the same in his room. Not realizing how tired he was, he fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Alone in the quiet evening, Doone looked over his journal, the old, water worn one. Since he wrote it, nothing would change if he read it while en route to the next task. Yet as he read, he watched the words fade and new ones appeared. Currently, Hamilton and Count Philippe headed his way. This nearly brought a few choice words from him, but he stopped short. Instead, with the burden of the gods on his shoulder Phantom Doone bowed his head and wept.

Looks like everyone is busy. No word from anyone, especially Slitherliggie or syoonchannel.

Here is a short chapter. Please R&R. Enjoy!


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CHAPTER 64


The Temple of Harana-Kaf-Shat



The newest Pharaoh/god called himself Harana-Kaf-Shat aka Erik and recently had a temple erected for mortals and gods of stripped power to worship him. Feelings for his wife waned. After all, whoever ruled at his side must be a goddess, not a weak mortal who sought after other deities.

At the moment wife, Mae, lay upon the altar at the feet of an immense stature in Erik’s likeness. Dried blood smeared across her forehead and face. Dizziness caught up with, so when she tried to get up, she had to lay back down again. The chamber seemed to spin.

The one memory of his former life the new pharaoh seemed to cling to was the one where he tortured various mortals. All of them deserved what they got and Mae would be no exception. Punishing her with objects that caused pain he considered trite and childish. Undoubtedly, he would find other ways to make her scream.

Speaking in a foreign tongue, the new god ordered two female servants to attend his wife’s wounds. Two females dressed in white linen dresses of the Egypt of long since gone, helped the young woman get up from the altar and away from the insane deity.

They led her to a place beneath the temple where she would be heavily guarded and watched, but not exactly imprisoned.

Mae’s head still hurt and spun around like she’d just got off of a dizzy roller coaster. Trying to talk to the women seemed useless. They only appeared to speak and understand a language, which hadn’t been spoken in thousands of years. A certain amount of gesturing reminiscent of charades helped to make her understood to a point, but the real meat of what she wanted to know needed a spoken language.

Sometime after the evening meal, the Pharaoh/god dropped in on his young wife. A bloody head and near fractured skull deemed only a chastisement for not worshipping him. No matter what he said or how he acted, Mae knew that somewhere, the man she fell in love with existed in that cold, insane exterior. Erik couldn’t have just disappeared. In view of this, she tried to appeal to the man she loved, a lovely, compassionate soul who never hurt anyone unless in self-defense.

His voice cut her like a two-edged sword. Wherever Erik was, she couldn’t even get a glimpse of him. The Pharaoh/god before her spoke with arrogance and conceit. In his hand he clutched the coveted Staff of Osiris. It hummed and emanated an eerie glow as if lit up with an electrical charge. The lust for power consumed the lust for her. When he spoke, the mere sound of his voice made her tremble in fear. Part of her feared the next punishment he would give her and the other part shuddered at what he would do to mankind.

“Please, Erik, listen to me. I love you. I will always love you no matter what happens,” the young woman tried to stand and look him in the eye, but her spinning head made her sit down.

Hands grabbed her head so swift and tight she had little time to scream. When the hands released her head, the dizziness left, as did the pain.

“I can heal as well as kill. I am not without mercy,” came the cold, prideful remark.

“Thank you Erik,” she said, barely audible. At this, the new god whipped around, blazing eyes met hers. “On your knees, woman. Give me the reverence and respect deserving of a god.”

“Please, Erik…” hearing the name, Erik, he turned on his heels and backhanded her sending the woman skidding across the room on her backside. Not much strength remained in her weakened body as she tried to get up. Then he pointed the Staff in her direction and brought forth a charge of golden light that hit her like a baseball bat, knocking her to the floor. The light pulsed as it battered the woman like she had grabbed a live wire. Her body jerked and contorted with the massive surge of energy. The moment her hair started smoking, the maniacal deity withdrew the charge and laughed when the woman hit the floor with a gruesome thud. The smell of singed hair and burnt human flesh permeated the air.

For a moment, he laid the Staff aside and grabbed his half dead wife by the throat and reminded her again she should worship no other god but him. One last blow of his hand sent the limp body crashing into another wall, where it slide down to the floor and collapsed into a heap.

As he grabbed up the Staff, he motioned for the two servant women to attend his wife. But when they tried to pick her up, they realized she had no life in her. In their tongue they informed the crazy man that his wife was dead. After hearing this he only laughed and walked away.

Hello My Friends! Hope all of you return to read my new chapters.

Here is a new post. Please R&R. Enjoy!

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CHAPTER 65

Hermes’ House - Day

In the morning, Raoul le Vicomte de Chagny made his way to the banquet table where they had feasted on dinner the night before. A spread of luscious foods lay across the table for their morning meal. Phantom Doone sat around the table with Hermes, messenger of the gods, their host, sipping their drink of choice. Le Vicomte noticed the grave look on Doone’s face, more so than before. What had changed?

With a plate full of cheese and fruit Raoul sat a little ways from Doone only to hear the tail end of a conversation.

“I need to find her at once,” one could hear the urgency in the voice of the current Phantom. Hermes shook his head and sipped his wine.

“If you go to her this will invoke a fight with her husband and he will kill you. You have not yet proven you can overpower him. Possessing the Spear of Destiny is only a small part of the victory. Don’t get cocky and don’t underestimate your opponent. The man you knew and called friend is gone, dead, or whatever. He is not here. Harana-Kaf-Shat has no conscience, no love and no humility. He answers to no one, or so he thinks.” Hermes ticked a look to Raoul and gave a nod. Le Vicomte returned the gesture.

“What does that mean, ‘or so he thinks’?” Phantom Doone popped a couple of grapes in his mouth.

“We, the gods, are governed by laws. Harana-Kaf-Shat thinks differently. He must not go against the laws of nature. Any unbalance would cause the earth to be destroyed. Whether he knows this or not I can’t say, but even if he did he wouldn’t care. Already he has stripped away the power of some of the little known gods and goddess of Olympus. Eos, goddess of the dawn, Clymene daughter of Oceanus and Tethys, the mother of Atlas, who was married to King Merops of Egypt, not to forget Asopus, a river god; all stripped of their godship and reduced to lowly mortals,” Hermes sneered with distaste.

“Hey! Watch it!” Raoul snapped. “You’re in the presence of a couple of lowly mortals.”

“My apologies,” Hermes bowed his head. Then he ticked a look back to Doone. “Return to where you first began your journey. There you will meet your fate. It is written…”

But Doone cut him off. “I don’t do well with written. I must go to her.” At this Hermes stood and in the twinkling of an eye his clothes changed to his ancient tunic, with his winged hat and shoes.

“I can help you no more. I have delivered the message. If you defy the gods and upset the balance of nature, then all is lost. It is better for one person to die then for the entire earth to be destroyed.” Having said all that, he gave a gracious nod to his guests and shimmered away in a flash of white light.

Looking to Phantom Doone, Raoul finished his food and asked, “What was all that about?”

At first no answer came. Doone closed his eyes tight as if to shut out the world around him. Concentration he needed more than another discussion.

Gently, Raoul tapped his shoulder and repeated his question. Without thought the answer came. “I have the ability to heal the sick and raise the dead with this spear, but if I try to bring her back, I will doom the world.” Then he looked at the puzzled Vicomte and coldly informed him, “Erik has killed Mae.” The glass of juice slipped from Raoul’s hand and shattered upon impact to the floor.

WHOA!

A lot has happened while I wasn't paying attention!!!!!!!!

Erik killed MAE????????????????? OML

Hello syoonchannel!

It would appear that Erik killed Mae. All that was detailed in Chapter 64. He electrocuted her. However, you will have to read the new chapters and see what really happened. Is she really dead?

I've been sick or you would have had at least three more chapters than you see here.

Happy to see you. Been busy I assume.

Stay tuned. There is more to come.

Oh. My. Word. I am never studying so hard I don't get the chance to read and comment again! What on earth will fix Erik now, if his love is dead?? It would seem the only other option would be the easier one, though I shudder to consider killing our beloved Erik, I am sure he is still in there somewhere....


I hope you feel better again soon, my friend! And I do apologize deeply for not coming by sooner to read these brilliant chapters.


D

I will try to have more chapters by the weekend. I am feeling better. Please stay tuned. There is more to come.

To my faithful readers syoonchannel and Slitherliggie I thank you for the kind words and faithful reading.

Wishing you both a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.


When you have time, here is another chapter to R&R. Enjoy!

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CHAPTER 66

Crete, Greece Present Day


Just outside the café Triple W Surf stood the reporter and the count. They thought to leave when they spied Raoul, still looking like he stepped out of 19th Century Paris and Doone, his black cloak about his shoulders, reminiscent of either the Phantom of the Opera or Dracula. The sight of the two made the count and reporter duck around the corner of the café and out of sight. It would pay to follow without their knowledge. They would learn more.

As soon as they turned the corner leading down a well-traveled ally, Doone and Raoul seemed to vanish. A little out of breathe, Hamilton and the wile count stopped short at the empty ally. Where could they have gone? They couldn’t have walked that quickly and he and the count weren’t walking that slowly. The two exchanged looks.

“They teleported,” the count decided.

“I doubt it. Walking through dimensions most likely,” replied the reporter sporting that incessant grin. The count’s silence clearly expressed his displeasure.

Hamilton ran his fingers through his tousled, sandy colored hair as he turned to le Comte de Chagny. The old count muttered something in Creole and in a moment a vortex rippled before them. Not trusting his new partner in crime, Hamilton bowed his head and motioned for the count to go first. As Philippe gingerly took a step forward, a motley colored arm covered in a moldy coat sleeve grabbed for one of them. The count gasped and jumped back. Pulling his Steyr GB Hamilton fired several shots into the watery opening. The arm retracted and disappeared.

The reporter glared at the count. “One of your zombie friends?”

“Probably Azacca. He did die and was raised,” came the reply.

With the nose of his gun, Hamilton motioned for Philippe to enter the vortex first. With much hesitation, the old count melted through the watery opening, with the reporter in tow and his gun at the ready.


Paris, France – Present Day

Returning to Paris brought back many memories to both Phantom Doone and Raoul. The men made their way through the crowded streets without a word. All they could think about was Mae. Both had loved her, and now she was dead. Could this be? The slightest breeze made them flinch. It sounded like the soft whisper of a woman. Was Mae’s ghost trying to contact them? The men stopped abruptly and looked around in hopes of seeing from whence the voice came. There it was again. It seemed to say their names. Raoul le Vicomte de Chagny shook his head in disbelief and pulled Doone onward.

As they attempted to pass a rare antiques store, Doone came to a screeching halt at a small figure of Hathor with her cow horns headdress. The whisper came again. Chills ran up his spine and he gave a shudder.

Raoul tried to say something, but for an instant she stood between them, Mae. Le Vicomte let out a startled scream that nearly choked him. At the sound of Doone’s voice, she disappeared and he found himself staring back at his friend.

“Are you all right? Did you hear her?” asked his cloaked friend. Raoul nodded. Then he told him he had seen Mae.

“The voice I just heard was not Mae’s. It was Hathor. Something is more than wrong,” just as the words spilled from his lips he saw what Raoul had seen. Mae clothed in a white linen dress of an ancient Egyptian maiden. Yet the voice was not hers, but Hathor’s.

At first it made no sense. Over and over she repeated the same words, but they didn’t understand. The language sounded like nothing they had ever heard before. If it was Hathor or Mae, why didn’t they speak a language the men knew?

In a moment, the woman stopped speaking and beckoned to them. She then turned and started walking. No one seemed to see her but the men.

The sun shone bright around them. Not a cloud in the sky. The cool breeze swirled around the men and the whisper of a female again caught their ear.

The men followed the apparition to a quaint little shop that sold rare books. Inside, the woman led them to a book of folklore.

Pulling the thick ancient tome from the shelf, Raoul laid it upon a nearby table and opened it to the first page. In seconds he felt as if someone or something pushed him back as the pages began to turn themselves. He ticked a horrified look to Doone who nodded in acknowledgement as he watched invisible hands turn the pages.

In a moment or so the pages stopped moving and remained open to several pages of text about the Ladies in White. One in particular, La Dame d'Apringy. According to the author, this lady in white held much knowledge and many secrets, but for a price she would share.

The text didn’t name the price, but poor Raoul shuddered to think what it might be. Doone found the location of the sprite and how to summon her. Nothing good ever comes from what one must summon, but a female apparition led them to this page and so they must look for La Dame Blanche, The Lady in White.

Oh, wow! This is really turning out to be one of those stories that keeps one guessing on what will happen next all the time!

Very good chapter my friend! I am glad you are feeling better. I hope your Christmas was good, and that your New Year will start off on a very good note!


Please do continue again soon

D

Happy New Year Slitherliggie! So happy to see you. Thank you for your dedication and faithfulness to my story. Thank you for the king words.

Yes, I do feel better, therefore I am posting another chapter for your reading pleasure.

Please R&R. Enjoy!

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CHAPTER 67

Normandy, France--Meeting the Lady in White





Many films and books have talked about the lady in white. The American version generally speaks of a female ghost wearing in a white dress from the turn of the 20th Century or late 1800’s haunting houses and even popular highways. She asks for nothing. She merely haunts. The European story tells of ghostly women lurking on bridges, ravines and fords. Other accounts say the spirits linger near caves and caverns, but always they bid the passerby to join in dance before allowing them to pass, others may ask for assistance in something.

Standing on the shores of Normandy, Phantom Doone stood staring about searching for places the infamous sprite may haunt. The day felt crisp and cool. A light breeze caused his cloak to gently flap about. A mix of emotions filled his very being. Whether one recognized the shores of Normandy as the place where the Germans entered when they invaded France in WWII or the place where spectres abode, the smell of fear and death permeated the air and saturated the sand. The restless ocean waves dashed against rocks and sang the siren’s song to the weary traveler.

From midday to dusk, Phantom Doone and Raoul de Chagny patrolled the shores and poked around caves and caverns. But, not until sundown did any thing manifest.

As soon as the last ray of sun faded a thick cloud of fog appeared in the distance along the horizon. At first, no one noticed, neither the sun worshippers napping on the beach nor the two dimension travelers hunting for ghosts until the deadly mist engulfed several sailboats.

The normal lights around the beach and shops in the distance displayed no lights. Raoul resorted to using a modern day flashlight to assist in making their way along the beach. Being a sailor once, he recognized the familiar feeling of fear and dread one feels when facing the open waters of the unknown. A chill ran up his spine as he jerked his head toward his friend. The look of torture washed across Doone’s face. The fog rolled in rather quickly bringing with it the faint whisper of a female voice. Was this the song of the siren that tried to lure Ulysses and his men to their deaths of the rocky shores? Could it be Hathor sending another message in dead language? Or perhaps Mae’s ghost had come to claim the souls of the two men who had loved her?

With great haste the beach goers collected their belongings and scurried to vacate the beach. For Doone and Raoul, as soon as their eyes grew accustomed to the dimness of night, the smell of dampness a fog brings teased their senses. In a short distance the distinct blob of white mist formed itself. It blocked the watery path the men had traveled to reach this end of the beach. They would have to pass the thing.
By now Raoul couldn’t stop his teeth from chattering, not from cold, but fear. Trying to breath normally, he found all too often that he came near to hyperventilating.

From the text in the old book the apparition led them to spoke of only one lady in white, which had to be summoned. La Dame d'Apringy.

Raoul stopped abruptly and tried to turn away. Knowing they’d have to pass the white mist forming itself, Phantom Doone grabbed the Vicomte by the collar and pulled him on.

Trying not to show fear, Doone moved to pass the thing on the narrow path of watery stones as he dragged Raoul behind him. Terror gripped his heart as a misty face came to view with empty hollows staring back at him. After the body completed forming, it stayed in a wispy, mist-like substance, deathy white, appearing to float. It said nothing, but rather cocked its head from side to side as if puzzling about their reason for being there.

“We are looking for La Dame d'Apringy, s’il vous plaît,” said Phantom Doone as he released Raoul’s collar. The poor Vicomte rubbed his throat and ran a finger around the inside of the collar to loosen it a little. He swallowed hard at the sight of the spectre. No matter how hard he tried to look away, his eyes kept coming back to the floating mist hovering over the watery path of rocks. Empty eye sockets ticked a look from Raoul to Doone. Both men shuddered at being looked over by vacant holes where eyes should be.

The misty creature spoke not a word but at last nodded that it understood. For only a fleeting moment did the spirit vanish. From his pocket, Doone drew out the slip of paper he’d scrawled the incantation on and proceeded to recite.

“Several questions must we ask of thee. Answers lie where we cannot see. An offering is at your request. To grant it we’ll do our best. Come madam we summon thee, La Dame, La Dame d’Apringy.” When Doone finished he and le Vicomte looked about but saw and heard nothing unusual. The sound of the ocean waves crashing against the rocks echoed all around them. The fog rolled in thick and smelled of a damp, unseen horror.

Again Doone repeated the spell. “Several questions must we ask of thee. Answers lie where we cannot see. An offering is at your request. To grant it we’ll do our best. Come madam we summon thee, La Dame, La Dame d’Apringy.”

Their hearts wouldn’t beat half as fast, neither would their limbs involantarily shake if something had happened immediately. The wait, the anticipation of what’s to come made the hair rise up on the back of their necks and chills ran up and down their spines.

Once more Phantom Doone thought to repeat the incantation, until invisible hands wrapped around the Vicomte’s throat, slowly tightening. Raoul gagged and struggled in vain to loosen the unseen fingers. Intervention deemed impossible when a force knocked Doone back so hard his head hit a rock as he crashed on to the watery, rocky path.

Soooo, I wonder whats gonna happen next to poor Raoul and Doone? Sure hope they're gonna be ok. They're the only hope of this story at the moment....


Please do continue again soon, my friend!


D

Hello Slitherliggie! Thank you for the kind words and your loyalty to the story.

Here is another chapter. R&R. Enjoy!

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CHAPTER 68

Between Dimensions

In the dimness of time and space between dimensions, Hamilton the reporter and Philippe le Comte de Chagny trudged along looking for the next window of exit. They moved quickly before the dreary place some call the ‘in between’ overwhelmed them, stealing their memories and trapping them for all eternity. In the back of their minds they tried to ignore the shuffling behind.

The farther they went a telltale mist crept across the ground so they could no longer see the path beneath their feet or the one that lay ahead.

In his experience with magick, the count knew he could try to scry for those they pursued with water, crystal, a map, a mirror or even tea leaves. At the moment, he had neither. If only he had more time.

All at once, he and the reporter stopped dead in their tracks. The shuffling fell silent. The zombie Azacca or something worse? The ‘in between’ housed beings most people have never heard of or ever wanted to. Unlike the concept of purgatory, these souls do not have a temporary punishment or time to prepare for heaven. These things would remain there for all eternity and fight to trap whoever or whatever dared to walk between dimensions.

Men like the reporter and the count generally never found anything to scare them, but for once in their lives they both came close to gasping for air as a chill ran up and down their spines. Philippe brought a hand to his heart, which felt like it would beat right out of his chest or stop beating altogether. Never in his life had he felt anything like it. Hamilton did his best to keep his knees from knocking together and his teeth from chatter with terror. Whatever was there with them, stayed in the shadows and kept quiet until they moved forward.

When they moved, the shuffling commenced. When they stopped, so did it stopped. Up ahead a light shone from an up coming exit. Quickly the men raced to the opening. But to their disappointment, the scene displayed a turn of the 20th Century horse drawn carriage with a man and woman inside. All around them snow covered the ground, housetops and trees. Obviously the wrong period of time. They moved on, with the shuffling close behind.

Howling pierced their ears as they moved closer to another opening. When they reached the it, they found a full-length mirror instead of an vortex. A small glimmer caught their eye and they quickly jerked around. Another full-length mirror.

The reporter fell into confusion. Nothing made sense. The shuffling had stopped. The impending suspense filled his very being until he shook as though chilled to the bone. His gun hand he couldn’t keep still and Hamilton feared he may unwittingly pull the trigger.

The howling stopped. What was it? I didn’t sound like any animal they’d ever heard. It didn’t sound like a wolf or a dog. It rather resembled the mournful cry of a woman in grief. Not a good omen.

From the mirrors, silhouettes danced in the dark of the reflections. Dim moonlight pushed against the roiling fog moving across the waters and on to the sandy shores. This wispy white thing floating over a wet rocky path held the figure of a man by the throat. The fog now covered the moon making it impossible to ID the strangling man.

Something at the foot of the misty thing moved and groaned. The howling commenced again. Another spectre approached, floating in from the fog.

The scene erupted when the shuffling slid closer to the reporter and count. From the darkness, only the whites of the eyes appeared.

Confusion clouded the old count’s mind. If they stood between the mirrors they would pass into the seaside fog. If they remained where they were, death or the ‘in between’ would take them. They had no choice.

Philippe pulled the reporter with him into the center of the two mirrors facing each other. Disembodied eyes grew out from the dark as the power of the mirrors charged with energy surged through the bodies of the men and sucked them into the foggy, haunted beach.

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Whether the lady in white or a howling banshee, the misty thing from the fog overpowered the one strangling the man in its grasp. The crash of the waves sounded louder as they smashed against rocks. The smell of dampness and death permeated the air, as the spectre released its prey and vanished.

For a moment, except for the sound of the waves, all fell quiet. The floating misty creature from the fog hovered over the unconscious men. The faint sound of splashes nearly blended in with the crashing waves.

Deathly still face down in the water lay le Vicomte de Chagny. Dead? Possible. A few meters away lay the current Phantom of the Opera. Dead? Not sure. He did groan, but could that have been his last breath?

From a distance, the sound of several feet making their way through water grew louder until the owners stood directly in front of the last ghost floating. Like the phantasm before it, the spirit glared at the mortals through black hollows.

“Awaken those who summoned me. I respond to your plea. What do you have to say? Then I’ll name the price you must pay,” spoke the raspy, cracking voice of the floating mist.

Philippe stood in abject horror. Words stuck in his throat and he came near to hyperventilating. Hamilton dropped his beloved gun and began backing away.

A groan from the wet, rocky path saw the head of Phantom Doone pop up from the fog ridden ground. In the eerie dim illumination from the ghost, he had to blink rapidly a number of times to focus. Dashing his head on wet rocks didn’t help. At the moment, he could only see a white misty form. Fortunately, he couldn’t make out the empty hollows that stared in his direction.

“Ask the question lad. Don’t keep me waiting or I will kill you myself,” came the raspy, cracking voice.

“I…I thought you only requested…a dance or assistance…” Doone stammered.

“If you merely wish to pass, yes. But you want some knowledge and that will cost. Maybe a life or maybe something I’ve longed for,” spoke the spectre.

Remembering his friend, Phantom Doone bent down and felt around in the fog for Raoul. When he found him, he didn’t appear to be breathing.

“He is not dead,” replied the spirit to an unspoken question. In that moment, Raoul sputtered and sucked in the air. Damp and deathly as it seemed, but still air in his lungs felt better then water.

Because they stood frozen in their tracks, Doone didn’t even notice the reporter and count nearly completely surround by the thick haze engulfing them.

“I need to know what I must do next to obtain the Staff of Osiris and to bring my beloved Mae back to life,” the current Opera Ghost stared back at empty hollows. A chilled ran through him. If this is truly what a spirit looks like, he no longer wanted to be referred as one.

“The Staff of Osiris?” it questioned, and then it cackled and shrieked. “Mae, the pretty young woman belongs to you? This one drifts in and out of the spirit world. For these answers, I name my price. Bayard,” came the creepy reply.

Doone helped Raoul to his feet. “Bayard? What is a Bayard?” he asked.

It didn’t answer right away. It just floated there before them, staring. Yes, that ungodly thing kept staring without eyes.

Finally, it replied. “Why the magic bay horse from Les Chanson de Geste of course.” At this no one said a word. Les Chanson de Geste or Songs of Heroic Deeds the count and Doone recalled as an epic poem from twelfth Century France. The task was impossible. How does one capture a magic horse that does not exist?

Oh dear! So now, Phillipe and Hamilton has joined Doone and Raoul now? This is getting all the more interesting.

Hmmm. Magical horse, that doesn't exist, this could prove hard, but I am sure it won't be impossible - they have come so far, after all.


Please do continue again soon, my friend!


D

Good to see you Slitherliggie. Thank you for the kind words and your loyalty to the story.

Here is the next chapter for your reading pleasure.

Please R&R. Enjoy!

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CHAPTER 69

The Shores of Normandy - Night

The fog rolled in around the men as the lady in white grew more and more transparent until she disappeared. Nothing but the waves crashing against the rocks interrupted the silence. Phantom Doone supported Raoul to keep him from collapsing on the watery path. He only turned briefly to motion for the reporter and count to follow. Not one question did he ask them, as they sloshed their way back to higher ground. The ghost irritated him with its raspy voice, mocking cackle and ridiculous request. The reporter and count showed up at the wrong time. They followed Doone without question, trusting his instinct.

As they reached Doone’s rental car, the reigning Opera Ghost opened the door and eased the recovering Vicomte into the front seat. With furrowed brow and narrowed eyes, he jerked around to Hamilton and Philippe.

“I told you to go away. The quest is mine and I chose Raoul to accompany me,” came the sharp reprimand.

The reporter grinned and tried to appear calm. “Well, looks like we kind of saved you two. The spook nearly did you in.” The count tried to smile, but his unsavory deeds could not be forgotten and Doone did not need to explain or justify himself. For a brief, unsettling moment, he said nothing but slammed the car door shut.

“Do not follow me. Go home, go back to Paris, I don’t care which, but stop following me. I will contact everyone once the quest is completed.” Doone glared at the two for a moment.

“Do not be so rude. We came to help. How are you going to find a magic horse that was only spoken of in an epic poem of 12th Century France? I could be a great resource,” Philippe tried to sound convincing.

“If I need a zombie, you’ll be first one I call. Otherwise, FICHE MOI LA PAIX!” With that, Phantom Doone whipped out the Punjab Lasso and caught the count around his neck and threw him face down on the hood of car. This happened so fast Hamilton hardly had time to think. The grin faded as he tried to pull Phantom Doone off of Philippe. Nothing phased the iron grip on the sickening yellow catgut used to strangle the victims of the Opera Ghost. Gagging and gasping, the count desperately clawed at the thing shutting off his oxygen.

“Stop! You’re killing him!” screamed the reporter still tugging at Doone’s shoulders.

Calmly Raoul rolled down the window and gently said, “Not now, my friend. There will be another time.” At those words, the lasso loosened and disappeared back into the breast pocket of the Phantom’s dress coat. Then he rounded the car to reach the driver’s side; opened the door and slid under the steering wheel, fired up the engine and sped off.

Supporting the sputtering count, which leaned against him gasping for air as he messaged his own throat, the reporter asked about his well being. The count nodded.

“Okay Mr. Count, what were the last words from our Phantom before he tried to choke the life out of you? I’m pretty sure it wasn’t ‘have a good day’,” grinned the reporter. Philippe shot him a dirty look as he jerked away. He didn’t want to tell Hamilton that ‘fiche moi la paix’ was a way of saying ‘leave me the “h” alone’ or even worse, ‘f…off’.

He needed to possess the Staff of Osiris and the Spear of Destiny. No mealy-mouthed time traveler was going to cheat him out of what was rightfully his. Relative or not. For years he’d been researching and searching for these enchanted items. All of his life he’d despised Americans but at the moment he had to ally with one. A nosy, gabby one with an irritating accent and an obnoxious grin.

Not wishing to face the creature that nearly killed them in the ‘in between’, the old count decided to use his cell phone and call a taxi to take them to the airport. Knowing he’d said a few things he shouldn’t have, Hamilton silently tagged along behind Philippe as they fought their way through the fog to some small tourist shops and fast food stands.

In the original epic poem Les Chansons de Geste, Renaud found Bayard the magic horse in the Forest of Arden. This would be the first place to look. However, Arden did not lay in France, but rather England. Coventry to be exact.

As the two men waited for the taxi, a misty white figure floated above eavesdropping on their every word.

It's too quiet. I'll post the next chapter anyway. Slitherliggie and syoonchannel will catch up.

Here is Chapter 70 for your reading pleasure. Please R&R. Enjoy!


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CHAPTER 70

Coventry, England




The Forest of Arden once stood in the same spot where Coventry and Birmingham exists today. Of course, there were a lot more forest and rustic old buildings and cottages then compared to modern times. The largest part of the forest now had the Marriott Hotels and Resorts occupying the land with their hotels, spas, golf course and
country club.




From the edge of the golf course stood Phantom Doone and Raoul le Vicomte de Chagny. Overcast skies with an occasional drizzle couldn’t take away from the beauty of the lush green grass, full leafy trees and patches of ponds and lakes covering the land. Both men felt a little disappointed and depressed at the mark of mankind’s progression on a once virgin forest thick with trees. Some beauty still remained, but the sweet, simplicity of the 12th Century no longer existed. Wild animals didn’t roam a lush forest. Birds had very few trees to perch in and build nests. The 21st Century made its claim right in the middle of where they needed to look for an enchanted/magic bay colored horse, one having a reddish-brown coat with black mane and tail.





All around them the men saw modern civilization. After making the rounds of the golf course, they entered the hotel and checked into a room. Fortunately for them, they both knew enough magick to conjure up enough modern British pounds for their food and lodging. Raoul even retired his Victorian clothes for some jeans and a sharp looking golf shirt with a fine full-length leather coat. However, Doone couldn’t go back to wearing modern clothes. He’d grown so used to his cloak and fedora. Most people didn’t notice the cut of clothes beneath his jet-black cloak anyway.

The men felt tired from traveling country-to-country and dimension-to-dimension. Magick in general took a lot of concentration and focus, none of which they had at the moment.

Phantom Doone mentioned the need to review the original texts of all the epic poems and legends about the animal for which they sought. Even if they found the horse, how would they catch it and transport it to the decrepit old ghost?
No real library existed near the Marriott. The kind of rare old books they needed could not be summoned by spells. They had to find some one or some place that possessed such ancient information.


From the tall windows of the resort café the men saw a horse dodging in and out from among a thick of trees way out in the middle of the golf course. Raoul tried to get up and chase after the beast, but Doone held him back with a reminder of their need for R and R, rest and research. Le Vicomte set down again and stared out of the clear, tall windows. Did the golfers see the bay horse or not? Like chess, a golfer needs quiet in order to concentrate on hitting the ball just right so it will go in the targeted hole. With all the movement from the bushes and trees, one would think someone on the green would notice.

After their meal, the two travelers asked the concierge if horses were allow on the golf course.

“Horses, sir? One cannot play golf and ride horses in the same area. Besides, we don’t have horseback riding at the resort, but with your permission, I can arrange it for you. The stables are not far away,” the old man smiled, finishing his sentences with a most delightful, British accent.

Doone returned the smile and shook his head. Then he asked for a bookstore for rear books on magick and the supernatural. Hearing this, the old concierge scratched his gray head and gave a thoughtful look. Then his fingers flew across the computer keys as he surfed for the information. After a bit, he printed out a sheet of paper with the name and address of a man named Abaddon Hizkijah a collector of rare books, newspapers, magazines and other periodicals. Phantom Doone thanked the concierge and took the paper.

After reading over Doone’s shoulder, Raoul laughed. “How prophetic!”

Doone glared at him. “What?”

“The man’s name. Abaddon a form of the Greek Apollyon meaning a place of destruction. And Hizkijah, a variation of Hezekiah with two e’s meaning God is my strength. A little unnerving, I’d say.” When Raoul finished his explanation, Phantom Doone understood. Coincidence? He didn’t think so.

As they walked outside to the edge of the golf course, the bay horse danced in the shadows of the trees and bushes. A few golfers heading back to the hotel caught Doone’s eye. So he stopped them and asked if they saw the bay horse hiding in the trees. Most of the golfers shook their heads and kept walking, except a mature woman in her sixties, with salt and pepper colored hair twisted in a bun, stopped and ticked a look from one man to the other.

Pulling them aside, she acknowledged seeing the bay. “Most golfers see the horse, but will not admit it. It’s an omen. Whether good or bad, I know not. All I can say is that up until now, it makes no sound. We don’t even hear the rustling of the leaves or scrapping of the bushes.” The old woman’s eyes widened as she looked back at the green. In late afternoon, the sun changed position and even though not twilight, the shadows can play tricks on eyes.

She then motioned for them to follow her. Inside the hotel, a wall near one of the empty conference rooms displayed a lithograph of the Forest of Arden, Act II, Scene I , from “As You Like It’, from the Boydell Shakespeare Gallery, published in late 19th Century from the artist William Hodges.


The Forest of Arden, Act II, Scene I, from 'As You Like It', from The Boydell Shakespeare Gallery, published late 19th century. Artist William Hodges – Lithograph.





In the lithograph a man rests beside a creek in the middle of thick forest. A ways down the creek some deer drink from the flowing water. According to the lady golfer, if you review the scene carefully, the bay would reveal itself from the trees. Not like a horse jumping out from the forest, but as if it were the forest.

When she finished speaking the old woman just walked away, leaving the men to ponder the lithograph. As if emerging from a trance, Phantom Doone looked around for the lady golfer, but couldn’t see her.

The concierge said he didn’t recall any female guest at the hotel who fit her description playing golf. In fact, at this time, only male guest engaged in a round of golf. No ladies at all.

The men exchanged puzzled looks.

Wow! This is becoming a most interesting quest. I wonder who the woman is? And a horse no-one can hear, but they can see? Bad omen? What might that be?


Most brilliant writing as always, my friend!
Please do continue soon!



D

Thank you Slitherliggie. Good to see you and that I still hold your interest.

Here is another chapter for your reading pleasure. Please R&R. Enjoy!

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CHAPTER 71

Warwick Castle


Warwick Castle was located on the bend of the River Avon. With a history dating back to 1038 when William the Conqueror built it to the present day, the Castle now owned by an entertainment company that currently used it for tours, gifts shops and mock battles. Abaddon Hizkijah, a very thin, tall man in his late fifties headed the tour guides. A small room on the ground floor near the entrance served as the old gent’s office. Here he kept some of his precious rare books on the supernatural, magick and unnatural occurrences.





Ten o’clock in the morning brought a crowd of tourists from several different countries and many walks of life, especially of two men who found a way to walk through dimensions and travel through time. The handsome Raoul le Vicomte de Chagny wandered around the Chapel before the tour began in fifteen minutes. His friend and colleague the current Opera Ghost brought up the rear. He didn’t want to take the tour, but reluctantly agreed due to Raoul’s reasoning. Since Abaddon Hizkijah did not know them, he might be more agreeable to a couple of tourist then two crazy foreigners babbling about ghosts.

The Chapel seemed smaller than they had thought. A row of pews lined both sides of a narrow checkered-tiled walkway to the altar with a small crucifix. A tall window of stained class stood behind the crucifix that allowed dim rays of sunshine to filter into the room.



In the front row, Raoul thought he saw a woman kneeling as though in prayer. A plain linen scarf covered her head and as she mumbled something he couldn’t make out. Nudging Phantom Doone to take note of the kneeling woman, he saw her fade from view. Doone strained to see what he pointed at, but the row stood empty. A ghost perhaps?

After Raoul explained, Doone had no time to react before the tour guide entered and gathered the group. Warwick Castle held the record for ghostly hauntings next to the Tower of London. Seeing ghosts disturbed the poor Vicomte. He really wanted to get this quest over with. Fighting mythical monsters didn’t seem much better, but at least they didn’t fade from view when you looked at them.

The two-hour tour got them no closer to Abaddon Hizkijah then when they first arrived. Generally the elderly gent flitted about the castle making sure that the tourists were happy and that the entertainment went well. All the food served on the castle grounds he also sampled to ensure quality, but not today. What happened? Where was he today?

Phantom Doone asked several tour guides, but no one seemed to know. After leaving a message for the man to call with a couple of guides, he and Raoul wandered off to see the castle on their own. The mock battles did not interest them. However, they soon found themselves in the Ghost Tower. Here sprung the many accounts of the haunting of the Greville ghost. But to their shocking discovery, more than one spirit lived in this area.

“I did not come here to banter with spectres,” declared le Vicomte as he turned to run, but Phantom Doone caught his arm and spun him around.

“Be quiet! Listen!” Doone hushed him. Stereotypical moans and groans echoed throughout the tower. At first they seemed barely audible, then little by little they moved closer. Without a doubt, it sounded like a man in pain, great, horrific pain. Eerie lights floated up and down the two levels of the tower as if someone carried a lamp or lantern.

The reigning Phantom whispered they should address the ghost. They would have to know where Abaddon Hizkijah was today.

“Are you insane?” Raoul shuttered at the ghostly moaning and groaning. “Some of these creatures don’t respond. They just do the same thing over and over.”

“I know,” whispered Doone. “Residual hauntings are common in a place like this, but not all are like that.” At that moment, a misty thing floated several feet off the ground forming itself, like the Lady in White. Only this one took the shape of man in the dress of the late 14th or early 15th Century.

Phantom Doone appeared fearless, but poor Raoul, inched back a step at a time. In reality, he was not a coward. Serving in the French Navy dispelled many fears from the young man, but lately he’d seen too many monsters, spirits and zombies. These anomalies never allowed a person to give thought of how to escape or to combat them. Fighting flesh and blood didn’t compare to outer worldly beings.

The apparition stared at them with much sadness. It appeared to have bandages wrapped around its chest partially covered by a house robe. The incessant moaning and groaning verberated like surround sound.

As Raoul turned to run, what stood behind them caused him to scream and scream and scream before he backed into a smelly wall. Jerking his head around to the Vicomte’s reaction of terror, he too let out a scream. His lips quivered and his body trembled. There before them stood Mae in the same Egyptian dress of white linen she wore when last they saw her. The image did not float or seem misty or transparent. It looked as if she stood there in the flesh, solid and alive.

I don't see any comments or reviews from anyone. I guess they are busy.

The following is another chapter. Please R&R. Enjoy!

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CHAPTER 72

Warwick Castle: The Ghost Tower

The dingy, dimness of the tower added to the fear building up in Raoul and Phantom Doone as the haunting moans and groans continued in the creepy Ghost Tower. The atmosphere seemed much colder than the staircase and both shuddered from fear and the frigid air. Seeing Mae standing in the doorway nearly scared the life out of both men since told she had died. This would be the second apparition of her. She didn’t look all misty and transparent like the Lady in White or completely invisible like the departed soul now making sounds that could scare the hair off a brass monkey.

Reaching out gingerly, le Vicomte tried to touch her, but she stepped back. In a strange voice, she uttered the same thing, in the same foreign language she did before leading them to the book that told of the Lady in White. After repeating the message or whatever it was for the fifth time, the figure resembling Mae turned quickly and faded into the shadows of the stairs from whence they came.

The men ran after her but found nothing on the stairs. As the made it down into the courtyard, they found her standing by a bush beckoning for them to follow. Holding back le Vicomte, Phantom Doone shook his heard. Whatever it was, he didn’t trust it. If Mae truly beckoned to them, why didn’t she speak in English?

Just at that thought formed in his mind, the female replied, this time a language they understood.

“Beware of answers that come from spirits summoned. You don’t have much time. I can only keep Mae’s body alive for just so long. You must reunite the spirit with flesh.” When the voice fell silent, the men realized the voice belonged to Hathor. Obviously, she possessed Mae’s body so it wouldn’t die, but how did that work? In the one second they ticked a look to each other, Mae’s image faded into thin air.

Upon finding a bench in the courtyard, the reigning Phantom and Raoul sat for a moment to contemplate what just happened. While le Vicomte babbled his opinions, Phantom Doone drew out his journal from his breast pocket. The one he’d brought with him from the past. Then he drew out the water damaged one found in his lair beneath the Paris Opera House in modern times. After a moment or two, the two journals began to glow as they merged leaving only the one from the past.

Raoul fell silent, afraid to ask what just happened. Without an expression of question, wonderment or fear, Doone felt sure he’d find some answers in his own writings as he opened the book and began thumb through the pages looking for today’s entry.

“Won’t the journal rewrite itself?” asked Raoul in a shaking voice. His hand trembled and little beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. The supernatural really did not have a place in his heart.

The current Opera Ghost said nothing. He knew the journal could not rewrite itself when he read it, since he wrote it in the first place.

Today’s entry related all they had just witnessed up to time he sat to add more to the journal. As he continued to read silently, the woebegone Greville ghost materialized before them in broad daylight with overcast skies and mist roiling along the grass across the courtyard.

The spectre wore a long, dingy, gray nightshirt with a dark colored robe over it, tied about the waist with a rusty looking cord. With drawn features of man in pain, the sunken eye sockets and jaw line made it look like death wormed over. Up popped le Vicomte de Chagny patting his own hip for his trusty sword. Then he remembered he had retired the weapon for a T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Backing away from the bench, Raoul looked around for something to use as a weapon. Killing a ghost made no sense, but at the moment, his confused brain did not look for logic.

Calmly Phantom Doone looked up from the journal. The ghost did not scare or surprise him even if he could see through it. The miserable thing cocked its head from side to side as if trying to analyze them. The air grew increasingly cold.

“Raoul, please put down the rock. You can’t kill a ghost,” came the calm, fearless words of the infamous Opera Ghost. Still holding the rock, Raoul moved behind the bench and stood directly at Doone’s back. Outwardly he seemed brave, but secretly his stomach churned and the beads of sweat increased on his brow in spite of the cold.

“You cannot hold what is not yours! You cannot capture what lives in shadows!” exclaimed the sad, cracking voice of the spirit.

“Who are you?” asked Phantom Doone.

“Fulke Greville at your service. A favored one you are. She drifts in and out of the world of shadows. But time is running out,” came the dismal reply.

“Who sent you to me and who are you talking about?”

At this, the spectre said nothing. The mist forming around its feet made it look like a nightmare from a horror film.

“Can you tell me where I can find Abaddon Hizkijah?”

The very name caused the spectre to let out a moan that shattered not only the quite of the misty courtyard, but almost the eardrums of all in throwing distance. Raoul dropped the rock and put his hands over his ears. Even Doone grimaced at the mournful cry.

“Sir Greville, please. Why do you grieve so? Is it because of your untimely death?” questioned Phantom Doone.

The moaning stopped. “I grieve not for me, but for you. Abaddon Hizkijah brings evil,” warned the Greville ghost. “Seek the answers among the living, not the dead.” With that the spectre let out another painful moan, which faded as it melted into the roiling mist.

“Wha…what does he mean?” stammered the poor frightened Vicomte.

Phantom Doone made no reply. He recalled this conversation with the dead. Record of it stared him in the face.

Still shakened by the ghostly visitor, Raoul wanted to know the meaning of all the spirit said.

Doone muttered, “You cannot hold what is not yours. You cannot capture what lives in shadows.” Quietly he thumbed through the pages of his journal.

Why would a ghost tell him, ‘a favored one you are. She drifts in and out of the world of shadows? But time is running out.’ Did he mean Mae drifted in and out of the world of shadows or the horse? Time was running out for what?

Lastly, he pondered, ‘I grieve not for me, but for you. Abaddon Hizkijah brings evil. Seek the answers among the living, not the dead.’

The moment the words formed in his mind, a loud pop and crackle flitted all about them. Even Doone flinched, jumped up from the bench and joined Raoul behind it. A watery vortex rolled around and around in a circle, increasing in size as it pushed through the mist. The crackling and popping came from the vortex in the form of small charges of electricity. Something was trying to enter our world. This was never good.

Wow, what great two chapters! I really enjoyed them very much, my friend. And I do appreciate the addition of the ghosts. I wonder what will happen next, and what awaits them when the do find Abaddon Hizkijah. What evil did the ghost speak of?

Please do continue soon, my friend.


D

Hello Slitherliggie! So good to see you. You've made my day when you tell me how much you've enjoyed the chapters.

I hope syoonchannel will rejoin us soon.

Here is another chapter. Please R&R. Enjoy!

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CHAPTER 73

Warwick Castle: The Courtyard

The crackling and popping continued sparking through the vortex as the mist shrouded Phantom Doone and Raoul, le Vicomte de Chagny. Not wishing to face whatever tried to push its way into our dimension, Doone pulled Raoul into the mist. Fighting for vision through small droplets of water suspended in air did not deem as treacherous as dealing with creatures from another place and time. At the moment, he knew he couldn’t defeat the invader. Another opportunity will present itself.

It seemed like forever pushing through the roiling mist until they reached the castle. Inside, the place seemed the same as it did when they first entered, a mix of the medieval and modern day. Tours formed at the counter in the far corner near the front entrance. Tourist scurried to and fro checking out the ancient paintings and décor.

A bit out of breath, the two time travelers stared about them. From behind, a man approached through the same door as they. The tall, thin figure leaned in to speak to the men, but Doone had already anticipated his arrival and quickly turned on his heels and faced the gaunt visage of the gray haired man in a suit.

“Oh, I do beg your pardon,” spoke the tall, thin man in an eloquent British accent. “I believe you gentlemen were looking for me. I am Abaddon Hizkijah, at your service,” replied the man giving a slight bow.

Something about Hizkijah sent a chill through Phantom Doone and Raoul. Doone knew what to expect, but had not the time to brief his frightened comrade. Le Vicomte could never get used to the encounter with monsters, ghosts and outer worldly creatures. Abaddon Hizkijah he would place in the category of creature unless he proved otherwise. The way the man’s eyes seemed to follow them without moving an inch made it look as though he wasn’t human. Shuttering at the thought, Raoul bowed in greeting and tried to be gracious.

Hizkijah invited them to his office, which led them to an elevator and up to the third floor filled with several other offices, at least that’s what it appeared.

As the men found seats in front of a grand oak desk intricately carved with markings both beautiful and strange, Hizkijah found his place behind the desk and offered them a drink.

“May I offer a light sherry or perhaps cognac?” asked their sinister host.

“No liquor thank you,” replied Phantom Doone. It’s still a bit early for me. Raoul refused as well.

“As you wish. If you don’t mind, I shall have a touch of sherry. Warms me up on chilly mornings,” continued their host as he bent down and opened a drawer. With a decanter of the light red liquid in hand, he found a small glass and poured in the red liquid. Then he set the decanter back into the drawer and closed it. All the while the two stared about at the two ceiling to floor bookcases filled with dusty, ancient tomes.

“Now my friends, how may I assist you?” Hizkijah sipped the sherry, savoring the delicate but strong drink.

“We understand that you have a vast collection of rare old books, as we see here and wondered if you had the original text of the epic poem of Bayard the magic horse and Renaud?” asked Phantom Doone, as his eyes searched the old man’s face.

“Bayard and Renaud, huh? Interesting. Are you secretly lovers of epic poems or of a magic horse that only one man could tame?” the old man’s dark eyes lit up and grew large and round as saucers. The pupils became so dark that the whites seemed to vanish, making him look more demonic than kindly or hospitable. Even his smile showed sharp pointed teeth much like an animal rather than a man.

Poor Raoul’s heart leapt into his throat and he quivered inside as he stared at their host. The more Hizkijah talked about Bayard and Renaud, the more his features changed. He even began to salivate like a hungry beast. But just when it looked like he would pounce on both of them, the subject changed when a sharp knock at the door rang out. The man’s facial features morphed back to human as he invited whoever knocked to enter.

One of the female tour guides, a young woman in her early thirties needed his help with one of the tourists who spoke out of turn and at the moment caused a big commotion. Hizkijah excused himself and asked his guests to wait for him, then trotted off behind the female tour guide.

Just as Raoul opened his mouth to say something, Doone cut him off.

“Don’t say anything. Just follow my lead. I know what he is, but he has the answers we seek. My journal says the book we want is not in this office. There is another room, a storage area filled with books in another wing of the castle,” Doone said as he looked around with much unease. “I just need a quick look at the original text.”

“Doesn’t your journal tell you what is in the original text?” Raoul puzzled.

“No, it does not. I’m not in the habit of writing down things that could get me killed.” At this, Doone arose from his seat and motioned for Raoul to follow, but their sinister host appeared in the doorway.

“Going so soon? I would think that you’d like to take a stroll with me to another wing where I will retrieve the book you seek,” their host gave that creepy smile, which showed off his sharp pointed teeth. Doone agreed, but le Vicomte tugged at this coat sleeve. This didn’t sound good.

Looking back at the Vicomte, the reigning Phantom gave a lopsided smile and nodded. Not sure of the meaning, Raoul could only figure they would follow something that looked evil to a lonely out of the way place where it could eat them. This was never good.

As they emerged from the office with their host, they noticed the courtyard looked clear through the tall windows. Where did all the mist go? Does mist normally roll out as quickly as it rolled in? So many questions flooded their minds.

The stroll through the bustling castle seemed long and boring. After so many twists and turns, they finally walked down a staircase made of stone, down into the depth of the castle. The air felt much colder and smelled dank and musty. Upon reaching another room, it did indeed store many books. More than some libraries in the United States contained.

From beneath his long coat and cloak, Phantom Doone pulled out the Spear of Destiny. When they hear a maniacal laugh, they whipped around to see old Abaddon Hizkijah transformed into Erik wearing the robes of an ancient Egyptian pharaoh/god with the Staff of Osiris at the ready.

Doone held the Spear of Destiny in his hands, prepared for combat if necessary. The laugh of a madman rose up to the rafters of the book filled room. With an exaggerated gesture, a book from the very top shelve flew out and landed on a table in front of Doone and Raoul. Myriad thoughts ran through their minds. They really wished they had won and this were over, but from the looks of things, the fight had just started.

“You want the book so much, take it. Enjoy! There is plenty of time for you to read. Now hand me the Spear!” demanded Erik in his best voice of an insane god of great power.

“Where is Mae? If you have killed her then you must resurrect her at once,” demanded the grief stricken Phantom. Erik only laughed and again ordered him to hand over the Spear. Doone refused.

“I could just kill you and take it from your cold, dead hands,” taunted the madman.

“If you could kill me you would have done it already,” came the retort. This rubbed the insane pharaoh/god angry. Very angry, but he knew he couldn’t kill them as long as they possessed the Spear. Raoul stood too close to Doone for him to get a clear shot, so in his fury, Erik whirled out of the room and slammed the door shut. They ran to it, but too late, they heard the bolt slide into place. From the tiny window in the door, they watched Erik whirl and whirl until he vanished from sight.

Perhaps it's too soon for any comments or reviews. Nevertheless, here is the next chapter.

Please R&R. Enjoy!

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CHAPTER 74

Warwick Castle: The Library


Who would have ever suspected that Abaddon Hizkijah was Erik, the real Phantom, who now thought himself a pharaoh/god? In anger and disbelief, Phantom Doone and Raoul just stared out of the little window in the bolted door of the immense room filled with books. Doone new this was coming, but he still couldn’t keep from getting trapped in the library. Some things have to play themselves out, but now he’d have to do things the mortal way.

In his journal, Hizkijah turned into Erik and locked them in the library, but no magick could be used. Reaching into his inside coat pocket, Phantom Doone thumbed through the pages and found the reason. A bunch of symbols unknown to the common man covered the outside of the locked door. He knew them as a containment spell. This would keep them imprisoned in the library indefinitely if he didn’t find a means to escape the mortal way.

The dim light in the room came from a number of candles, single and candelabras, scattered around.

The poor Vicomte de Chagny fretted about everything lately, especially at the present predicament. So, the dear fellow began to hyperventilate.

Grabbing his friend’s arm and easing him over to a chair, Doone spoke softly in an effort to calm the man down.

“Come, come good fellow, don’t get so worked up. Stay focused with me. Remember I wrote the journal that was found in my lair beneath the Opera House, so obviously I got out of here.” These words seemed to smooth Raoul’s ruffled feathers and his breathing returned to normal. Drawing a kerchief from his jacket, he mopped his brow. He felt a little claustrophobic, but so not to appear as a sissy, he pushed his fear aside and tried to ignore it. Doone reminded him of the little barred window in the door. It wasn’t much of an opening, but that helped. The tall stained glass window, the only window had been sealed shut. All efforts to remove the seal and open the window appeared futile.

Phantom Doone tried to make Raoul understand that he wasted his time in all this, since he, the current Phantom, knew what they needed to do. First of all, they had to review the original text of the epic poem of Renaud and Bayard.

The two sat at the table where lay the book Erik pulled out for them. Indeed it contained what they sought. Without a word, they both read the text over and over, as if committing it to memory. According to the poem, the horse could seem docile and easy to catch, but once a body got close to it, that could spell their doom. They only way to capture the beast would be to throw it to the ground, but not by magick. No easy task.

“Now that we’ve read this thing about a hundred times, how do we get out of here? I’m getting claustrophobic again.” Raoul’s voice trembled a little. After all he’d been through it was no wonder he felt fearful of just about everything.

“Here,” Doone tossed him his journal. “Read this and be quiet. I am working on a plan to catch Bayard.”

“Doesn’t your journal tell you what you did to capture the beast?

“Read it. Then you tell me,” came the reply. Just then, a misty blob began to form itself before them. Raoul dropped the journal with a gasp. He could never get used to ghosts. Without reaction or show of emotion, Phantom Doone watched silently as the mist turned into old Greville who wore the same long, dingy, gray nightshirt with a dark colored robe over it, tied about the waist with a rusty looking cord. .

“Why so quiet Sir Greville? No moaning or groaning?” Doone asked mischievously.

“I came to help you,” replied the raspy, cracking voice of the spectre. “ I warned you about Hizkijah. Not to be trusted,” mumbled the ghost.

“We would be in your debt if you could help. Can you push the bolt aside and open the door?” continued Doone.

At this the spectre let out a rather loud and painful moan.

Raoul tried to be brave. “We take that as a ‘no’.”

Again the spectre moaned long and loud. While this went on, Phantom Doone took a look at the books on the shelves. The titles intrigued him. They all dealt with magick, monsters and the supernatural. Of course, ‘ghosts’ led the parade of book titles.

Unnerved and with a number of new beads of sweat popping out on his forehead, poor Raoul begged the spirit to cease its disturbing moan. But the ghost paid him no mind and continued its haunting, painful moaning and groaning.

This went on for some time. Long enough for Phantom Doone to slip a small book into his coat pocket and skim through several others as he engaged in casual conversation with Raoul and the Greville ghost who stopped moaning long enough to answer some important questions.

By now, several guides with their tour came by at the same time, both lured to the library by the incessant haunting sounds of the Greville ghost. In a moment, the lock slid back and the door swung open. The two men bolted for freedom.
Of course everyone wanted to know how they got to the library without a tour guide and how they got locked in. However, neither man addressed the questions, but rather thanked the guides for releasing them before rushing to the nearest exit.

Just as they started to cross the threshold into the modern world, the two men turned back for a brief moment and said with a smile, “Thank you Sir Greville. Keep up the moaning. It’s good for business.”

Peering down from his Ghost Tower, the Greville ghost curled up his lip in an attempt to smile. Many centuries had passed since he’d had a chance to do good. Perhaps deeds like this would earn him a chance to truly rest in peace.

Woah, things are getting trickier and trickier... So, Raoul and Doone now have the text they need for the legendary horse, and Erik is still mad as a hatter... Wonder what may be in store for them in the next installment???


Sorry for the delay in commenting, life's been hectic. I solemnly promise, though, that I have not forgotten about you or this story. Please do continue again soon.


D

Slitherliggie, so happy to see you. I know you are busy. We all are, but at least we spare a moment or two to visit with each other here.

Thank you for the kind words.

Here is the next chapter. Please R&R. Enjoy!


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CHAPTER 75

Marriott Hotels and Resorts at Coventry


This beautiful morning filled with sunshine greeted Phantom Doone and le Vicomte de Chagny as they sat outside on the patio sipping coffee and munching croissants with butter and jam. Doone reviewed the epic poem of Renaud and Bayard while Raoul looked over Erik’s Journal. For once he understood how Doone kept his composure while trapped in the Warwick library and their confrontation with the real Erik. The only surprise to le Vicomte, a real Abaddon Hizkijah did exit and held a position at Warwick Castle as head of tours and event coordinator.

According to the poem, Les Chansons de Geste, Bayard could understand human speech and adjust its size to accommodate its rider(s). The horse first belonged to Amadis de Gaul, and then won by Renaud’s cousin Maugris the magician. Renaud had to throw the horse to the ground in order to subdue it.

Several hours passed before Phantom Doone could find how to throw the horse. Keep in mind we do not speak of a normal animal that may acquire injuries if thrown to the ground. An enchanted horse would not break so easily.

Looking up from the journal, Raoul interrupted the silence. “You cannot attempt to do what is written in the journal. We will all be killed.” His voice trembled a little and his face turned pale.

“What you read has already happened. We are merely going through the motions. If this were a card game, I’d say we must play out the hand,” Doone replied with a matter-of-fact tone. To Raoul, none of this made sense, but then, logic never ruled magick. How is it possible for something to happen, but not? Had the journal become a book of prophecy?

From a distance, the sound of a horse braying tickled the senses. From in and around the trees and lush grass a bay horse darted. Sometimes it appeared as a shadow and other times corporal like a living beast.

“There it is again. A horse that is there but not. After reading several pages of the journal, I completely understand your calmness, but none of this makes sense. What’s in the journal has already happened?” Raoul grumbled as he watched Bayard taunting them at a distance.

“When this is over, you should return to Christine. The child she now carries is yours,” came the reply, as Phantom Doone closed the book containing the epic poem of Renaud and Bayard.

“What? That’s off subject,” frowned le Vicomte.

“I know, but you must go back to her. She was never meant to be with the Opera Ghost, no matter who he was or is. It seems like an eternity with her in that period of time we called the Age on Enlightment.”

“Not to sound snooty, but I believe the Age of Enlightment referred to the 18th Century and not the 19th Century where we are from,” corrected Raoul.

Without a word, Doone glared at him and bit his own lip to keep from saying the wrong thing.

Raoul continued, “I was just saying. Oh, I assume you meant that you and Christine called your time together the Age of Enlightment.” He then let out a long sigh.

“Christine is a bored housewife, so to speak. Having the attention of two men took away the boredom and hopefully led to adventure. However, where we are now is one adventure I could not afford her. In truth, she is in love with you.” This time Doone let out a long sigh. Then he turned back to le Vicomte. “Why on God’s green earth did you invade my lair, steal the spell book and escape through the vortex? What were you thinking?”

“Upon my return to this century, I recalled many things. Even those I’d like to forget. I know you and the real Erik traded places. I know that Michel is not my son, but yours. And the reason I was in your lair was because I wanted to know if you were still alive. Knowing all I had been told was true, I wanted to leave my life, the life as I knew it, but not in death. Hence my escape through the vortex you created,” Raoul closed the journal and tried not to watch the bay horse mocking them from afar.

“Who told you what?”

“Confounded man, are we going after that wicked horse or not. I cannot concentrate on anything while that beast taunts us endlessly.” At this, le Vicomte slammed his fist on the table, which startled even the current Opera Ghost.

By now the bay stood at the edge of the green, baring its teeth at each whinny. Still no one else appeared to see it but Doone and Raoul.

Dark clouds suddenly collected and more rolled in rapidly. In a moment, they covered the face of the sun, forcing golfers to clear the green and return indoors. A wise decision, as the mist crept in from behind the horse, spreading across the green like wild fire.

With wild-eyed orbs that glowed like small red candles, the bay seemed almost transparent as it reared up on its hind legs. By thoughts the horse revealed its intent to rid itself of the foreigners and then its grim warning to all.

“Death respects no one and nothing. It comes at will and takes what it may.”

Wait, foreigners? Which foreigners? Raoul and Doone? Oh dear sweet heaven, this is getting intense!!


Please do continue again soon, I'm at the edge of my seat...


D

Yes my dear Slitherliggie, the foreigners are Doone and Raoul. Good to see you. So happy you are enjoying.

Here is the next chilling chapter.

Please R&R. Enjoy!

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CHAPTER 76

Marriott Hotels and Resorts at Coventry

The enchanted horse, Bayard came to the edge of the green and reared up again as it balked and kicked at the white metal fence surrounding the patio of tables and chairs. By now, Phantom Doone and Raoul stood up and gathered their reading material to leave, but the whinny and snort of the horse challenged them. This time when they looked at the beast its eyes blazed with an unholy flame as mist swirled around its feet.

Some of this caught Doone off guard. With all the time and dimensional travel his brain lost track of the events and he had not reached this part of the journal. When taking the Phantom’s place as the resident Opera Ghost, he was always the one bringing fear and dread to the hearts of others. Currently, being on the receiving end of impending terror seemed so out of place for him. Even now, his hands shook as his flip-flopping stomach caused a chill to run through him. The poor Vicomte de Chagny now past terrified fumbled through the journal in a pitiful attempt to find what to do as the demon horse backed up and then charged them as he jumped the metal fence.

The two frightened men let out a scream in unison and stumbled over themselves to get back inside the hotel. This time everybody at the resort saw Bayard, as he kicked up his heels sending tables and chairs into disarray. Without warning, a chair sailed through a window and the bay jumped through the shattered opening. In the middle of the floor the creature snorted and pawed the floor like a mad bull.

Screams and sounds of people scrambling to hide or escape the horse’s wrath filled the lobby, the café and anywhere resort guests could hear. Everything and everyone in the creature’s path experienced damage and/or injury.

Panting and nearly out of breath, the two time travelers tucked themselves away in one of the maid’s closets frantically fumbling through the journal. Certainly Doone had a plan to throw the horse to the ground, but that would work much better outside.

Opening the door a crack, Raoul peered out as drapes hit the floor and pieces of sofas and overstuffed chairs flew all over the place. Screams of the injured pierced his ears and his heart ached to help.

“Hurry Doone! He’s tearing the place apart looking for us,” urged Raoul, his face now drained of color.

“Don’t rush me. I’m looking as fast as I can,” as the last word fell from the lips of Phantom Doone, a loud BANG rattled the closet door as hooves from the mad beast slammed against it.

In all the chaos, the concierge found a rifle kept for emergencies. However, firing at the horse seemed more hazardous to guests and employees than to Bayard. A stray bullet not only shattered a vase but ricocheted off a lovely painting and hit an employee trying to flee the scene. Down for the count, the wounded man tried to crawl to safety but the mad beast got him under foot and trampled the poor man to death. Another stray bullet hit one of the sconces holding a candle and then bounced to a fleeing guest that dropped like a hot potato. Only this time, people scrambling to get away from the crazed horse trampled the woman to death.

By now shots rang out one after another as Doone read over the entry about the capture of Bayard.

Dropping the journal, he drew out the Spear of Destiny and said, “Raoul, help me draw its attention to me.” But le Vicomte didn’t answer. When Doone touched his friend and turned him around, he saw blood spouting from Raoul’s shoulder and side. He’d been hit twice. His eyes fixed on Doone’s face and his breathing became laborious. Again, he had not read far enough in the journal to know that le Vicomte would be shot. So many things raced through his mind. So much he didn’t know, remember or understand.

Raoul lay in his arms bleeding to death. Should he try to save him or stop Bayard? Could he do both? His friend could no longer speak. Blood loss came quickly. What to do? Screams of terror rang out over and over on the other side of the closet door as the concierge continued firing at the wary beast.

Without another thought, Phantom Doone gripped the spear and laid it across his bleeding friend and commanded it to heal. In a moment, the spear lit up with an unearthly glow as the wounds healed and the man’s breathing returned to normal. Raoul grabbed Doone’s arm and breathed deeply. His body no long labored for air.

As the two men were about to embrace in the joy of being alive, another stray bullet ricocheted and blasted through the closet door, this time striking the current Opera Ghost in the arm. He dropped the spear. The closet door came crashing in. The force of it flying off its hinges and slamming into Doone sent him sprawling to the floor in a splatter of his own blood. Raoul tried to pull the door off of him, but the crazed horse stuck its head into the closet and grabbed Doone by the collar and drug him out into the lobby.

Raoul scrambled out from under the debris and screamed for the concierge to stop firing the rifle. The bullets stopped coming as Doone laid helpless at the feet of the bay that glared down at him.