Keith G. Alderman

Making the Most

Resolutions and goals. That’s what people talk about at the start of every year. It’s a kick in the pants for people to lose weight, cut the bad habits, and finally accomplish that dream. But by March, we are back in the routine of yesteryear.

For years, I’ve given the interns in our youth ministry a plan on how to set goals and truly achieve something special each year, and more so to see it accomplished before your eyes. But it dispels of the trivial habits and “goals” we commonly set for ourselves—believing that if we instead change our character, we will achieve far more.

Heretofore are the three goals I set for myself, or rather, base my goals upon so that I see them come to pass, and ones that I have seen form considerable fruit.

The first is to set a physical goal that can be attained or manifested before your eyes. This perhaps is the most selfish of the three goals because it solely exists to make one “feel” accomplished at the end of the year. Regardless, it is wholesome and noble to do so; as working diligent is part of our design. It should be something grand, but not impossible. And only one goal. And make it something related to a dream or occupation. An example would be: “This year, I will publish a book”, or “finish my manuscript”, or “make that website, album, gain such-and-such amount of clients, finally build that chair, barn, or house.” These should be physical goals that, if you put all your effort into, you should achieve. Whether it’s by March of this year, the middle of August, or at the last stroke of New Year’s Eve, 2023. It doesn’t matter when. Just accomplish it so that you can look back upon this year in the next, and smile knowing you gained that dream of yours.

The second is about our relationship with the Lord. All our lives should be centered on the simple cycle of Reading the Word, Worshipping His glory, and Praying to our Father. Yet each of these areas may wane or wax depending on our circumstance, and these things we can attest need to be greater. Instead of chasing after all three, set a goal to foster and bolster one of these areas. And ask the Lord which He believes you should go after. It could be the Word. (i.e. “I will read a chapter of the Gospels a day”, “read the New Testament four times this year”, or “read the entire Bible”). It could be Worship. (i.e. “I will take fifteen minutes out of each day to worship”, “I will learn to play an instrument and sing to my Father”, or “I will set aside three hours, one night a week, to do nothing but sing to the Lord”.) It could be Prayer. (i.e. “I will start and end my day with prayer”, “I will intercessory pray for three hours each week”, or both.) All of these should be dedicated time that is above and beyond your normal routine. The point is that you are giving more of your soul to being alone with the Lord. Thus, you will strengthen your relationship with Him, and in so doing, the other areas will grow as well.

The third is about achieving the character of Christ. We all agree that we suck and cannot live up to His standards daily (some of us hourly). And there are endless characteristics we need to grow in. (i.e. generosity, serving, prayer, laughter, hope, faith, faithfulness, healing, loving others, thinking the best, prophecy, being an intentional parent, and on and on and on.) But instead of feeling helpless to grow in all of them, set your sights on one. Become more generous than you ever have this year. Or serve others more than ever before. Or love others more than ever before.

Instead of trying to rework your entire life, chase after one physical goal, chase after strengthening your relationship with God, and become more like Christ in one area. Odds are you can nail it. And if you don’t—well, what does that even mean? How can you fail at trying to strengthen your relationship with God or becoming more like Christ? I suppose you may fail at “publishing your book”, but that pales in comparison to the former two.

This year, for my family, is a year of “Recharge”. But I’ll give you the Word from the Lord as well, that it might strengthen and inspire you.

It began as a sort of joke from the Lord. I may tell the story of how that came to be another time, but for now, just know that God showed us again and again that batteries around us were dying and it was time for a recharge.

The etymology of the word is very fuzzy because of how the prefix “re” has been watered down for the last six hundred years. But the word “re” was initially a French word (c. 1200) meaning “again; back; anew (different and better), against.”

In a sense, to “return to its original design”, “to birth something new”, and “to prepare for the opposition”. A word that hid in redact, redeem, redolent, redundant, and render. But later was changed in meaning by words like receive, recommend, recover, refer, and require.

Whereas the word charge was initially (13th century) a word meaning “to load, put a burden on or in; fill with something to be retained”, and later in the 16th century “to load a weapon”.

Bringing these words together, I believe God was telling us that He intends to “do again”, “bring us back to our original design” and “load us up” for something “different and better”. We are walking into the future, and in it we will find what was our original purpose.

If that word speaks to you, fantastic. If not, I don’t care otherwise, though I suppose I hope you chase after what He is telling you. Because I know that God intends for you to move forward. Take these steps of writing down and aiming at a tangible goal and becoming more like Him and spending time with Him. Those are noble goals, worth achieving, and able to accomplish. All the other stuff of breaking habits and losing weight will take care of themselves if you aim at those deeper things instead.

Glory to God and enjoy your Twenty-Twenty-Three.

The Lord’s,
Keith

Forgotten

I’m so angry inside 
Too angered to die 
Cos in the flash of an eye 
    Was gone my whole life

I gave my soul to a place 
And my heart to a fake  
But these things were meant to fade
I should never entrusted my heart to this charade
    Instead to Your Name 

I am a cropped image 
I am a cut clip 
I am a hushed tone 
Only a forgotten blip 
They don’t speak of me anymore 
Like the memory of a wicked whore 

All I did was give everything I have 
And tell the truth when no one else had

I want to scream out now 
To yell and fight 
My fists feel tight—or are they light? 
I want ‘o give in to my might 
You wolf, you liar, you thief 
What more am I but a forgotten fief?

Crop me out more 
Lie about my name 
Since the day I was born 
    I’ve only given everything 

And now I’m not even a memory 
    Because a memory would have the honor of being whispered 
Instead I’m the curse 
    That you wish was forgotten 

Into the trash heap with me 
Nowhere else, please
I wish others knew 
This is what happens when they’re through 

Oh, but Heaven knows my name 
My Lord has seen my tears 
God, avenge my soul 
Wipe away all my fears 

Hold me high and not let me die 
Hear me, please, and let me sleep 
I don’t want to give in
I don’t want to give up 
Help me be nothing
    more than your son 
And wherever iniquity lies within me
    Root me out and bleed me 

Hear me, Lord 
See me, Father 
Take my ashes 
    And make something beautiful 
Take my ashes 
    I don’t want them anymore

Castle in the Copse

Castle in the Copse
Chapter 10

“Oh, wait!” Marian’s voice shouted just as Mrs. Dolor’s bedroom door had slammed shut.

Esther sat up on the couch. “Did you hear that?” She asked the Monster.

“I saw them!” Marian’s voice shouted again from deep within the confines and corners of the house.

“That’s Marian’s voice!” Esther jumped from the couch. “We have to go! It sounds like she’s at my parent’s—”

The gong blasted; the Pendulum rattled; the house shook and Esther covered her ears. On the other side of the house, Mrs. Dolor’s door-handle was shaking in Aaron’s hand, and he and Marian were covering their ears like Esther, but about to turn to see three hairy trolls filling the hallway and capturing them.

Esther only now realized that her sister was that close to her, but she, too, was in a predicament. Her eyes drifted up to the Monster who was staring over her shoulder and seemed very agitated. Esther spun round to see Fritz standing under the archway separating the living-room and dining-room; he leaned against his cane and scowled. He had just come back from being yelled at by the Professor and was visibly much nastier.

“It’s time, you oaf,” he growled. “The Professor doesn’t care any longer about you. And I know for certain now that you have defected.”

The ugly hunchback picked his cane up and reached into his pocket for his matchbox. Recognizing his intent, the Monster jerked Esther’s hand up and sped to the little closet under the stairs where the family stored the board-games and blankets. Esther’s head spun round so quick she almost cracked her neck. She didn’t know what was happening, but she saw Fritz chasing, and the Monster pounding his fist into the door under the stairs. Then the door flung wide, and the Monster threw himself and Esther into it. The door slammed, and they were alone.

A crow cawed, scraggly and angry, from the top of a frozen, dead tree and Esther looked up at it, amazed and bewildered. The two were at the bottom portion of a steep hillside in a dead, wintry forest at the end of dusk. Snow kissed its top edge and the forest floor was covered in damp, dreary leaves and soft, melting snow. Thorny thickets and dull rhododendron hugged the steeper edges of the cliff like bizarre jungles, and lazy icicles suspended from their leaves and spikes. The forest was still and quiet, except for the distant chattering of wrens, robins, and crows, and mysterious crunch of a creature’s footstep behind snow and trees.

The Monster and Esther stood on a shelf jutting out from the hill, stamped down by years of deer and elk traffic. Wind blew up the path, and Esther shivered in her nightgown and slippers. The Monster wrapped his arms around her, though they weren’t warm like you’d expect. Nonetheless, they blocked the sharp breeze from getting to her.

“We need to move on from here,” he said, nudging her up the deer path. “Fritz will find us.”

“Why are we running from him?” Esther asked.

“Because he’s a fool,” the Monster explained. “And nothing is more dangerous than a fool trying to impress his master.”

“I’m cold,” Esther trembled.

“I know,” the Monster said.

The Monster and little Esther traveled up the mountainside in single file, the Monster leading and scanning the leafy ground for vipers and the mountainside for wolves. His stiff gait crookedly meandered up and down the rocks and fallen branches. He didn’t care that thorns grabbed, ripped, or tore at his clothing while Esther gracefully dipped and bobbed between the vines’ brittle fingers. The hard incline warmed her, but her nose and ears were numb.

A soft patter, thud, and crunch of snowy earth crossed the mountainside. The Monster froze and Esther stopped behind him. She craned her neck around his hip and watched the quiet mountain. After a few moments, something moved from under a thicket. It crouched low and bobbed in the snow like a spotted cat with strange pointy ears.

“What is it?” Esther whispered.

“A lynx,” the Monster answered. “He won’t bother us if we leave him alone.”

It dropped behind a rhododendron, and the Monster continued upward, back and forth, zigging and zagging, to keep the slope always at their side instead of their backs. Esther searched for the rest of the climb, but never saw the cat again.

As they neared the top, thick powdery snow buried the earth. It crunched under her slippers, and normally the sound would remind her of her favorite cereal. But right now, she couldn’t think of anything but a blanket and fire. She wrapped her arms around her chest and shoulders and counted the steps in her head. At the top, the trees had disappeared and the far side was a long gentle slope of snow and thin, brown grass. In the valley, Esther spotted a black copse, and behind it, an old castle.

“Where are we?”

“Romania,” the Monster answered, flatly.

Esther didn’t know where Romania was, otherwise she would have been more impressed or more frightened. “Why did you bring us here?”

“I didn’t really think of it,” the Monster replied. “It was the first place that came to mind.”

“Frankenstein!” A howl echoed from the valley behind them and bounced for miles off the distant mountains.

“Fritz found us,” the Monster muttered. Before Esther replied, the Monster picked her up in his stiff arms and raced down the opposite slope. Snow splashed up across his legs, and Esther buried her face under his coat. She noticed his chest was cold, nothing like when Mr. Dolor carried her.

The Monster bounded toward the castle in the copse. At the center, the trees dispersed, and the Monster walked again, but kept Esther in his arms. She studied it as the trees opened up. Burns, decay, and earth dismantled much of its glory decades ago. It stood as a remnant instead of sanctuary, and the dim firelight in each window gave Esther a creepy feeling.

“It looks like a haunted house,” Esther looked at the towers and crumbling rooftop.

“The whole world is a haunted house,” the Monster said.

Esther looked up at him, confused.

The Monster stared at the blue moon hanging over them. “Just because everyone acts like it isn’t, doesn’t make it any less true.”

The two stepped under the brick archway and crossed a bridge. The river had dried up early in the season and the watermill no longer worked. Esther peered through the Monster’s arms. The entrance towered overhead.

“Are we going to get back home?” She asked.

“I need to make sure we lose Fritz first,” the Monster answered. “He won’t stop trying to kill you.”

The Monster put her down on the front steps of the castle. She shook, but not from the cold as much as from the ugly understanding running down her spine that she was between Fritz trying to kill her and a scary fortress entrance. Cobwebs and abandoned nests hung from the nooks in its walls and corbels. A colony of bats peeped and screeched above the doorway. The Monster opened the front door and stepped into the darkness.

Esther hesitated. The Monster turned and bent low in the shadows.

“It’s alright,” he said. “The master’s not here. Only the hired hands, and they aren’t near as bad as Fritz.”

“Who lives here?” Esther’s voice trembled. She wanted to be brave, but wondered how long it took until bravery became foolishness.

“This is the Professor’s home.”

Esther’s eyes widened, and she wanted to object, but the Monster grabbed her wrist again. The hair on her arms stood on end and she tried to pull away. But the Monster dropped to his knees, covered her mouth, jerked her into his arms. His mighty arms turned her around and pointed beyond to the slope they had just descended. Along its dim, snowy bank, she watched the precarious bouncing movements of a little man with a cane shimmying down the slope.

“My hope is he thinks I’ll avoid this place,” the Monster whispered. “But my fear is that he will look here first. Rarely do my hopes outweigh my fears. Come.” The Monster led Esther into the dark entrance and shut the door behind them.

Esther felt the air in the unlit foyer and knew it wasn’t a small space. Her breath and slippers echoed along the stone floor.

“Can we turn a light on?” Esther asked.

The Monster stayed silent in the darkness.

She held his hand as he made his way through the dark, around corridors and tunnels, under chandeliers and archways, down steps, and up stairwells. She heard meek whispers in the shadows, and every once in a while caught a glimpse of a light flickering out behind a passageway. But she never saw or met anyone, always following and trusting the Monster knew what he was doing and where he was going.

They entered another room, and she guessed it was as grand as the first one must have been. In the far corner, a single candle flicked and gently fluttered, illuminating the surrounding room. Esther let go of the Monster’s hand and ran to it, but stopped short when noticing the floorboards had rotted through at the center of the room. She tiptoed across the creaky, wobbly boards. Termite dust and wings flitted into the air and dropped through the cracks to the story below them. She balanced her way onto sturdier boards and approached the light. The Monster waited against the far wall, his silhouette nothing more than a black amorphous shape in the shadows.

“Please,” she smiled. “We can carry it and use it to see where we go.”

The Monster didn’t reply.

“What’s the matter?” She asked.

“It will hurt us,” he replied.

“What?” Esther was incredulous. “It’s just a little candle. It won’t hurt anyone. Well, I burnt my wrist with the wax from a birthday candle once, but you get over it quick.”

The Monster took a step forward, drawn into the light, but stuttered, second-guessed it, and quickly backed up like a dog that is hesitant to meet a new person. “No!” He hollered and slammed his fists against the stone wall. “We can’t go near the fire.”

“Okay!” Esther held her palms up. “It’s okay, we don’t need to use it!” She leaned over and blew the candle out. But as she did, a part of her chest ached. The light was so beautiful, but now she had to follow the Monster’s lead through the darkness again. Her hands flopped to her sides in submission. “Now what?”

“I don’t think Fritz came into the castle,” the Monster replied. “And we’ve made it deep enough in that he won’t find our door out.” The floorboards creaked, and she realized his heavy feet must have stepped forward into the darkness and onto the rotten boards.

“Oh, wait!” She hollered. “The floor is no good!”

The Monster didn’t react in time. He stomped forward her and his foot broke through the frail floor. He roared in terror and lurched backward to the stronger footing. Esther leaped across the rotten wood and shoved her little body against the Monster’s. The floor gave way under her, a beam snapped, the Monster reached the stone wall, Esther fell at his feet, a crash, a shriek, a chandelier falling, glass shattering many stories below. The castle echoed.

Esther gasped for air and held the ground under her for several seconds until she felt the courage to reach out her hands and touch the hole in the ground behind her. She felt its edge and gazed below. Cold air swept over her face. Dust fluttered in the moonlight. She silently whistled and giggled uncontrollably.

“Wow!” She flopped onto her back and looked up at the Monster’s dark silhouette.

He stared with a furrowed brow and said nothing.

Something was scurrying in the depths of the hole, knocking around and cursing under its breath. She turned and peered down again, this time with the Monster leaning over her. Below was the short, little gray and white silhouette of Fritz rummaging in the dusty dark. He looked up at them from several stories below and pointed his cane into the air.

“Frankenstein!” He shouted.

“THAT’S NOT MY NAME!” The Monster growled and Esther jumped back in fear. It was the first time since seeing the Monster shove the witch into the oven that he had genuinely terrorized her.

“Give me that, Dolor!” Fritz wobbled on his cane to the stairwell and ascended the steps.

“Get back,” the Monster whispered.

Esther backed against the stony wall. The Monster thundered to the entrance of the room. He slammed its wooden door shut and began pounding on its center.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

He flung the door wide, and Esther heard the piano’s song humming from her house again. In front of them was the downstairs hallway between her mother’s room, restroom, and study. The amber glow of flickering lights and dusty air filled it. She smelled the nasty, stale stench of urine and mildew again. At first she smiled to see her house, but it faded to repose when she remembered the ugly state it was still in.

“Stop!” A large gravelly scream echoed from the downstairs hall and frightened her.

“What was that?” Esther held the Monster’s hand and looked up to him.

“Sounds like one of the troll brothers,” he replied.

“Come on!” Another voice shouted back at the troll.

“That’s Marian’s voice!” Esther yelped. “We’ve got to help her—Quick!”
A Short Message

Sin is defined as dishonor.

The one who dishonors will himself not be honored.
And the one who is dishonored will himself be honored by his Father in Heaven.

I’m reminded of Jesus and, specifically, the pain He must have felt remaining silent among so much hatred and dishonor while on trial before Pilate. He laid His life down and was quickly turned on and ridiculed. And that honor, or dishonor really, just rings in my heart like a powerful gong. It reminds me again of how we need to push ourselves to honor others more whether they “have earned” it or not.

Honor is not earned. It is given. Regardless of the person or accomplishment. It is about looking beyond the person in the present circumstance and seeing them as Christ sees them. And in that honor, we will see people become what God has called them to be.
In the Billiard Room with the Cue Ball

In the Billiard Room with the Cue Ball
Chapter 9

The hallway slid beneath Marian’s feet. The troll’s enormous hand wrapped under her arms and bound her mouth shut. Its brother held Aaron in a similar fashion. There was no use struggling; each ogre towered six feet over them. Marian fought to see through the hair draped in her face.

A door opened, and each troll took turns squeezing through. Stopp, the one wearing monstrous glasses, went first, followed by Thimbledon holding his club and Aaron in each arm, and Wimbledon, the bald one, dragging Marian. The room was dressed like a lounge—long, indulgent red curtains draped across three wide French-cut windows and separated by four masculine, wooden book-shelves covered in books and board games. Esther would have loved to see all those books—old and new binds with cracking pages, colorful designs, and smelly burnt parchment. On the outside of the windows, opposite one another in the room, were two cushy green chairs with end tables for someone to rest and read. At the center of the room was a gold and green billiard table fixed under a glamorous, bright ceiling light. The billiard balls were scattered across the top like someone was recently playing and solids was winning.

Thimbledon threw Aaron across the room. He flailed over the floor and smashed into the side of the billiard table. His rib cracked against the table leg, and he coughed a fit on his hands and knees. Wimbledon let go of Marian, and she rushed to Aaron’s side.

“Not much on them,” Thimbledon growled.

“Must not have eaten their meat,” Stopp replied. His voice was high and shrill compared to the deep growl of his brothers. He slunk next to Thimbledon with a wry smile, looking over the children.

“Shut up, Stopp.” Thimbledon shoved his younger brother against the wall. He looked at the oldest Wimbledon and said, “You promised they were worth it.”

“I promised nothing,” Wimbledon sneered and lifted his long nose at him. “The raven’s message told us to get the Dolor children.”

“Actually, she’s the Dolor,” Aaron said, wincing in pain and sitting up on his haunches. “I’m just Aaron.”

“Justaren?” Stopp cackled. “I wonder how those taste!”

“Great,” Wimbledon complained. “We were supposed to grab Dolors.”

“What does it matter?” Thimbledon argued. “The raven said the ones outside of the mother’s bedroom. That’s what we did.”

The troll brothers argued back and forth while Marian lifted Aaron off the ground. “What do we do?” She whispered.

Aaron grabbed the edge of the billiard table and steadied himself. “What can we do?” He asked, and she noticed he palmed a ball from the pool table. He locked eyes with her and raised an eyebrow.

Marian shook her head “no” at him and jerked it toward the trolls. “Why in the world would you want to eat a couple of kids like us?” She hollered and threw her hands up like a stage actor, stepping in front of Aaron. “After all, there’s barely anything on us. Might just as well—eat some string beans!”

“Ugh! I hate beans!” Thimbledon growled and rubbed the club in his hands.

“You know soaking beans brings them back to life.” Stopp tapped his nose at his brother. “So we can drown the kids after we eat them and get seconds.”

“That’s not what that means,” Wimbledon hollered.

“Stop it, Stopp,” Thimbledon threatened. “You’re just trying to irritate us.”

“I never dreamt of exasperating—”

“Shut up, Stopp!” Both trolls yelled.

“If we didn’t get the right Dolors,” Wimbledon thought aloud, “—maybe we shouldn’t eat them.”

“Poppy-cock!” Thimbledon interrupted. He stormed to Wimbledon’s side and brandished his club in the air. “Who cares about these two maggots? It’s not the Dolor boy, and he’s the only one that’s off-limits.” The club smacked his open hand. “If he’s not the Dolor boy, and she clearly isn’t—I say it’s high-time we eat.”

“There’s no higher time for eating than lunch on a mountain,” Stopp quipped.

“Stopp,” Thimbledon thundered. “Mother ain’t alive anymore to keep you likewise. It’s about time now you grow up instead of down, or I’ll make you regret it.”

Stopp clenched his jaw, but a smirk escaped his pursed lips with a dumb expression like a clown.

“Alright,” Wimbledon said. “Tie ‘em up.” Thimbledon reached into his pocket and pulled out a length of rope. It looked like floss in his gigantic palm, but was enough to tie up each child. He stepped toward them.

“Wait!” Marian screamed, and for a moment Thimbledon paused, dumbfounded. “How about you let us go, and we never come back?”

Thimbledon looked at his brothers, perplexed and second-guessing himself because of Marian’s forthright demeanor. But in a moment, he snapped out of it, shook his head, and his raggedy hair flowed every which way. “I haven’t eaten in weeks,” he grumbled. “And you’re on the menu.”

“Psst! Wimbledon,” Stopp whispered. “Were we given a menu?”

Wimbledon rolled his eyes.

Thimbledon approached the children and reached out his hand for Marian. Aaron took a deep breath and put his hand around Marian’s wrist. He jerked her out of the way and swung himself forward. His right arm came around him like a pitcher, and the billiard ball flung from his hand.

It shot like a bullet into Thimbledon’s right eye. It was small enough to dig itself around the socket and lodge between his frontal lobe and eyeball. He screamed in horror and the roar shook the room like a rocket launch. Blood and yellow puss spurt into the air and splattered across the floor like wet paint.

Marian covered her mouth as the hairy giant crashed back and forth in the room. He smashed into a bookshelf and scattered books and board game pieces everywhere. Then a table smashed under his weight and went splintering into the air and across the floor.

Aaron took a breath, braced himself for the pain in his ribs and chest, clenched Marian’s hand, and pulled her behind him. He was charging for the door. He squeezed past Stopp, who was doubled over laughing at his brother writhing on the floor. Aaron reached for the door and turned the handle. But Marian’s wrist fell limp in his grip. He whipped around and froze. Her petrified eyes shook from under the heavy grip of Wimbledon’s hand. His fist engulfed her small head. Aaron looked up at the troll. His menace and quiet growl were threatening Marian’s life. Aaron let go of the door handle and stared up at him, flexing his jaw and listening to Thimbledon thrash around the room behind Wimbledon.

Wimbledon’s fist came down, gripped the boy’s shirt in his mighty hand and flung him across the room like a rag-doll. Aaron slipped in Thimbledon’s blood and slid to a stop under the pool table. Wimbledon picked Marian up by her shoulders and glared in her face.

“Got any more tricks, Dolor!” He yelled. “Or should I rip your limbs off one-by-one right now?”

Stopp cackled in the background as Thimbledon held his eye shut and composed himself. Long streams of blood dripped down his face and hand. Wimbledon carried Marian to the pool table and sat her on top of it. He picked the rope up off the ground and tied it around her waist and arms. She kept quiet while his heavy eyes peaked through the long hair and studied her.

After he tied her, he reached under the table and grabbed Aaron’s leg. Aaron squirmed and fought like a fish caught on a line. Wimbledon slammed him onto the tabletop and he gasped for air. He tied him up with the rest of the rope next to Marian.

Thimbledon sprung up from the ground. His one eye stared at Aaron and his chest rose and fell with ferocity. “Do it, Wimbledon!” His teeth ground together and blood bubbled out of his lips.

“We need to thinks about this a bit more.” Wimbledon held his hand up at his brother. “No use jumping to action when the Professor could get angry.” Thimbledon looked at him, shocked.

“Well, just think of it like this, Thimbledon,” Stopp butt-in. “We can get you some sheep, and you can live happily on an island as a cyclops.”

“Stop it, Stopp,” Wimbledon warned.

Marian looked back and forth between Stopp and Thimbledon, getting an idea. “You know you may be right, Stopp,” she added. “After all, it’s not like he’ll ever be able to ride a bicycle now. Much less drive a car.”

Stopp looked at Marian, before thinking about it for a moment and then bursting out in laughter. “Just imagine!” He howled. “The stupid brute is gonna bump into everything now that he can’t see his right side!”

Marian smirked. “And—and he’ll wear one of those silly eye-patches like a pirate!”

“Captain Thimbledon!” Stopp spat. “Have to get him a funny hat and peg-leg. Hey, Thimbledon, you can walk around with the Professor’s raven on your shoulder!”

“Stop it, Stopp,” Wimbledon warned. “Mother’s not around anymore. And this isn’t funny.”

“I bet you make it only a week before everyone is calling you Blackbeard.” Stopp fell onto his back, kicking his feet into the air. “Or Red-beard! We can dye your hair, Thimbledon!”

“Stopp!” Wimbledon thundered. But his final warning was too late. Thimbledon stormed across the room to Stopp. He put his foot high into the air and brought it down hard onto Stopp’s chest. Stopp didn’t realize what was happening before Thimbledon grabbed his kicking leg and gripped the calf in his arms. The children gaped as Thimbledon twisted Stopp’s leg, snapped it at the knee, and ripped it from the joint. The bones cracked and blood burst from the open wound. Stopp screamed and grabbed at the squiggling nerves inside of his knee with his fist. His shrill voice sounded like scratching chalkboards.

“And I guess we’ll call you Stoop from now on,” Thimbledon growled and took a bite out of his brother’s severed leg. “Haven’t eaten in weeks,” he whispered and dropped the appendage onto the ground next to Stopp. His eye looked up at the children.

Aaron’s mouth fell open while Marian wriggled in her restraints. “Come on!” She fought in frustration.

“There’s no hope for you, Dolor,” Wimbledon hollered. “There never was.” His hand wrapped around Marian and squeezed her like an orange. Thimbledon stomped over to Aaron and opened his mouth around his head. She stopped struggling in Wimbledon’s arms and closed her eyes.

“Jesus, help us,” she whispered.
The Man behind the Curtain

The Man behind the Curtain
Chapter 8

The door on the attic floor flung open, and Herbert fell forward. The creature prowling in the attic had scratched his back, and the door slammed shut behind him. He thought he would be falling on his sister and Aaron when he heard their voices through the floor, but they were nowhere to be found. And just like the attic, nothing seemed familiar, so he assumed he was in a very different building.

He picked himself off a cold, creamy, cobbled floor and rubbed his wrists where the ropes had grooved into his skin. Dried blood and vomit were stained on the front of his clothes. He touched his back where the creature had scraped him and it stung. He looked up, but the attic door had disappeared. Remembering the monster nearly got him, he shivered and sighed. In all the bustle, he had left his glasses on the floor of the attic. He squinted his eyes and looked down the long hallway. White mortar outlined the creamy stones up the walls and ceiling. Lanterns lit the hall to a blurry wooden door fifty feet ahead. He couldn’t see well, but he guessed he was in something like a castle.

“Where am I?” He murmured to himself.

He stumbled toward the door, hoping to find water because he was parched, but stopped short after hearing voices on the other side. His ear pressed against the door. Three men spoke inside.

While he tried to make out the voices, he noticed a thin passage to his right, wandering down to a dimly lit iron door. He staggered down to it and put his ear against it like the other wooden door.

Silence.

He nudged it open, and the door creaked. It was a smoke-smeared dungeon. Chains hung from the ceiling with iron locks at the end for securing a prisoner’s wrists and ankles. In the corner was a large washbasin filled with water. Herbert fumbled to it and dunked his face in. He drank all he could handle and came up gasping.

The water soaked his shirt and cleaned his face and clothing off. He fell to his knees, exhausted, and started weeping. But no matter how many tears you have inside of you, you must stop at some point and realize crying doesn’t really change anything—though it surely does feel good sometimes. He wiped his tears and looked around the dungeon again. Across the room, nearest the door he entered, a large red velvet curtain hung from the ceiling to the floor. It was several inches thick, and he could tell it separated the dungeon from a larger area on the far side.

He scooted along the stone floor. Now that he had his drink, he remembered he should try to stay silent. He pressed up against the curtain. The voices of the three men came through it, dim and muffled. Herbert’s hand crawled along the fabric and searched for a seam. He pulled the curtain, keeping the light off his face, but letting his eye peek through.

He was right in his guess. The other side was a much larger room with the same cobbled floor and creamy stone walls. Iron swords, flags, and oil painting decorated the walls. Candle chandeliers hung from the ceiling and dripped wax onto the floor. He craned his neck backward and pitched the curtain outward to see farther to his left. Two men were standing with their backs turned to Herbert. Under their feet, a long burgundy carpet led up a set of stone steps to a throne. On the throne sat a thin pale man, wearing a black suit and resting his hands on top of a cane. He wore crocodile-and-snake-skinned shoes. A top-hat rested on a pedestal next to him. In his ear, a piece of cork clogged his ear because oil and wax would drain out of it otherwise.

“Mr. Dauer,” Herbert whispered to himself.

“No, I don’t care about the mother,” one of the men yelled at Mr. Dauer, and Herbert recognized his voice as the Professor’s. “She knows nothing, and her demure temperament makes her useless to me. Maybe he could help with it. But not even my song can get through that.”

“I don’t expect the mother to be a part of the story for very long, regardless,” Mr. Dauer responded and tapped his cane.

“What I want to know is why hasn’t my song affected the children!” The Professor hollered. “Something is protecting them, and you didn’t brief me well enough for this!”

“Please, don’t talk to me like you are in charge,” Mr. Dauer responded coolly. He took a breath and leaned forward. “The ghost had them drink from the spring. Their hearts are impervious to your song.”

“Well, if you told me that before I got here,” the Professor remarked, “I would have just taken the boy from the home altogether. No use locking us down to this location if I’m on a time-limit now. This isn’t my fault—”

“It is your fault, Wolfgang!” Mr. Dauer raised his voice, and the hairs on Herbert’s neck stood on end. “I want that artifact, and I want it yesterday!” Mr. Dauer brought his attention to the other man. “How much time longer does the Pendulum have?”

The other man raised his head and looked at Mr. Dauer. He spoke, and to Herbert’s shock and horror, he realized it was his father. A pit formed inside Herbert’s stomach and made him want to throw up again. Tears rushed to his eyes, and he looked all over the room, confused, gasping for understanding.

“Every minute and moment it grows quicker,” Mr. Dolor spoke. “You do not have, but a handful of chimes before the Pendulum resets.” From the sound of his voice, Herbert knew something was still intoxicating his father like at dinner.

“You have five chimes left,” Mr. Dauer scowled at the Professor. “Get the artifact from the boy, or so I swear it—I will forsake you to this place forever. All the doors will shut to you.”

A knock banged on the door, the same wooden one just outside Herbert’s iron door.

“What?!” The Professor screamed, and Herbert stuck his face through the curtain a little further to see. A short man with wild hair, a hump on his shoulder, and a bandage around his ear bumbled into the chamber, with his head down and looking altogether meek.

“Fritz!” The Professor hollered at him. “What do you want?”

“Begging forgiveness, masters,” Fritz whined. “But I don’t think we can trust all our allies.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I threw out that Monster after he bungled the boy’s kidnapping and didn’t kill the other one.” Fritz explained.

Aaron, Herbert thought. He’s okay.

“Now he’s back with one of the other Dolor children. I think he’s telling her things.”

“I don’t have time for your presumptions or petty differences with the Monster—”

“But sir, the clock keeps chiming!” Fritz argued. “I imagine we don’t have time—”

“How dare you talk to me about my plans!” The Professor screamed. “Get your sniveling little dirt face out of Mr. Dauer’s chambers or I’ll throw you in the dungeon myself!” (Herbert slunk back as the Professor pointed his direction.) “If the chime keeps ringing,” the Professor continued, “we will increase our tenacity. Even if it means those other Dolors perish.”

“What of the Monster and the girl?” Fritz asked.

The Professor looked at Mr. Dauer on his throne. He pursed his lips and rolled his eyes. The Professor looked back to Fritz. “I’m sure you can figure it out,” he said.

Herbert didn’t know what that meant, but didn’t like it. A familiar knock rapped on the wooden door—Tap, Tap, Tap—And Herbert craned his neck to see.

The Professor stepped passed Fritz and opened the door. The black raven fluttered inside and rested on his shoulder. It leaned its beak into his ear, as if whispering.

“Thank you,” the Professor said. He turned to the other men. “It seems two of the children have found the mother’s quarters.” The Professor responded to the Raven on his shoulder, “Have Wimbledon, Thimbledon, and Stopp take care of them.”

The Raven’s wings thrust open, and it zoomed out of sight. The Professor thought he saw the velvet curtain flutter and looked toward the dungeon. But he assumed he was imagining things and returned to Mr. Dolor and Dauer at the throne.

“In between a minute and a moment,” Mr. Dauer mused, deep in thought. “Get the artifact before time corrects itself, Ludwig. You won’t have your friends after that. Not even your song will help you then.”

“And you—” Mr. Dauer looked at Herbert’s father. “Get back up there to the Pendulum and the boy. Make sure the chupacabra hasn’t killed him yet.” Mr. Dauer looked at the ceiling chandelier. “I want my Pendulum safe.”

Fritz opened his mouth to say something, but noticed the men had already forgotten about him. He turned away as Mr. Dolor exited with him on his way to the attic.

“Dolor children,” Mr. Dauer whispered to himself and rolled his eyes.

Herbert jumped to his feet. This was his opportunity. If that little man without the ear knew where one of his sisters was, he could lead him to her. He crawled along the stone floor and creaked the dungeon door open. Both men passed in a flurry as he hugged the edge of the shadows in the small corridor.

He turned back into the corridor of lanterns, keeping as much as thirty feet of shadows and flickering candlelights between him and Fritz and his father. At the end of the hall, two pathways led in each direction. Fritz scampered to the right. His father turned toward the left, but stopped short for some reason. Something in the air had caught his attention. He turned around and looked Herbert’s direction. Herbert dropped to the ground and pressed his body against the stone wall, hoping the candlelight was dim enough. Mr. Dolor scanned the hall like a hunter. They locked on Herbert, but he couldn’t be sure without his glasses if Mr. Dolor had seen him. Herbert held his breath and closed his eyes, praying for the power of invisibility. The zombified man sniffed the stale air and shook his head. He turned away and vanished down the left hall.

Herbert’s legs felt like jello and his hands shook as he slithered to his feet. He took a deep breath and scurried down the rest of the hall before taking the right. Fritz was much further ahead, a hundred paces down, scuttling along quickly. Herbert slowed down and took a breath when the hunchbacked man stopped at a wooden door.

Fritz slapped his hand on the center of the door three times and opened it. Amazed, Herbert saw his bedroom on the other side of the threshold. Fritz stepped into the dark bedroom without a thought, and Herbert raced after, tip-toeing and pitter-pattering.

He caught the door just before it swung shut, but held it nearly closed. He peeked inside. The bedroom was empty. Fritz had already left. Herbert jumped inside, looking around his dark bedroom and letting himself take a breath. It was amusing to see a door standing upright in the middle of his bedroom, leading to a medieval hallway. He decided to leave the door open in case he needed to go back there for some reason.

He hurried around his room at breakneck speed, ripping his clothes off his body and pulling fresh ones from his drawer. An old pair of glasses were in his top drawer, next to his collector-cards and coin collection. His mother made him keep them for emergencies. They were tight on the nose and not the right prescription any longer, but they were better than nothing. He put on socks and boots and shoved his Gerber knife in his pocket.

Next, he opened the closet door and picked up a length of rope from the floor. Dad had bought it for him. They were going to make a swing set in the tree-house next week. He shook his head, wiped a tear away, and threw the rope over his shoulder. The flashlight was waiting on top of his desk for him. He snatched it up and made way for the door.

“Oh, wait!” Marian shouted.

Mrs. Dolor’s door shut. Marian and Aaron stood in the dark hallway.

“What?” Aaron exclaimed.

“I saw them!” Marian grabbed Aaron’s hand. “I saw them, Aaron! Herbert and Esther!”

Aaron and Marian stood outside of Mrs. Dolor’s bedroom door. He reached for the handle and it vibrated in his hand. A chime rung throughout the house and the children covered their ears.

“Ugh!” Marian winced. “What is that?”

The noise dissipated. Aaron put his hands down and reached for the handle again.

“Hello, Dolor children,” a voice that sounded full of peanut-butter greeted them.

They turned around to see three enormous creatures filling the breadth of the hallway. Long, wispy hair covered their bodies from top to bottom. But the center one was bald at the top of his head. They had long, bumpy noses that protruded through their hair and deep furrowed brows underneath. The fat one on the left wore big round glasses that held his hair close to his face, and the one of the right carried a long club over his shoulder like a tennis player. They were trolls and the one at the center had greeted them.

“I’m Wimbledon,” he said. “And these are my brothers, Thimbledon and Stopp.”
Under the Spell

Under the Spell
Chapter 7

“Why did you say I can’t help Herbert?” Esther asked the Monster, who was again sitting in Mr. Dolor’s recliner. She stood in front of the couch, arms akimbo and fists on hips.

“You won’t be able to find his door,” the Monster said, flatly.

Esther scrunched up her face and crossed her arms. She wandered in a circle, wrung her hands, and stared at the stairway.

The Monster leaned back in the recliner. “Not all doors lead to where you want,” he said. “You need to search for the right door if you want the right answer.”

“How am I supposed to save my brother?”

“You might not be able to.”

Just then, Esther heard someone’s footsteps coming down the stairwell. She looked up to see a short, hunched man with a hump on his back. He was stocky, wore dirty clothes, and carried a cane to help him balance. A bandage covered his left ear. On his right shoulder, the raven perched and glared at Esther and the Monster.

“You stupid oaf,” the short man hollered at the Monster. “First you get me injured, then you bring this maggot back to the house. What are you doing?”

“Something told me we made a mistake,” the Monster replied.

The short man took a box of matches from his jacket pocket and lit a stick on fire. The Monster jumped from the recliner and curled over in submission. Fritz threw the match at the Monster.

“I’m sorry, Fritz!” the Monster screamed and cowered away from the flicked match. He scurried to the other side of the living room and Fritz chased him around the room, throwing lit matches at him.

Esther fell onto the couch and covered her face. She couldn’t comprehend what was happening and felt bad for the Monster. She peered through the cracks in her fingers and watched Fritz chasing him.

“This is why I threw you in with that witch in the wood,” Fritz cackled as he threw another match. “To disappear for good, you dummy!”

“Where did he go?” Marian whispered. The wood slats stopped rumbling. No more voice. No more shuffling on the other side. Herbert was screaming, talking to them, and then, nothing.

She fell to her knees and cried, “Where is he, Aaron!”

Aaron punched the ceiling and tried to make it budge. “C’mon, Herbert,” he shouted. He rammed his body into the wood, but it would not bend. He yelled out his name and begged for him to answer.

“Not again,” Aaron whimpered. “Not again.”

“Did someone take him? He said he wasn’t alone. Oh, God! What if something happened to him?”

“Something already has happened to him,” Aaron replied. “C’mon, we can’t get through this way. We gotta try something else.”

“Where are we?” Marian continued crying. “I don’t know this house anymore.” She leaned against the railing and closed her eyes. Everything since dinner was topsy-turvy. “Mom would know what to do,” she panted.

Aaron slapped the floor. “Of course! Your parents. Let’s get them.”

“The song,” Marian replied.

“We have to try!” Aaron caught his breath and crouched in the middle of the hall. Dust and dirt floated in the surrounding air.

“How do we open her door?”

“We’ll knock,” he implored.

Marian put her head in her hands, feeling waves of desperation and panic crashing over her one after the other.

“Listen,” Aaron put his hand on her shoulder, “I’ve never had what you have. Instead, I got a lot of feeling hopeless. My dad. My mom. But hopeless situations make you realize something. You can get through them if you keep going. It’s just like the swamp in the enchanted forest. Keep swimming and something good will come along.”

Marian nodded her head. She leaned forward on her knees and hands, crouching next to Aaron. He nodded at her in the darkness and led the way toward the stairway.

A blast of sound echoed through the house. The gong was chiming again, and the stairs shook underneath them. They covered their ears as it rattled down the walls and wrenched the house back and forth. The hum fluttered in the air a moment longer until it decayed away and the piano’s melody punched through again in its mesmerizing lull.

Esther was listening to the gong, too, at the bottom of the house. Fritz shrieked at the sound and quit throwing matches. He turned and flew up the stairs in a fury. The raven puffed its wings into the air and disappeared around the corner of the dining-room.

The Monster stood from his cowering position and drew near to Esther on the couch. He stood still next to her and appeared ashamed. His hand went to his face to wipe a tear away, but there weren’t any on it. He remembered he couldn’t cry and put his hand down. He straightened his back and stood stiff as a tree. “I don’t like fire,” he whispered.

Esther nodded and smiled sheepishly. “We can’t stay in this house,” she whispered to herself. She was talking about her family, but realized the Monster probably thought she meant the two of them. She looked up at him. He was staring at her.

“Where else would you go?” The Monster asked.

“It’s too dangerous,” she said.

“Dangerous?” The Monster echoed. He looked up at the ceiling and closed his eyes. He spoke as if reciting something he heard from long ago: “Have you never wanted to do anything dangerous? Where should we be if no one wanted to do anything ‘dangerous’? Have you never wanted to look beyond the clouds or discover what changes darkness into light? I want to find what is eternity. Those things are only in ‘dangerous’.”

“That’s really pretty,” Esther said.

“My creator said it,” the Monster looked at the burnt matches on the ground. “Right before he made his greatest abomination.”

“What?”

“Me.” Lightning lit the room and Esther thought the Monster looked sad. Though his scars and ugliness covered any sort of clear sign.

Marian and Aaron crept down the steps. Each foot moved like a sloth’s hesitating paw and displaced the weight of the children. A floorboard creaked under Marian’s foot and the children froze in place. Aaron’s eyes raced along the bottom of the steps and he listened for any movement.

A deep, frightening voice came around the corner. “It’s beautiful,” it said. And Aaron wondered what that could mean.

“Someone is in the living-room,” he mouthed to Marian.

She nodded, and the two crept even slower down the steps. Aaron leaned on the railing and his feet touched the floor. He lowered himself and crawled into the dining-room. He waited for Marian to pass and lead the rest of the way.

She slithered toward the hall, taking a detour through the pantry. Around it, behind the bottom of the stairwell, just at the far end of the dark hallway, was Mr. and Mrs. Dolor’s bedroom.

“Okay,” Marian said to herself, and closed her eyes.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“That’s the noise!” Aaron whispered. The kids looked up, down, backward, forward, left, and right before the peculiar jittering hop of a large black raven on the far side of the hall caught their eye. Its little feet chattered across the floorboards like teeth. It stared at the children and rapped its beak into the floorboards.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“That’s the tapping from outside Herbert’s door,” Aaron exclaimed and Marian nodded in comprehension.

The bird spread its wings and fluttered out of the shadows and back toward the living-room and stairway. Marian and Aaron glanced back and forth at one another. They turned back to the parent’s bedroom. Candlelight flickered under its jamb.

“That’s my parent’s door,” Marian whispered.

The children tiptoed forward and Marian tapped on the door. It creaked open from the touch and Marian realized the door had already been opened by someone. She peered inside. The red and gold queen-sized bed stood in the middle of two cherry end-tables. Golden curtains framed the window’s view of the stormy night outside. In the corner, the closet door was cracked open. Mrs. Dolor sat next to it at a white vanity, staring into the mirror.

“Mom!” Marian ran inside and embraced her mother.

“Marian,” Mrs. Dolor said. “What are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night.”

“Hello, Mrs. Dolor.” Aaron stepped forward and looked around the room like he expected to find someone telling him to leave.

“Mom,” Marian said, “Don’t you see what’s going on? The monsters. The piano playing by itself. The house getting all creepy. The Professor is a vampire.”

Mrs. Dolor exhaled and shook her head. “Not all that again, Marian.” she waved her hand at her. “Is this why you came into my room in the middle of the night and woke me up?”

“But Mom, you aren’t sleeping.” Marian looked at the vanity in front of her mother. “You’re sitting at your make-up desk.”

Mrs. Dolor looked at the desk, confused. “Oh,” she chucked, “how did I get here?”

“Mom, it’s the song!” Marian took her hand. “It’s doing something to you. You have to believe me! Something terrible is happening to the house. It’s haunted. There are monsters, vampires, and goblins. Mom, please, believe me!”

“Marian.” Mrs. Dolor smiled and touched Marian’s cheek. “It was a nightmare, baby. Go back to sleep.”

“I can’t go to sleep!” Marian shook her mother’s shoulders. “Because I can’t go to my room! Herbert’s been taken! Esther’s missing—”

“Where is your brother?” Mrs. Dolor looked concerned.

“Two men burst into his room tonight. They fought Aaron and stole Herbert. Mom, please!”

Mrs. Dolor looked past Marian at Aaron. He was nodding his head and successfully kept from crying.

“Marian,” she said and shook her head, “that’s just not true. I saw both of them tonight. They are fine. But they are making little sense like you.”

“What?” Marian let go of her mother. In her mother’s glazed eyes, a distant expression stole her hope. Her mother’s drunken stare was incapable of comprehension. It made her knees weak, and she drooped to the ground.

“Just like I told them—” Mrs. Dolor smiled. “Nothing is wrong. We just need to all go back to sleep.”

“I don’t want to sleep, Mom!” Marian shouted, and tears streamed down her cheeks. “I want to find them and get out of here!” She glanced at Aaron next to her. He stood in front of the cracked closet. She thought she heard a noise like a sneeze from the closet. Aaron didn’t seem to notice.

“Marian,” Mrs. Dolor whispered, and Marian looked at her mother’s sorrowful eyes. “I want to believe you, baby. But I just—can’t.” Her hand went to her forehead, and she pouted. “Oh, this awful headache.”

“Mom, are you okay?” Marian touched her shoulder.

“Oh!” Mrs. Dolor looked at Marian, shocked. “Marian, where did you come from?” Her mother looked at her as if waking up from a dream. “Honey, what are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night.”

“I don’t—” Marian was speechless.

Aaron closed his eyes. “It’s my fault,” he said. “We shouldn’t have come.” He helped Marian to her feet, and they both realized that the song was keeping Mrs. Dolor from being able to help. They walked defeated to the door.

“Marian,” Aaron said. “Seeing your mother like this—Well, I think I heard a voice last night outside Herbert’s bedroom talking about us. And…I hated the thought of it then, but I think it was your dad. Now that I see your mom not making any sense—is it possible your dad is helping them?”

Marian stole a last glance at her mother, still staring at the vanity mirror, and shook her head. Aaron took the handle in his grip and closed the door behind them.

Just before it shut, Marian saw the closet door next to her mother swing open. Herbert, Esther, and a flash of orange and red fur jumped out. Her brother and sister were wearing different clothing, and Esther’s hair was down around her shoulders instead of up in pigtails.

“Oh, wait!” Marian shouted.

The door shut.

“What?” Aaron exclaimed.

“I saw them!” Marian grabbed Aaron’s hand. “I saw them, Aaron! Herbert and Esther!” Aaron reached for the door-handle and the gong’s chime rung. The handle shook in Aaron’s palm.

Esther sunk into the big leather couch. The pillows enveloped her little body like a pincushion. Across from her, the Monster stood staring at the matches on the ground.

“I don’t think you’re an abomination,” she said. “But I think I understand what you mean about danger. Without any danger, I guess we couldn’t do anything really meaningful. Or fun. I do like roller-coasters.”

The Monster smirked and glanced at her. “I like flowers,” he whispered. “There aren’t any flowers where I come from.”

Esther watched the sad giant. She dug into her pigtail and pulled the Bur Marigold from it. She examined the yellow flower in her hand and pet its delicate petals. They were as pristine as the day it was plucked from the River Rinkling in the Enchanted Forest.

Esther crawled off the front of the couch and handed the flower to the Monster. The floorboards on the stairway creaked like someone was sneaking around the corner. She turned to see who was coming.

“It’s beautiful,” the Monster said, touching the petals and stamen. His hand quivered above it. “It’s the kind of flower that floats well.”

Esther looked back at the Monster after no one came around the corner. She suddenly realized how safe she felt with him. Even the sound of creaks and groans in the shadows didn’t startle her as much as she had expected they would.

“Like, an ugly old lake,” the Monster continued, “could be made beautiful if it just had something like this on it.”

“Well, that’s where I got it,” Esther smiled. “On a river. But it wasn’t ugly. It was lovely. The most wondrous river I’ve ever seen.” Esther smiled at the ground, remembering. “Maybe we can go there sometime.”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Esther glanced back at the stairway when she heard tapping and a commotion like flapping wings coming from the hallway next to her parent’s bedroom. The raven zoomed by the living-room and up the stairs.

Esther looked back at the Monster, but he was frowning. He crushed the flower in his enormous hand. “No,” he said. “There’s no such thing as beautiful places anymore.”

Esther looked at the squashed flower in the Monster’s fist. Her chest shuddered at the sight of it. She wiped a tear from her face and took a deep breath. “Why did you do that?”
Twenty-Twenty-Two Nuggets

It has been a joy to write in this format this season, and I only hope this routine will grow and blossom further in coming years. But this year has not been without pain and tragedy. As many know, and most misunderstand, it held its fair share of heartbreak and sacrifice. My wife and I have discovered that some of whom we thought to be our friends, brothers, and sisters were a collective of sycophants and malcontents. We also discovered those who truly love us, pastor us, and whom we may have overlooked in our own selfish ambitions. And still further, we discovered just how blind people tend to be in a world of distractions.

Pride has been wrought from my soul, dangled in my face, and shown me how disgusting of a demon it really is. It held its wings wide across my face and smeared its feces down my chest. Humbled and humiliated, I wept when I understood how foolishly prideful I had been for years, blind to the beauty and wisdom of some I may have overlooked. And that pride—that very demon’s ugly face—smiled and hugged through the faces and arms of others that I thought I could stand beside for a lifetime. Of course, I’m being dramatic—as Josh Ellis would comment. But I think perhaps I’m not dramatic enough. Isn’t this pride and insecurity the destruction of us all?

Nonetheless, the year has been finished with just as much beauty as its disgust. While I lost many friends, influence, tradition, routine, and community, my family also acquired the depths of something I believe to be far grander. We found each other! We wrapped our arms round one another and held each other tighter than ever before. My wife and I dreamed again and realized how miserable and despondent we truly had been. Our dreams had been left on the shore, flopping and suffocating, waiting for some fisherman to stab through the heart and finally finish us off. But now they are blooming and carrying our hearts. Joy and Hope stand at the door in anticipatory grace. And now we laugh far more than cry. Though the sacrifice of community is abhorrently devastating. We yearn for people again, like never before, and our next step will involve people at a greater volume than that before.

I know I oft speak in riddles in these texts, and that is because I require the cathartic experience, but also the honor in my soul that would not betray, speak idly or ill of a brother or sister, and would aim to improve the future.

However, I can say that honor is something that ruins my soul; it is so strong in my heart. One of the grandest pleasures in my life is honoring an individual and celebrating both their life and legacy. To see my family so ridiculed not by words, but by the lack of them—the mere absent attention and a flippant waving of the hand—butchers my heart with a dull steak knife. How I wish I could remove that knife from one of our backs and stick someone else with it! But I know that my honor is in heaven when I see Jesus face-to-face. And all that we did was never for men’s honor anyway, but for the Lord’s.

Twenty-Twenty-Two is nearly closed. And my thirty-fifth year just past. On my phone, I have a collection of writings that I muse throughout my yearly patterns. When a new thought, proverb, story, or dream pops in my head, I jot it down and hope to bring it to light one day. Sometimes they turn into stories, other times sermons or poetry. But because the year is closing, I thought it à propos to spit out the collection of them in a format that someone can appreciate. If nothing more, they will be a reminder to myself of what the year meant. Some of them have been repeated or altered in other writings, but the whole of them were written “as is” throughout the months prior. They are what Bryan Moore and I simply call: Nuggets.

There is this thought that we will achieve our dreams once we have money to obtain them. But I believe we will achieve our dreams once we realize money cannot obtain them. Our dreams are found in the heart of our souls where money has no access. So why do we keep chasing after more money when we should be chasing after more meaning?

At any moment, a man can be proud of himself, and the next ashamed of his pride, and the next, too proud to ask for help.

What is fame? What is glory? What is walking around hoping to expand and become something great? Are not these things simply fool’s errands for a dream born of greed and status? How far does my heart chase after growth before it becomes barren? How long do I assume and second-guess motives before I am a tyrant?

We beg for miracles. But they are at the bottom of the earth. Right before death, on the edge of Hell. And sometimes beyond it. There is where the miracle lies. We have to be ready for the hard life if we want miracles in it.

If I would understand all the “good” moments in life are because of Him, and all the “bad” moments are a product of faith’s necessary struggle, I wouldn’t be so eager to hold them up as a reflection of my worth. Instead, I would hold them up as what they are—promises kept by God and promises in the making.

The hardest parts of leadership are seeing the people you love most fail or quit. Even harder still is sacrificing the people you love most because it’s what’s best. Even hardest is sacrificing yourself. Most people are afraid to confront these, and that is why they do not lead well.

On leadership: if you only give public praise and private correction, the people following you will fear privacy with you and distrust your public praise. You must praise in public and even more in private. Let the private person always be the more intimate person. Relationship and followers thrive on intimacy and vulnerability.

On the way to the Mount of Olives, Jesus, Peter, James, and John sang a hymn. (Matthew 26:30)

My purpose is not determined by my hundred years on this planet. Such a small life can not weigh or sum it. Instead, regardless of what I accomplish or briefly see on earth, I have a purpose and design made for eternity. I cannot begin to fathom what purpose such a life will entail, and likewise, I cannot believe that someone’s life on earth will be lengthened or shortened because of a greater or lesser calling here or there.
The Endless Night

The Endless Night
Chapter 6

Marian watched her sister walk into the windswept grass of a dark field. “It happened again,” she whispered, anxious and perplexed. “Get back here, Esther!”

Marian reached for the door, but it jerked away from her hand. Five bony fingers wrapped around its edge and slammed the door shut. Marian grabbed the handle and Aaron rammed his body against the door. Someone was holding it shut on the other side.

“Esther!” They shouted. They pounded on the door and tugged the golden handle. Finally, the grip on the other side loosened. The door gave way.

It led to a dank hallway similar to the one leading into the parlor. Above their heads, a fluorescent light flickered on and off, jittering as if it had an upset stomach. Spiderwebs and their hosts lined the long perimeter of the dark walls. Centipedes, roaches and scorpions sprawled across the floor and collectively scurried for the open door when they detected the new light. Aaron slammed the door shut.

“I hate bugs,” he gasped.

“Where is she?” Marian dropped to her knees with her head in her hands and cried.

Aaron looked up and down the hall for any sign of enemies. Appeased, he dropped next to Marian and put his hand on her shoulder.

“Who are you?” Esther asked. The dark, menacing figure refused to move or say a word. “I’m Esther.” The table stood between her and the Monster. She took a step toward the front door, but the Monster stepped with her. His torso twisted to turn his arms, and he moaned as he moved. She stepped back the other way, and his body twisted and took a step toward her.

Esther licked her lips and furrowed her brow. “Are you going to hurt me?”

The Monster stared from his deep, dark eyes. His expressionless face confused her. Nothing stirred but the crackle of the fire in the nearby living-room. Esther looked up and down the dozens of scars on the Monster’s arms and hands; deep grooves that left holes and revealed dry bones underneath the skin.

“Do those hurt?” Esther asked.

The Monster turned his body on his heels and stomped into the other room. Curious, Esther followed. The Monster avoided the fire with a wide berth and approached the front door. He turned to meet her eyes. Then, he lifted his mighty hand and pounded his palm into the center of the door three times. He reached down for the round handle and turned it. On the other side of the threshold, Esther saw the Dolor’s living room.

She was drawn toward it like an insect to a bug zapper, her eyes wide and mouth open. She stood just before the entrance, next to the towering Monster, and looked up at him.

“Who are you?” She asked.

His gaze dropped from the entry to her pure, delicate face. She stood no higher than his waist. “A monster made by a scientist with too much power,” the Monster replied. She had been hoping he could speak, but was surprised nonetheless when the sound came from his deformed throat. The voice sounded like rusty bolts tumbling over sand and gravel. “—and not enough sense.”

“How did you get the door to open to my house?” Esther stared through the passage at her living-room. She imagined the door stood in front of the fireplace below the television. The coffee table and couch rested in front of her in the darkness. Behind them, the kitchen light lit the empty dining-room.

“The Pendulum has slowed,” the Monster said. “—and Time with it. We stand between a moment and a minute.” He looked up at the Dolor living-room and raised his hand into the air, pointing. “And when time slows, many doors will lead to and fro.”

Esther furrowed her brow. She looked back at the clock on top of the witch’s mantle, next to all the pictures of children’s faces. “Are you saying that Time stopped?”

“If Time stopped, none would exist,” the Monster growled. “No. It is merely frozen. In this place and that. And the night will not end until the Pendulum resumes.”

“I need to find my brother,” Esther gazed into the Monster’s black eyes.

“I know,” he replied.

Esther took the Monster’s hand, and the two stepped over the threshold into the living-room.

“Help me!”

Herbert’s throat was weak, his voice pale and strung out, the esophagus split open and bleeding from the screams. His mouth dried up; he gagged, and his body trembled. He squeezed his eyes, but they were too empty to produce any more tears. Overhead, the Pendulum swung up the opposite direction in stuttering, stop-motion tempo. Outside, the lightning flashed without a sound. Herbert watched the disc float and wondered what passing out was like. His head nodded back and forth against his shoulders. The blood rushed to his feet and his eyes rolled in their sockets. He imagined he was on top of a wide building, crammed between massive structures of gray concrete. They towered over him, and he felt his insides churn. He leaned forward and threw up on his lap.

“Please,” he whimpered.

Something stirred in the shadows. The sound quickened his heart. He searched the darkness, reaching his squinted eyes out as far as they could go, wishing his glasses hadn’t fallen from his face. The moonlight cast a beam through the eastern window and Herbert saw a long, wispy tail slide through the air.

He clenched his jaw and shouted at the darkness, trying to sound menacing, but his voice came out frail and barely as intimidating as a house cat. Nails scratched against the wood floor in the shadows. Thud! A sound like an axe nailing into the wooden beam. Chattering teeth. A low growl. Slopping liquid splashing on the floor.

Herbert shook in his binds like a madman and felt the rope loosen. A surge of adrenaline raced up his spine. The hope was almost unbearable, and the dread made him slur and mumble nonsense.

Lightning blinked, and for just a brief moment, he saw the thing in the darkness. At first, he mistook it for a dog, but it hunched on its hind legs like a chimpanzee. On its back were long quills, standing on end and swaying against one another like an anemone. Its left leg had four sharp nails scratching at the wood. On its right leg, a sole talon, twice as long as the others, dug into the wood. Drool, like oil, dripped from its pig face and razor teeth.

It took a step toward him, and the flash of light disappeared. Herbert screamed as loud as possible.

“Did you hear that?” Aaron lifted his head up from Marian’s side. He looked down the hall at nothing.

Marian wiped away a tear. “What?”

A faint scream echoed down through the house.

“Herbert,” Aaron shouted.

The children jumped to their feet and raced to the stairway.

Esther and the Monster stepped into the living-room, and Esther heard the piano’s music once again. The Monster closed the door behind them and it evaporated to dust, just as it had in front of the witch in the grassy field. The Dolor’s fireplace remained where it once was and for a second Esther imagined Santa Claus getting into houses the same way.

She gazed around the room. It was dark and still. The dishes from her dinner with her siblings and Aaron were still on the coffee table in front of her. Mom never cleaned them up after the first song played. She looked at the dining-room table, lit under the amber glow of the kitchen. She shook her head and sighed.

“I miss my family,” she whimpered. “Who knows where they could be by now?”

The Monster plodded to Mr. Dolor’s reclining chair. He dropped his legs from under him, without bending at the knees, and lowered down to it. He moaned as he leaned into the back of the chair.

“Time hasn’t moved since you left them, Esther,” the Monster growled. “I suspect your sister and friend are waiting for you outside the door you disappeared through.”

Esther wiped her eyes. “What?”

“I told you.” The Monster looked at her. “Time is frozen in your home.”

“Well, c’mon then!” Esther shouted. “We need to go to them! Why are you sitting down?”

“I’m just resting. Waiting for new life.” The Monster closed his eyes.

“Help me!” Herbert’s faint scream echoed through the house.

“Herbert!” Esther stuttered toward the dining-room.

The Monster leaped from his chair and snatched her waist with his mighty hand. “You can’t help him, Esther!”

“Why?” Esther fought against his arms, and he let her go. She looked up at the Monster like a juror, angry and despondent.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

She spun round and found a raven perched on top of the wooden cupboard between her and the front door. It stared at her as if learning and remembering; its long black feathers shimmered in blueish hue against the incandescent lights. It rapped its beak against the wood three more times—tap, tap, tap—and flapped its broad wings into the air, before taking off and swooping upstairs. Esther watched it disappear, and a chill raced down her spine.

“That’s the raven,” the Monster said. “The Professor’s spy.”

Around and around the steps, Aaron and Marian raced. Their hands slid along the top of the railings and squeezed the caps on each turn. Second floor, third floor, fourth floor… How many stories were there? Where did they come from? They continued chasing steps up and around, wondering how many more would come, listening for the cry of Herbert.

Like a torpedo, a black raven bolted up the stairway between them and knocked them to the ground. It banked on a dime and flew down the hallway just above.

“What was that?” Aaron yelled.

“Keep going!” Marian hollered. “Just hang on, Herbert! We’re coming!”

Herbert heard his sister’s voice through the floorboards. Oh my God, thank You! He couldn’t see the creature in the attic, but knew it was somewhere. He screamed Marian’s name and pulled his hands against the binds, looking and waiting for the creature to pounce. Sweat dripped down his forehead; the salt stung his blurry eyes.

Lightning flashed. His neck jerked around like a bobble-head; his eyes traveling along the empty floorboards and up the walls and ceiling. In the rafters, next to the swinging Pendulum, the creature’s tail swayed. Two red eyes glowed at him like a cat. He screamed and wrenched his body against the ropes. The chair wobbled and lurched forward. Herbert yelped as his body hit the ground and the chair lay on top of him.

“Hang on, Herbert!” Marian yelled. “We hear you!”

Her hand squeaked along the railing and squeezed another cap. Her body spun and came onto the last set of stairs. She raced up the fifth step and her head banged into the ceiling. Aaron rushed beside her and put his hands up against the wooden slats. He groped around the boards and cracks for an opening.

“Herbert?” He hollered into the boards.

On the other side, Herbert felt the vibrations of Aaron’s shuffling hands and heard his voice.

“I’m here!” He yelled back.

“Oh, thank God, we found you!” Marian shouted through the ceiling. “Where are you? How do we get to you?”

“Through the door!” Herbert pulled at his binds. The ropes felt looser now that the chair lay on his back.

“What door, Herbert?” Marian shouted and Aaron searched. “There’s nothing here!”

Herbert pulled a hand free. He ripped at the rope like a lunatic. “It’s right in front of you!” He yelled. “Please—hurry!—there’s something in here!”

Herbert looked over his shoulder as the last bond fell off. The lightning flashed. The creature dropped from the rafters. Thud! Its nails dug into the floorboards and it opened its mouth to growl. Drool and greasy oil dripped down its pig jowls.

Herbert screamed and clawed at the chair. He got it free from his back and lurched himself forward on the floor to the attic door. His hands fumbled at the latch. The creature took a step forward and raised its single claw into the air. Herbert’s shaking hands jammed the hook open. He sprung to his knees and yanked up the door. The creature swiped. He fell through the opening. A claw scraped open his back. The door slapped shut.
An Unexpected Ally

An Unexpected Ally
Chapter 5

“What was that?” Aaron gawked.

He froze at the sound of the pendulum’s ring. After the chime evaporated, he stepped onto the wooden floorboard like a ninja crouching against the wall. He hovered for a moment in the middle of the hall, watching and waiting, listening and looking. Dust fluttered in the air, and the stench of mildew and urine filled his nostrils. To his left the hallway ran down to the kitchen, dining-room, and under the stairwell. He saw the dimly lit perimeter of Mr. and Mrs. Dolor’s bedroom door. A moment passed, and he thought of running to their door, bursting through, and pleading for help. But then he remembered their drunken, zombie faces from earlier that night, and the little goblin was somewhere hiding in the shadows. What would they say to them? What if they couldn’t get them to understand even now?

In front of him was the study. Behind the two French-cut doors, the piano played itself. Its black and white keys danced up and down, and the foot-pedals compressed as if a minstrel ghost played on it. The dreary song drudged through the doorway and into the house.

His hand motioned behind him to Marian. She crept from a shadow and mimicked his stealthy pose. Behind her, Esther tip-toed out and thought about her game of Spies and Assassins with Herbert. She felt like her life depended on her sneak-ability now. Aaron crept down the hall, but stopped and turned back when he realized the girls had halted in front of the study.

“What are you doing?” His whisper shouted.

The girls didn’t seem to notice. “If we stop the piano,” Esther whispered to Marian, “we can stop all of this.”

“You don’t know that,” Aaron pleaded.

Esther reached for the curved golden door-handle.

“Wait!” Marian held out her hand. “We said we wouldn’t go through doors.”

“But this is different,” Esther resisted. “The door is glass. We can see what’s on the other side.”

“This isn’t what we said we were going to do.” Aaron was at their side.

“Aaron,” Marian reasoned, “she may be right. This could be done in a flash. Wouldn’t that be worth it?” She looked back to Esther.

“I’m going,” Esther turned the handle and pushed. A strange thing happened that changed the trajectory of Esther’s entire night. It was quite peculiar when she cracked the door open and saw, through the glass pane, the floor of the study, but between the door and its jamb, a field of grass blowing in the wind.

The door swung open further and there was no denying it. Esther stepped through the doorway into a field lit by moonlight. Crickets sung, and the grass bowed in reverence to the wind. A dark forest loomed across the field nearby.

“Wow,” Esther whispered, dumbfounded.

“It happened again,” Marian said from the other side of the doorway. “Get back here, Esther!”

But before Esther turned, the door-handle jerked away from Marian and Aaron. Five bony fingers wrapped around its edge and slammed it shut. Esther jumped back and stumbled in the grass. She looked up at a haggardly old woman holding the door shut before it moaned and vanished in a puff of smoke.

“Oh, no!” Esther yelled.

“Oh, yes!” The old woman cheered. She wore a long purple nightgown and carried a lantern in one hand. Her unkempt hair draped down her shoulders. Warts and boils covered her face and elongated nose. “I’ve been waiting for a delightful young child to come along and help me. And you, young lady, are just the one I need.”

Esther stood to her feet and brushed the grass and specks of dirt from her nightgown.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Esther said, “I’m sure you need help and all, but I need to get through that door again.”

“And what door do you mean?” The old lady glanced around the empty field in the twilight.

“Well, the one that just disappeared.”

“Funny thing walking through doors that you had no intent to cross,” the old lady said, holding her lantern up to Esther’s face. “Why would a young lady like you walk out into this field like that, unless you meant to? Or did you mean to come here and catch me offs guard and robs me!” The woman’s hand pressed against her chest like she were a damsel in a play.

“No! Of course not!” Esther held her palms up. “I’m not trying to hurt you!”

Esther glanced all over the field for the door, but saw only grass and the shadows of trees. The moon hid its face behind a cloud and the forest grew dim.

“Well,” the old lady said. “I don’t see any way back. Do you?”

Esther sighed.

“So unless you want to sleep in the grass and get eaten by a bear, you best come with me to my house. And I have plenty of delicious treats for you if you swear to help me with my chores. Come on!”

The old woman bent forward and shook on her legs. The lantern rattled in her shaky hand and she turned toward the forest. Her free hand held her nightgown up as she walked.

Esther shook her head and grimaced in frustration.

“Won’t be long, child,” the old lady called. “My cottage is just on the other side of the tree-line. Wonderful that I met you on this side of the door just then. You may be out here all alone, if not for me.”

Esther rolled her eyes, murmured, “if it wasn’t for you, I’d be back home,” and followed the old woman. The two walked along an overgrown glen through the forest. The night was silent except for the lady’s lantern banging against its hinges and singing with the crickets. Its amber glow lit the path with the help of flying green lightning-bugs.

“Do you know how the doors work?” Esther asked.

“What’s that?” The old lady jerked her head toward Esther.

“A door in my house led me here,” Esther explained. “And then it disappeared.”

“I’ve seen too many things I don’t understand, and I’m not about to start learning them now.”

Esther sighed and followed the lantern’s light and the old lady’s silhouette against it. After half an hour of drudging through the dark forest, Esther’s tired eyes saw a stone cottage under the shadow of a maple tree. Six small lanterns lit its entryway with a golden, foggy light spreading through the chimney’s pluming smoke.

“Home sweet home,” the old lady cheered and clapped her hand against the rattling lantern. She stumbled through the picket fence and up the stone path.

Esther smelled pumpkin pie and butterscotch in the air, and even amidst her frustration and forlorn circumstance, she felt delighted. “Mmm.”

“Oh, I told you I had treats.” The lady pressed her body against the front door and shoved it open.

Esther’s foot stepped over the threshold, and she paused. Her mother would be so disappointed in her entering a stranger’s house. But deep down, Esther knew she hadn’t any other choice in the matter. The old lady was right. Where else could she go in the middle of the night? She took a deep breath and brought her next foot over.

The cottage was quaint. White marble stone and red cedar lined the walls and ceiling. A fire lit the main living room and its flicker danced against the old lady’s bent shadow. She dispensed her lantern and put it on the mantle next to a collection of wooden frames. They displayed the portraits of many children.

“Are those your grandchildren?” Esther asked.

The woman turned and smiled at Esther. “I’ve got pie,” she said. “Would you like some?”

“I’m not very hungry, thank you,” Esther replied. “I was actually in the middle of sleeping only a little while ago. Before my brother was kidnapped. That’s why I need to hurry back. I need to find a door back to my home.”

“No way to do that in the middle of the night, sweetie.” The lady smiled. She walked to her kitchen and opened the oven. With an oven mitt, she pulled a pumpkin pie from inside. “So you might as well enjoy some treats and rest.”

Esther’s eyes wandered around the room. The light danced along the red cedar ceiling. She thought about visiting her grandmother’s log cabin in Inverness and killing caterpillars with Herbert. She giggled and then frowned.

“I hate the idea of going back to sleep and waiting ’til morning,” she thought aloud. The old lady kept rummaging. “Where are you, Herbert? Where are you, Esther?”

Esther looked out the window and noticed the outline of a man standing against the picket fence, under the porch lantern’s glow. It surprised her and made her jump.

“Oh! Who’s that man?” Esther asked.

The old lady didn’t look up from the pie she diced up. “Oh, don’t mind thatman,” she smiled. “He’s just visiting for a bit.”

Esther looked again. He wore a dark suit and stood as still as a tree, staring into the forest, with his back turned. On any other night, his shadowy silhouette would have been downright creepy and frightened her. But tonight, amid the lonesome, cold forest and sad, haggard fence, his presence made her sad. She thought he looked lonely.

“Oh!” The old lady hollered.

“What is it!” Esther ran to the kitchen.

“My wedding band!” The woman cried. “My wedding band fell off.”

Esther rushed to the frantic old lady, stumbling over herself at the kitchen counter.

“Where—?”

“It must have fallen into the oven!” The old lady pulled down the oven door and coughed at the heat. She backed up behind Esther and begged, “Please, sweetie, help me! I’m too feeble to look down there and see.”

Esther bowed down in front of the oven and wondered if she should trust the strange old woman enough to have her back to her in this dark house. But before she could think twice about it, the old lady’s pale face changed color to a hideous dark blue and her teeth grew jagged and wicked. Her hand grabbed at Esther’s little forearm and she was very strong for an old lady.

“Let go of me!” Esther shouted. She looked into the old lady’s eyes. They grew dim and demonic, and she realized the lady wasn’t a sweet old woman waiting to give treats to young children. She was a witch waiting to cook them in her stew.

“Why not have a look in that oven, little girl!” The woman shrieked and pushed Esther onto the ground in front of the oven. Her spindly hands wrapped around Esther’s shoulders and pulled her up. The edges of the hot iron singed Esther’s pigtails, and the witch cackled wildly.

Just then, the front door to the cottage flung open and slammed into the wall next to it. Two heavy steps pounded into the cottage and the floorboards shook. The witch let go of Esther and shrieked in horror. Esther dropped back to the floor and scurried away from the over and under the dining-room table.

“You’re not supposed to do this!” The witch screamed.

Esther listened to the scuffle, trying to keep her head down, and praying she could disappear and be back with her parents and siblings. The old hag shrieked again, this time in pain. Esther glanced from under the table and saw the witch lifted into the air by two powerful arms. The arms flung her across the kitchen and her little, wrinkly, old arms flailed into the air, crashing into a row of hanging pots and pans. Her body landed on the kitchen counter and flopped to the ground. Then the bulky man gripped her squirming and floundering body in his arms and tossed her into the open oven and kicked it shut. Esther covered her ears at the shrill howl and agony of the witch burning alive. An image of the hag’s face pressed up against the wrought iron vent, bald and melting away, replayed in Esther’s nightmares for years to come.

Esther cowered under the table, shaking and praying that the man hadn’t seen her. But then his heavy feet stepped toward her and stopped in front of the table. He wasn’t moving or saying a word, but of course he knew she was hiding under there.

Esther slunk back and came from under the table on the far side. She looked up to see the man in the moonlight. He was tall, stiff, and wore a black suit jacket that was too small to cover his arms and dirty clothing. He had deep-set eyes and a long scar down his forehead, nose, and cheek. Two metal nodes jut out from each side of his neck from where his creator, a maniacal doctor, brought him to life using lightning and the parts of dead men.

“Frankenstein,” Esther whispered.