Posts filed under ‘PUBLISHED WORKS’
ELMO’S SOJOURN, CHAPTER 3
My previous post was mislabeled. It actually was Chapter 2. Sorry about the confusion.
ELMO’S SOJOURN
CHAPTER 3
ELMO ARRIVES ON ROTH
When Elmo awoke, he had no idea where he was. His eyes beheld a landscape both strange and beautiful, a rolling countryside of vegetation and a nearby dwelling, but unlike any he had ever seen. Then, he recalled entering his time-space machine with his newfound friend. As he ran his fingers through his thick black hair, he wondered where he was. His body felt youthful. He must be forty years younger. He contemplated the shift in time and enjoyed his renewed youth.
Waiting to be transported back to his basement, Elmo had no way of knowing his adventure had caused the greatest blackout in history. He was hesitant to move and change the coordinates he had entered into the time-space machine sitting in his basement. Eventually curiosity won out and he began to explore his surroundings. At the same time, he felt a growing fear. He wondered if this journey was a good idea and if he would ever see Mildred again.
As he stood near his traveling companion, he saw the creature’s funnel shaped mouth form a grin, happy to be home. The soil was the color of the soil back home with green vegetation, but vegetation that defied what he knew of plant life. There were trees in the distance, but they towered like mountains over the landscape. The giant redwoods he recalled from his vacations would reach only a third the way up the trunks of these behemoths. He stood in a tiny bare spot of ground. Stepping upon a green field, he heard tiny screams and immediately retreated. Vegetation was obviously advanced on this planet, felt pain, and could utter distress. There were trails leading everywhere so that one could avoid walking on the plant life. He must remember to tread lightly on this planet. His eyes left the landscape and gazed at a brilliant lavender sky studded with crimson clouds although it was not yet dusk. Crimson must be the normal color of clouds in this world. Elmo also found that here a small hop would carry him far. His companion, too, was much more active in gravity one-fourth than of earth.
This newly youthful Elmo sat down with his traveling companion at his side and studied the landscape for a very long time and thought of his journey. He noted that although his age had noticeably changed, the appearance of the creature next to him had not. This must indicate a longer lifespan. Then he smiled, realizing that if the journey had been made with a Galapagos tortoise, the effect would have been the same. Elmo considered the implications, both scientific and personal if his theory about age was correct. The personal consequences made his eyes run with tears. His companion seemed to understand his grief, and its tiny arm hugged his shoulder. Elmo once again gazed at the sky and drank in the glory of another world. Dusk approached, and the sky held three moons of varying diameters. As the sun set, the crimson clouds held hints of green, becoming a deep emerald as darkness approached.
Night fell. Lights began to dot the landscape. In the darkness, the door to the nearby structure opened and a tall, gray-skinned figure approached Elmo and his eye-roving friend. Elmo’s first reaction was to run. But where would he go? He knew nothing of his surroundings, and, after all, this adventure was meant to learn about alien life. The approaching creature was clad in a flowing, blue robe-like garment. As it came closer, Elmo’s traveling companion began to execute flips and emit sounds similar to the purring of a cat. Suddenly Elmo realized what he thought was the dominant life form was actually a pet. As the strange being approached, Elmo appreciated its height, which was well over seven feet, and its regal bearing. The head of the creature was very large, larger than his seven-foot plus height would require, and completely hairless. Its ears were mere holes in the sides of the
ELMO’S SOJOURN, CHAPTER 2
ELMO’S SOJOURN
CHAPTER 2
ELMO’S ADVENTURE BEGINS
As Mildred returned her thoughts to the present, she wondered if the lights dimming had anything to do with Elmo’s shouting. What she didn’t know was that the lights had also dimmed in most of that region of New York and most of eastern Canada. The electrical company had never experienced a power drain like this before and was struggling to get things under control.
Now, as she opened the basement door, Mildred wondered if perhaps all those years Elmo worked in the basement unsupervised was really a good idea. She peered down the stairs He began jumping like a little boy, not the seventy-five-year-old man that he was. “I don’t have a problem. I did it! I did it!” he shouted over and over.
“I completed my first experiment,” Elmo answered and pointed to the Plexiglas chamber. Through the mist Mildred began to detect a shape. At first she thought it was a large fire hydrant but then it began to move. The fire hydrant was mottled red and green with skinny arms ending in suction-cupped fingers. Its tiny legs also ended in suction cups. The creature’s mouth resembled a funnel, which constantly opened and closed. It was breathing.
The most peculiar aspect of this creature was its eye. It had only one and it blinked constantly. As Elmo and Mildred talked, the eye followed their conversation, traveling from one to the other, as the eye physically moved around the perimeter of its head. Mildred watched as the eye moved from one side of the thing’s head to the other. She giggled as she imagined a stadium full of these creatures following a tennis match but soon got control of herself. Actually, the single eye wandering all over the alien’s head was starting to give her the creeps.
“You can’t keep it,” she said.
Elmo responded, “I don’t want to keep it. I want to go back with it.”
“You’re kidding Elmo, and where did it come from anyway?” asked Mildred.
Elmo explained, “You see my dear, you and I and all living beings in the universe are a series of chemical reactions. The cosmos is one huge chemistry set. I thought that if there was a star, similar in size to our sun, and if there was a planet with a distance similar from that star as the earth is from the sun, that life might exist there. These days, astronomers are always discovering new planets revolving around distant stars. So, I just waited until one was discovered with the right conditions and aimed my time-space machine at that planet and the results are in the chamber. But notice how our friend can barely move his arms or legs. The gravity on his planet must be much less than it is on earth. I need to go back with him and see what it’s like.”
Mildred shook her head. But she knew arguing with Elmo was useless.
“I’ll show you how to run the machine, but first get our camera,” Elmo said.
By the time Mildred found the camera and returned to the basement, Elmo had entered the chamber and had his arm around the visitor. Mildred took a picture, then another for insurance. Then Elmo exited the chamber to demonstrate the workings of the machine to his anxious wife.
“Okay dear, first you turn the machine on with this switch. Next, you turn this rheostat. To get him here, I had to set the rheostat to half maximum. To get us back, you’ll need to turn it to full. Give me about ten minutes and then bring me back.”
“I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” muttered Mildred.
“Don’t worry Mildred, I’ll be back before you’re done cooking dinner.”
Elmo entered the chamber and Mildred followed his instructions. As soon as the rheostat reached max, there was a blinding flash, the chamber filled with a milk-white fog, and Elmo and the creature were gone. Shortly after they disappeared the lights in the basement went out.
Mildred sighed. “Oh Elmo, you may be gone a little longer than you expected,” she muttered and climbed the stairs to fix dinner.
What Mildred didn’t yet know was her town, the entire state of New York, along with most of the northeast, a good portion of the Midwest and a large part of Canada were also without power. Fifty million people were plunged into darkness. Elmo’s experiment had precipitated the largest blackout in history. He was going to be very very late for dinner.
ELMO’S SOJOURN, CHAPTER 1
ELMO’S SOJOURN
CHAPTER 1
CELLAR SCIENCE
“I have a problem! I have a big problem!” Elmo shouted from his cellar laboratory. Mildred shook her head, wiped her hands on her apron and headed for the basement door. After fifty years of marriage, Elmo never ceased to amaze her at the trouble he could get into.
“Could he garden like other men his age? Oh no, he has to do physics experiments,” Mildred muttered as she walked down the cellar stairs.
* * *
They had moved into this rural house in Upstate New York ten years ago, right after Elmo had retired from his job at Los Alamo Laboratory. He was a physicist at the laboratory, part of a think-tank that planned experiments. But Elmo enjoyed the lab work too. He had accumulated a lot of ideas and discarded equipment. Mildred gazed out the window of her country home. Nearby, tall electrical towers obstructed some of the bucolic scenery, but Mildred liked the house just fine. Elmo brought along the junk he had accumulated over the years, mostly discarded apparatus from failed experiments, equipment useless to everyone except Elmo. The items included large magnets and four six-foot-tall Tesla coils, specialized high voltage transformers three feet in diameter and wrapped with miles of thin copper wire. They resembled giant candles, coming to a point with electrical connections at the apex. Elmo transported all this equipment into the basement and fiddled with it for years. He then had a large Plexiglas chamber built, which set them back a bundle. He stood the Tesla coils in each corner, then mounted the magnets in the floor.
The next step in the construction of Elmo’s experiment Mildred found most undesirable. Elmo told Mildred, “I’ll need a great deal of power for my research. Soon I’ll need your help making the electrical connections for the project I’ve been working on.”
A few days ago, a truck had delivered a huge spool of heavy insulated wire, another great expense, and now Mildred was getting a bad feeling. Once it was dark, Elmo emerged from the basement wearing rubber boots and heavy rubber gloves. “Get your coat Mildred, we’re going out.” The spool of wire was in the bed of Elmo’s pickup. They drove to the base of the nearest electrical tower and parked.
“What are you going to do Elmo?” Mildred asked in a voice full of apprehension and a touch of impatience.
“I’m going to climb the tower and connect this wire which you’re going to feed out,” came his reply. Mildred shook her head and wished Elmo would act his age.
After that illegal task was accomplished, Elmo spent most of his time in the basement tinkering with his invention. He called it his Time – Space Chamber, and when Mildred asked just what he was doing Elmo explained, “I’ve always thought that if I could create an electrical field, then move those electrons in a magnetic field to approach the speed of light, I could create a wormhole to a distant time and place. I could aim at the wormhole and transport matter. The secret is the size of the magnetic field. It must be small, not like the giant cyclotrons they construct in the desert.
All Mildred could say was, “If it makes you happy dear.” It kept Elmo out of her hair for years.
THE RELUCTANT ZOMBIE: A SHORT STORY
The Reluctant Zombie is a humorous short story involving a college professor visiting Haiti where he succeeds in getting himself turned into a zombie.
It has been previously published by Blood, Blade & Thruster in their Winter 2006/2007 issue.
THE RELUCTANT ZOMBIE
As Norman stumbled through the dank Haitian swamp, he groaned, “Willard, it seems so unnatural walking around with my arms outstretched, but I can’t put them down. I have an image to uphold.”
Willard, who was also stumbling along shook his head and sighed, “Of course its unnatural, you’re a zombie, damn it – your image is history.”
Norman complained, “I didn’t ask to be a zombie.” With some difficulty he swiveled his neck and surveyed the Haitian countryside.
Norman took in the landscape surrounding him. He walked through a village. It was nothing more than a few huts of mud and straw along a dusty road. Chickens pecked in the brush along the roadside. Chickens! For some reason their presence made him uncomfortable. “I really don’t want to be a zombie,” Norman muttered. He was a forty-year-old college professor, a dark-haired trim man always dressed well. Now he was walking around covered in grim and dressed in rags.
Willard said, “If you didn’t want to be a zombie, you shouldn’t have runover the old voodoo woman’s chickens with your jeep. Was she pissed… She’s also the one that converted me into a zombie, but that’s another story.”
Norman looked at Willard and could not guess what he once looked like. Willard was pale, gaunt and also dressed in rags. His age was made undeterminable by his zombie state.
“As soon as you angered her she began making one of her little dolls. She cackled while she worked. That’s never a good sign. That doll is now where your soul now resides.”
“I can’t believe this is happening to me, Willard. I came to Haiti to do research on Haitian religions. I am, or was, respected and well-publicized anthropologist. Now look at me. I’m wearing rags and walking around like a … like a …”
“Zombie?” asked Willard.
“Just because I ran over a few chickens?”
“Um, Norman, they looked like chickens, but they weren’t. Nothing around the voodoo woman’s house is what it appears to be. They were once her enemies. She changed them into chickens, and you freed them from pecking for insects along the road for the rest of their lives. You ended their suffering. So naturally, in her anger, she turned you into a zombie. I’m here to instruct zombies how to attack people and teach them what are the best parts to eat.”
Norman made a face at this remark.
“Now what’s the matter?” asked Willard.
Norman sighed, “I’m a vegetarian, but I do eat dairy.”
Willard said with discuss, “There are no vegetarian zombies. And attacking the dairy section of a store is not going to do much for the zombie image.”
Norman grumbled, “Oh, I wouldn’t want to do anything to detract from the zombie image. Give be a break.”
As the two zombies were arguing, Willard happened to glance over at the woman’s house. There she stood in the doorway. Willard could tell she was not happy.
She hobbled toward Willard and Norman, a waddling mass adorned with bones and beads. Her crown of thick dreadlocks made her appear as if some multi-legged beast was sitting on her head.
The old voodoo woman shouted at Norman, “I know you be a troublemaker, with your fancy jeep, running over people’s property.”
Norman mumbled, “Sorry about the chickens.”
“You sorry alright. You be good and sorry real soon.”
The old woman produced her Norman doll, lifted the doll skyward, and began chanting in a low rumbling voice.
Norman’s soul returned to his body. He felt like his old self. He laughed with relief, then glanced up. Willard stumbled toward him; arms raised.
Willard, old buddy, we’re friends – right?”
Willard only groaned and roared.
Norman looked desperately for an escape. On either side of him zombies with ash-grey complexions staggered in his direction. He was surrounded.
The old voodoo woman said, “Here be my children, and they be hungry.” She cackled as the circle of zombies grew smaller and smaller around Norman.
From beyond the wall of the living dead, Norman pleaded, “Please, make me a chicken!”
The End
THE LEGEND OF FRENCH CREEK, PART VIII
The Legend
of
French Creek
Once camp was set up, we decided to take a hike and see a few of the waterfalls for which the park is famous. The air was cool for June, and I anticipated a stress-relieving walk. As I packed some snacks into my backpack, my hand brushed against an outside pocket of the pack I seldom used. There was something small and hard inside. I unzipped the pocket and reached in, withdrawing something that set me shaking. It was a Druid talisman. I knew from my research exactly what it was and its blasphemous purpose. The crude fetish was in the form of a naked woman with prominent breasts and an obvious cleft between her stunted legs. I had seen a drawing of a statue exactly like this in a book of ancient Druid curses and spells. Its specific purpose was to summon Druid spirits to its possessor on the night of the summer solstice. After a year, was I still to be haunted by these demonic specters? I had to dispose of this totem, and soon.
“I think I’ll take a canoe ride before dinner,” I told Joan after quickly forming a plan.
I pushed the canoe out, jumped in, and paddled toward the center of the lake. When I was far from shore, I reached into my pocket, retrieved the crude statue, and hurled it into the water. I was now free of the talisman and free of its purpose, or so I hoped.
Tonight, will be a very long night.
THE END
HAVE A GREAT THANKSGIVING HOLIDAY
THE LEGEND OF FRENCH CREEK, PART VII
The Legend
of
French Creek
The blackness of the forest became full of a milk-white vapor, although above, the sky was full of stars. There was no wind, yet the mist came rapidly from different directions and formed a shell of white around the concrete slab. Soon the vapor took the form of a house, becoming a solid structure. Windows, now present, glowed bright red and I could see figures dancing within. The door of the house opened and there appeared a group of naked men and women horribly burned, their bodies smoking. I wanted to look away but could not. Their obscene presence came toward me. They lunged at me. Their hideous laughter screamed in my ears. Now the horrors surrounded me. My mind could not take any more. I lost consciousness and dreamed of daemons and devils surrounding me in an attempt to capture my soul.
I awoke the next morning with a feeling of dread, not wanting to open my eyes. The ruin was the same as it appeared the night before, although the debris on the forest floor leading to my campsite appeared disturbed. I looked down, and to my horror, my sleeping bag bore handprints burnt into the fabric.
I packed up my gear and headed down the trail to meet my wife and return to the comfort of my home, never wanting to return to French Creek Park again.
* * *
I tried to make the horror of that night clear of my mind, but it wouldn’t happen. I felt I had brought something back from that gruesome night and could not escape its presence. Damned if I could figure out what it was. So, I switched gears and embraced the event. After some research on the Druids, I worked my experience and new-found background into a few stories that I managed to sell.
Nearly a year had passed since that dreadful night, when Joan announced, “I think we need to get away. How about a short four-day vacation?”
“Sounds great, but it better be cheap,” I said. “You know money is tight.”
“Camping is not expensive,” she answered. I’ve reserved a site from June 19 to June 22.” She saw my face grow deathly pale, and then quickly added, “A site at Rickett’s Glen.”
“I thought you were talking about French Creek. I’m never going back there again.”
I tried to make the horror of that night clear of my mind, but it wouldn’t happen. I felt I had brought something back from that gruesome night and could not escape its presence. Damned if I could figure out what it was. So, I switched gears and embraced the event. After some research on the Druids, I worked my experience and new-found background into a few stories that I managed to sell.
Nearly a year had passed since that dreadful night, when Joan announced, “I think we need to get away. How about a short four-day vacation?”
“Sounds great, but it better be cheap,” I said. “You know money is tight.”
“Camping is not expensive,” she answered. I’ve reserved a site from June 19 to June 22.” She saw my face grow deathly pale, and then quickly added, “A site at Ricketts Glen.”
“I thought you were talking about French Creek. I’m never going back there again.”
THE LEGEND OF FRENCH CREEK, PART VI
The Legend
of
French Creek
I formulated a plan. I would have Joan drop me off the evening of the summer solstice, which would be a Tuesday night. Joan was hesitant but gave in after I told her it would help me with a story I was working on. She knew I was going through a dry period. An hour before dusk, I would set out on the Orange Trail with a pack containing a sleeping bag and whatever I might need for the night. Appearing to be just another hiker, I would make camp near the ruins and see for myself if there was anything to The Legend of French Creek.
The night of the summer solstice was rapidly approaching, and my feelings ranged from that of stupidity with this pursuit to fear of spending the night alone deep in the woods.
The morning of June 21st I found myself packing my gear. I would not build a fire, so I included a can of beans, bread and a can of SPAM©. My wife entered the bedroom and wrinkled her nose as she saw the SPAM© going into my backpack. She does not appreciate this brick of pork-flavored heaven as much as I do.
“So, you’re really going through with this crazy plan,” she said. Joan had been trying to humor me but at the same time talks me out of going for some time now. Her arguments only strengthened my determination to see it through, but also added to my occasional thoughts of what a stupid idea this was.
At seven o’clock that night we set out on the forty-five-minute drive to the park. Along the way, Joan would continually ask, “Are you sure you want to do this?”
I responded, “Yes,” although it was not as firm a ‘yes’ as I intended.
We entered the park and stopped along the circular road near our former campsite. I got out, shouldered my backpack, and said, “I guess I’m ready.”
Joan replied, “I know you won’t reconsider. Please be careful. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at noon.” We kissed, and she drove off. My writer’s mind was already on hyper drive. And this was the last time he saw my wife, I thought.
I walked the Orange Trail toward the ruin. The smell of campfire smoke filled the air. Alone on the trail, with thoughts full of horror and mayhem, I pressed on. As I approached the site of the burned structure, the sun was a giant orange ball peeking through trees racing toward the horizon. An open space across the trail from my quarry caught my attention. It was there I would make my camp.
The forest was darkening now and becoming chilly. I climbed into my sleeping bag and leaned against a boulder to begin my vigil. Cutting the SPAM© into slices, I made two sandwiches and opened the beans. Saving some SPAM© for my morning meal, I consumed my dinner.
The forest was dark now, but I dare not light a light. I concentrated on the ruin taking note of the sounds and the feelings of dread I encouraged my mind to pursue. I tried to remain awake, but the warmth of my sleeping bag and a full stomach made me drowsy, and I soon fell asleep.
What happened next I wanted to credit to a dream, but I know it was real.
THE LEGEND OF FRENCH CREEK, PART V
The Legend
of
French Creek
Two weeks later, we were packing for our camping trip. Our dog, Millie, appeared to be as excited as we were, seeing her food and toys packed up and taken out to the van.
We set out on the afternoon of Halloween full of anticipation in leaving our daily lives and spending a weekend in the wilderness with our pup. After finding our campsite, we quickly set up camp and Millie, attached to a long lead, sniffed the forest floor. That night, seated by a roaring campfire with Joan, my imagination ran wild. I pictured Druids descending on our campsite, with us captured for their human sacrifices. Of course, nothing happened. The entire night passed, uneventful. My imagination can be a weird place.
The next morning, we planned our first hike with Millie. The Orange Trail passed behind our tent. It was an easy trail, ideal for Millie, my wife and me. After packing lunch, we set out in late morning with Millie taking the lead, full of excitement. We walked the trail for a little more than two miles when it meandered toward the perimeter of the park. After another half mile, Millie’s excitement on this adventure changed dramatically. Our pup began to growl and pull away from the direction we were going, not wanting to continue. We pulled her along and her growl became a whimper of fear, something we’d never seen her exhibit. Another fifty feet and there it was. I was sure it was the site of the minister’s house described by the old man in the store.
As Millie pulled back on her leash, we approached the destroyed structure. There was a concrete slab about thirty by twenty feet off the trail with charred posts sticking out from points in the foundation. A rusted bedspring was the only sign of furniture. A few decaying pipes punctured the concrete slab. What was unusual was the lack of vegetation surrounding the slab. No trees had invaded the immediate area. Only weeds and forest litter marred the land.
We stood there, with Millie pulling away. Joan said, “What a curious place out here in the middle of nowhere. And why is Millie acting so strange?”
I had yet to relate to Joan the story the old man told me. As we continued on our hike, I told her about the old man’s story. We both noticed that the farther we walked along the trail, the more Millie returned to her pleasant disposition.
I knew I had to return to these ruins on the summer solstice to investigate.
THE LEGEND OF FRENCH CREEK, PART IV
The Legend
of
French Creek
“It was in the early 1920’s when a new preacher came to town. During the late summer the townsfolk said they would build him a house. He walked not far from the church and saw a level area with little growth. Apparently, the damn fool picked the site where the pagans’ cabin once stood.
“The house was built before winter set in and the congregation spent the remainder of the winter and the next spring worshipping, led by the new minister.
“Then the night of the summer solstice arrived. No one knows what happened, but the minister’s house burnt down that night with him in it. The church caught fire and burned to the ground too.
“Eventually, during the depression, the town died, and the area returned to wilderness. Here’s where the legend takes over, my young friend. All the buildings were overgrown by the forest except for the minister’s. The concrete slab that served as its foundation is still there, along with some burnt up debris. The forest won’t touch that rubble, so the legend says, because the pagans still dwell there underground. I don’t know exactly where it is, but it’s somewhere on the perimeter of French Creek State Park. Folks say it’s still there, easy to find along one of the popular trails, but I never bothered lookin’. Some say they get a strange feeling when they hike past the rubble on the day of the summer solstice. No one goes there that night. Campers all stay snug and warm by their fires or in their tents, and town folks safe in their homes.”
“That’s a great story,” I told the old man. “Maybe I could use some of it in a story. But first, I’ll try to find the ruin you mentioned.”
“Don’t know if you should, mister. All legends have a bit of truth. I wouldn’t want to cause you any harm.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”
I shook his hand and left the small store, my mind full of ideas. I kept in mind the details he gave me about the location of the minister’s house. With our impending camping trip to French Creek State Park, I thought the coincidence was perfect for me to do some research. If I could locate the site I could use the surroundings to give my story a realistic bent.
THE LEGEND OF FRENCH CREEK, PART III
The Legend
of
French Creek
I pulled a small pad and a pen from my shirt pocket. “Mind if I take some notes?”
“Hell no. Most around here know the story – it’s no secret.”
He began his tale.
“Grandpa first told me this story when I was young. Wanted to scare the hell out of me, I suppose. Used to enjoy doing that a lot. Starts back in the late 1700’s when some people moved in that weren’t welcomed in this neck of the woods. They came from England. Some kind of pagan cult called Drubids.”
“Do you mean Druids?” I asked.
“Ya, something like that. Anyway, they wanted to be left alone so they built a house way out in the woods. There was men and women, but no children. Young, they was. Maybe eight or ten of them.
“Seems the locals, being of the religious type, didn’t take too kindly to these pagans. Then the trouble started. Farm animals turned up missing, some cows and sheep. The locals suspected treachery by the pagans, but they kept their peace. Then, within two weeks’ time, three children went missing. A group of townsfolk paid a visit to the pagans. The heathens said they knew nothing of the animals or children disappearing. But the locals thought they were acting suspicious.
“This all happened in the spring. Then came the massacre.
It was the night of the summer solstice. The nearest residents to the pagans reported a red glow in the forest that night. Some of the local men, well-armed, went to investigate. They approached the pagan camp and saw the men and women dancing naked around a fire. There was a pile of cut-up carcasses, no one could tell what they were being thrown into the fire.
“One of the men, nervous I suppose, shot into the air and the pagans made for the cabin. The story goes that the men surrounded the cabin, and then someone threw a blazing brand onto the roof. The cabin caught fire. Screams could be heard coming from the house. Some of the pagans tried to escape through the door and windows, but they were shot and fell back into the inferno. While they waited on of the men poked around in the fire. Found bones, small human bones so the story goes. The men of the town remained until the house collapsed. By morning, it was just a smoking ruin. They left and said little of what they had done to anyone outside the community. Some of the curious would visit the site of the pagan compound, but that ended after a while. And as time passed, the story faded but was not totally forgotten.
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