Prologue

 

837 AD. The mood of the men was grim on their return trip to Ulf’s camp near the southern coast. Every Norseman in their group was related to each other and felt a mixture of unease and grief after laying young Arne Ulfson to rest.

     Two days ago, Ulf and his sons had decided to break camp and return to his allies to the east after successfully raiding the southern coast of Cornwall in the summer months for slaves, silver, and gold. While waiting on the tides, young Arne had been part of the scouting party sent to ensure the men in the cove would not be caught unaware by the locals. Within the hour, a battle came about, and Arne slew a giant black wolf, suspected of being the spawn of Fenrir, son of the god, Loki and that of a giantess. Arne had plunged his sword into its side with the last of his strength, even as he was pinned down and shaken, their blood mingling together on the ground in death.

     The young Viking was laid to rest along with the beast he had died in battle with. Their bodies were placed inside a small stone recess the men had discovered on a hillside, then dirt and rocks were piled on top and around it to create a barrow. The men’s pride in their teenaged kinsman’s slaying of the creature was overshadowed by the otherworldly size of the great black wolf. It was whispered among the men that if this raging beast was a familiar of the Giants, then there would be a reckoning.

     As the men continued to walk the winding path leading down to the hidden cove, the sky darkened over the sea and the land from the west. Thor made thunder crack so loudly that it echoed off the cliffs and added to the unease of the men. When the last man stepped on the beach, the wind and rain broke upon them in torrents. Lightning close enough to make a sizzling noise was immediately followed by thunder. As the thunder echoed, the loud deep growl of a predator rolled down the cliff face where the men had just walked. A black wolf the size of a bear flickered into sight at the top of the trail.

     “Draug (ghost)!” Ulf shouted in clear alarm. The beast that had killed his youngest son had risen from the dead to wreak vengeance upon them. All eyes turned to see Fenrir’s spawn standing briefly before them, then, to their amazement, it flickered in and out of sight. The men broke and ran to their longboats.

Centuries later, on the planet Desmos, Trahgos was on a mission: someone, or something, had dared to enter her domain! She stomped down a dark passageway of her headquarters in the Southern Cave, her black robe swaying with every step. Trahgos was a member of the subterranean species, the ggollek, so the passage was unlit because she preferred it that way.

     Now, her sensitive, fish-like eyes were carefully scanning each wall and floor of the labyrinth of corridors. The spirit-seeking implant connected to her brain had just alerted her to the presence of an intruder. Her father had designed the spirit-seeking implant to detect spiritual matter of any quantity. This meant that she could easily detect the many spirits that lived inside the cave, but now, she was tasked with finding the one that did not belong there . . .

    Trahgos was accompanied by a retinue of “goblin” soldiers, called kotolkik by the ggollek. Some carried spears and knives, while others carried bows and arrows. These goblins were small when compared to the giant-sized ggollek, but their weapons made them deadly, and they could take down enemies much larger than themselves.

     The group walked down the passageway that led to the accursed cavern, a place Trahgos visited as infrequently as possible. She disliked the large, crystal-filled room because it was home to doorways of light, portals, which often brought irksome intruders into her world. As she neared the cavern entrance, Trahgos did indeed detect traces of light seeping through the darkness. She knew this meant that the spiritual strands of a portal had been activated, just as she had suspected.

     “A portal has opened,” Trahgos shouted in the kotolkik language, her loud voice reverberating throughout the passageway. She looked down at the kotolkik surrounding her and thrust up her fist, giving them the signal to be ready.  

     Over the past years, she had seen many alien creatures enter through a portal and had come to realize that when electromagnetic charges occurred on certain distant planets, a portal would appear in both worlds simultaneously. This allowed alien creatures to enter her world, while also allowing the exotic bosons of Desmos to leak into their world. One day, as she had stood in the cavern looking out through an open portal, she had witnessed the consequences of this occurrence when she had seen a black, four-legged beast materialize on the alien world.

     Now, as she entered the cavern, she scrunched up her round eyes against the painful light, her kotolkik soldiers doing the same. When she forced her eyes open, she saw a member of an alien species, called human, entering her world . . .

Decades later, in Cornwall, England, a lanky, thirteen-year-old boy stared out the parlor window of his father’s ancestral mansion. Crackling heat from the fireplace had chased away the chill of the late spring evening as he watched the approach of fast-moving clouds, dark and thick with rain. His brown eyes were brimming with anticipation as he scanned the stormy sky.

     “Please, oh please, let there be lightning,” he whispered fervently, gripping his hands tightly as he pleaded with the sky.

     His mother, sitting across the room from him knitting an afghan, detected his softly spoken words. “Did you say something, Frederick?” she asked.

     “Just hoping for some lightning,” he replied.

     Suddenly, a streak of light sliced through the sky, followed by a crash of window-shaking thunder. Frederick jumped up and dashed to the front door.

     “Frederick! Where are you going?” she called out. She frowned and tossed aside her knitting needles, then followed him to the foyer. “You can’t go outside during a lightning storm!” she chastised.

     “I have to check out something, mum. I’ll be back in a jiff.”

     She stood in front of him, her hands firmly on her hips. “Does this have something to do with your great-great-grandfather’s crazy notions? You know he had bats in the belfry!”

     Frederick saw another large streak of lightning flash across the sky, its crash of thunder following right behind. “Well, I do like bats, you know. Sorry mum, but I really have to go out now. Don’t worry!” he shouted back as he dashed around her and out the front door, taking two steps at a time. He turned his head upward to look into the sky and felt the rain’s fat, cold drops splatter onto his face. He wiped them away with the palm of his hand and jumped on the golf cart he had left parked alongside the porch. His copper-colored hair was soon damp as he sped across the lawn toward the largest hill at the back of his ancestral property. When he reached the hill, he quickly found the entrance to the small cave. This cavity had been used as a barrow, a place of burial, by generations long past. As he pushed aside the broken boards of the wooden door, he was not greeted by the usual sight—that of a dark chamber housing the bones of those long dead. Instead, an unearthly bright light now filled the space.

     “Bloody hell! What’s this?”

     He stood mesmerized, then slowly entered the small room. He looked around, but he could not find a light source anywhere. How strange, he thought. His eyebrows drew together in concentration as he tried to figure out the source of the strange light. After a moment, he slowly pushed his hand into the light, then pulled it back and examined it. His hand was unhurt. Suddenly, the pool of light started to flicker . . . growing dim, then bright, then dim again. What’s happening? Confused, he stepped away from the light, and in an instant, the unearthly light was gone.

    “What the . . . ?” he asked, holding his hands up in disbelief. Maybe it was the work of the fairies that mom is always talking about, he thought with a grin. He gave one last disappointed glance around, then exited the barrow. The storm, short but freakishly intense, had already moved on. He stared into the darkness of the small cave and could just make out the white bones of a large animal that had partially come uncovered.

     Frederick had always believed the stories told about this region of Cornwall. Different kinds of apparitions, including Black Dog, had been seen for generations on the Trengrouse estate, and the sightings stretched as far away as the Arnold estate. His great-great-grandfather had known that there was something special about this piece of land, and now after seeing the strange light, Frederick had even more reason to believe that he had been right.

     Frederick propped the old door back across the hole in the side of the hill. I’m going to figure this out, he thought. I believe in great-great grandfather’s Otherworld, and I’m going to go there—just like he did. I want to have adventures and find treasure too. And maybe with a little luck, I might even find him!

     He slid into the now wet seat of the golf cart and drove it back home. His mother was waiting for him in the entryway, the light from the chandelier bouncing off the highly polished marble floor. She pulled her cardigan tightly together and crossed her arms in front of herself, her face unsmiling.

     “Where did you go? You’ve been gone for over half an hour.”

     “I drove out to the old barrow and back.”

     “I told you not to ever go there. That place is haunted by fairies and ghosts.”

     “Sorry, mum, but I was only gone for a few minutes.”

     “Hmph,” she snorted. “Look at your watch.”

     “Okay, well I left around 7:00 and it’s now. . .” his voice trailed off as he stared at the hands of his Swatch. He frowned and drew his wrist closer to his face, bending his elbow at a 45-degree angle to get a closer look. His eyes registered surprise, then amazement, and he thought, It’s just like in the fairy tales!

 

Present day . . . Across the proverbial pond in the US state of Michigan, Jonathan Lemieux was running, running for his life. An invisible force was chasing him through a forest of trees . . . branches slapped at him . . . scratched him . . . until suddenly, he was no longer running through a forest, but now it was the long, never-ending halls of his high school. Groups of kids stared as he stumbled by, pointing and laughing at him, but never coming to his aid. Finally, he reached his locker and his brother, Jack, was standing there. Jonathan’s eyes locked onto Jack’s, pleading for his help. He knew it was a longshot because his brother never helped him . . . still, he knew he had to try. But as he stared at his brother, Jonathan realized that the eyes staring back at him were not Jack’s eyes. In fact, the figure standing next to him was not actually his brother but someone else. This being began to speak through “Jack’s” lips, whispering the words, “Jonathan . . . come to Cornwall. Find us . . .” Jonathan did not hear the words with his ears, but instead, he felt the words crawl into his brain.

     Jonathan jerked awake from his nightmare. The sounds of his own frightened gasps filled the air. He had been trying to scream the word, “help,” but only weak, pitiful sounds had escaped his mouth. He took a deep breath and pressed his hand against his heart. He had never felt it pound so hard. What had he been dreaming? It had been intense, but he could not remember any details except for the word Cornwall.

     He heard the early morning sounds of his mother downstairs in the kitchen—the “ready” sound of the coffee maker, the beep, beep of the microwave. He climbed out of bed, stepped into a pair of jeans, and pulled on a sweatshirt. He looked into the dresser mirror and ran his fingers through his straight, brown hair, pushing it into place. His brown eyes, tired looking, stared back at him. He grimaced at his reflection, then started down the stairs, the smell of freshly brewed coffee growing stronger with each step. He was disappointed to see that his older brother, Jack, who had been visiting for a few days, had already beaten him downstairs and was sitting at the kitchen island flexing his bicep muscles.

     Jack’s dark brown hair was still damp from a post-workout shower, and a form-fitting T-shirt helped to show off his large biceps as he alternately flexed each one, a satisfied smile on his face. He glanced over at Jonathan when he entered the room.

     “Hey kiddo. What’re you doing up so early?” he asked.

     Jonathan rolled his eyes at Jack’s ‘kiddo’ remark. “I’m seventeen. It’s called going to high school,” he replied, determined to ignore his brother the best he could as he pushed frozen waffles down into the toaster.

     “Oh yeah. I remember those days—but even back then, I was knocking it out of the park,” Jack said with a smirk. How about taking a little advice from your older, wiser brother?”

     Jonathan was about to angrily reply, but then something about the expression on Jack’s face triggered Jonathan’s memory of his recent dream. He frowned as he tried to remember it.

     Jack took Jonathan’s silence as an opportunity to pass on his “advice.” “You need to get a different hobby, Jonathan. Taking pictures of haunted houses is lame,” he said as he made air quotes around the word, haunted. “There are no such things as ghosts. Bet you still think the boogeyman lives under your bed!”

     “No one says ‘lame’ anymore, Jack. Your age is showing,” Jonathan retorted. “Besides, you’re the one who tried to scare me with the boogeyman stories.”

      Jack grinned. “That’s because you were so gullible, and it was fun watching you check under your bed every night.”

     “Well, the boogeyman isn’t real, but ghosts are,” Jonathan replied firmly.

     “Okay . . .” Jack said slowly, letting the word hang a good long while before continuing, “well, if you really think ghosts exist, then show me some proof,” he challenged.

     “Fine. I will. I know where I can find some.”

     “Oh yeah? Where’s that?” Jack asked, leaning forward, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

     “Cornwall, England,” Jonathan stated victoriously. “They have a lot of ghost sightings there—especially around a place called the Arnold Estate. There’s even a tour group that takes you around to some of the most haunted places.”

     Jack didn’t say anything. He just nodded his head up and down, wearing the amused look on his face that he would give a child.

     This look irritated Jonathan more than anything Jack might have said, so he could not resist adding, “Well, just so you know, I’m going to Cornwall to take the tour.”

     But as soon as Jonathan said the words aloud, he knew they sounded crazy. And if they sounded crazy to his own ears, what was Jack going to say?

     “Hahaha!” Jack laughed. “That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard!”

     “Oh yeah? Well, you won’t be saying that after I publish my ghost pictures and become a famous paranormal photojournalist!” Jonathan replied heatedly.

     “I guess I was wrong about you,” Jack said in a mocking tone. “You’re not lame, you’re delusional!”

     “We’ll see about that, you jerk,” Jonathan said, narrowing his eyes angrily at Jack.

     “Now boys, that’s enough,” their mother exclaimed as she thrust out the palm of her hand, giving them the motion to “stop.” She then turned to Jonathan and said, “You know it’s okay with your father and I if you want to visit Cornwall after you graduate—you’ll be safe as long as you stay with the tour group. But I’m afraid you’ll have to pay for the trip yourself. Jack and Fiona’s wedding is just four months away, you know.”

     “Yeah, Jonathan. You’ll have to pay for your own vacation,” Jack said, wagging his pointer finger at Jonathan.

     “Fine. No problem. But why aren’t you paying for your own wedding?” Jonathan retorted. He then turned to his mother and said, “Don’t worry mom, I’ll cover it.” But he swallowed hard and thought to himself, I hope I have enough . . .