Imps of Willow Dell

M. Johnson Wentworth

Description

Three people vanish without a trace in a sleepy little farm community; legend has it that they were taken by the Devil. A haunted hill, a deserted ruin and three children with vivid imaginations conspire to unravel the mystery ... yet something sinister is lurking in those parts. Alice, a retired schoolteacher, defends the children and her beliefs to the point of near ruination, though some say she is only shielding a murderer. A haunted hill, a deserted ruin, and three children with vivid imaginations connive to create a fun and a fear-filled adventure that no one will forget. The Devil snatches Sonyi and the boys move heaven and lots of earth to find her.

Sujets

• Science fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 07 octobre 2011
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781849896856
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Title Page

IMPS OF WILLOW DELL

ADVENTURES IN TIME




By
Wentworth M. Johnson




Publisher Information

Imps Of Willow Dell
Published in 2011 by
Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

Copyright © Wentworth M. Johnson

The right of Wentworth M. Johnson to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.



Chapter One

The jagged pieces of a puzzle make very little sense until at last they are all fitted together and only then the picture becomes evident. For instance, take old man Melenski. Although a recluse, an inventor and an entrepreneur, he lived most of his life in a log cabin on an open and dusty plain north of the tiny mining village of Davisville, Ontario, Canada and then he retired. His business, the Melen Mining Company, was winding down as the gold became uneconomical to retrieve. More and more people moved south where a better living could be made in the new and upcoming industries of that era.
Never a man for other people’s inventions, Melenski had no phone or even that new fandangle electricity stuff. The new house, his retirement home, was heated by wood or coal. The light came from candles or oil lamps with the occasional use of chemical battery power – his own invention. As a hedge against inflation and possible robbers he had buried a thousand 2-ounce bars of pure hallmarked gold under the floor of the new house. The gold came from the Melen mine and effectively cost him nothing.
On a hot summer’s night in the year 1909, old man Melenski walked from his new house to his private laboratory for what would be the last time ever. An hour later an inferno broke out in the new house. Flames and sparks leapt into the hot night sky, yet no one seemed to be around to sound the alarm. The volunteer fire service would take far too long to reach the blaze – that is if anyone ever noticed it. Horse-drawn vehicles along with hand-operated pumps eventually reached the site of the conflagration and proved totally ineffective against this well-established fire.
Time settled over the area like a hot and dusty blanket. Great snows in the winter and arid desert-like dryness shrivelled all but the shaded grass in the summer. The Melen mine became just another dangerous area with hazardous, unprotected and disused ventilation shafts dotting the countryside. The new house grew older and older as the weather and insects consumed what remained of any uncharred woodwork. The only surviving and undamaged tree was a giant horse chestnut which shaded the old laboratory. New conifers grew from seeds brought by the wind and birds, replacing the surrounding pine trees burned or disfigured by the fire.
The advent of the automobile brought people north again, once more making living there practical. The World Wars I and II came and went as the tiny village of Davisville grew into a farming town and expanded with the growth of the twentieth century. As the twenty-first century rolled round hardly anyone remembered Gustaf Melenski or the Melen Mining Company. No longer did anyone ask the question: “whatever happened to that old man?”




Chapter Two

Late in the twentieth century a young girl vanished from a caravan and camping site just outside Davisville. Neither she nor any trace of her turned up. Despite a high police presence nothing at all could be found. Eventually the media and the investigators tired of their fruitless search and little more was said on the subject of a missing camper. The child’s parents went back to their Toronto home and the town of Davisville returned to northern Canadian obscure normality.
A couple of years after the beginning of the new millennium yet another disappearance plagued the area with great excitement. Again just another jagged piece of life’s jigsaw puzzle and like the others it did not fit into the picture. In an isolated house almost half a mile west of town lived a family originally from India who had escaped from Kenya, where they had been living for many years. The political and social pressures of Kenyan reform forced the Sonmiani family to find somewhere else to live in the British Commonwealth – Canada seemed as likely a place as any.
One day the eldest daughter of the family came home in great distress. She screamed and cried about a devil that had consumed her sister. Quickly the police forces of the area responded. The Ontario Provincial Police, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and the local police force poured into the surrounding district. As was in the case before, not a single trace of the missing girl could be found. Neither a wisp nor even a hair remained – well, almost.
Officer Belmont, a specialist in cases of missing children, politely questioned the only living witness. He sat in the front living room of the Sonmiani home and gently spoke to Mehar, the eldest daughter of the family.
“I would like you to tell me in your own words what happened,” he said softly.
The girl glared at him through swollen and tear-stained eyes. “I told them. I told them,” she bleated.
Belmont smiled. “Yes, dear, but I would like to hear it from your lips. I promise you. I’ll do everything possible to get your sister back. Now just tell me what happened.”
“No, you won’t do anything. She’s dead. The Devil took her. How can you help?”
“Ah!” said the cunning policeman. “That may be so, but even devils aren’t above the law.”
“We … we went for a walk to Angel Falls, up in Herman’s Wood. Sonyi ran on ahead.” Mehar stopped and sobbed into her hands for a moment. Eventually controlling herself she continued the saga. “I saw it near the pool. A dark fog and then the creature grabbed her and vanished into the cloud. Nothing, except a splash in the green water and her hat. That’s it, that’s all. There’s nothing else I can tell you.”
For sixteen weeks, four whole months, the police searched and questioned. Tracker dogs and cadaver search dogs were brought in, but all to no avail. The pond at Angel Falls was searched thoroughly by expert divers. A cave in the water-filled hole led into a labyrinth of submarine tunnels. Hundreds of miles of unexplored and flooded passages that seemed to lead nowhere. Only the victim’s pinafore was found, mysteriously weighted with smooth round stones, and a hat floating on the green water.
With no useful clothing, no body, no DNA, not even a hair or a footprint, the investigation slowly ground to a stunning and immovable halt. The general theory drifting around town was that the elder girl must have murdered her younger sister and successfully hidden the body in one of the old mineshafts. An unfriendly black cloud hovered over the Sonmiani household, imprisoning the parents and ostracizing the remaining children. The town became deeply affected as tourists stayed away in droves. What use taking a holiday only to lose your young ones?
The solution, or at least the glue for building the solution to the puzzle of the missing people lay in the town of Dingham in England. Archibald Hendry Blythe, a 12-year-old genius and fully paid-up member of MENSA, started the ball rolling in a way that would change the world. Well, maybe that is a minor exaggeration, but it would change quite a few lives and quite drastically.
Tranquillity settled over the small town of Dingham like a sickly blanket. A cuckoo hooted at its companion and a dog barked in the distance. The early spring sun beat down on the parish church as the tower clock clicked to ten and the great weight began pulling the wheels to grind out the hourly chimes, which rang out over the peaceful English country town, echoing through the sleepy streets.
A cacophony of squeals and yells quickly swelled into the air as the children ran from the school, rushing from the building like termites startled by an anteater. To a mere bystander the raucous children appeared to have no meaning, no controlling force and no purpose. As the seeming cloud of youngsters fled the premises a thunderous clap burst forth, belching out the windows of the school. The air being rent by the clamorous tintinnabulation of breaking glass and a rumble like thunder as the explosion echoed from the surrounding hills. Birds, beasts and passers-by had fled and taken cover. Though the excitement and immediate danger had passed, all but the educational institution returned to normality.




Chapter Three

At about the same time as Archie was having difficulties with his phosgene reactor at the Dingham Primary School in England, Albert Harvey Bernie was about to test the limit of his own mother’s patience in Canada. Albert, 11 years old and a little short for his age, had a serious problem – one that always managed to get him into trouble. Alas, he actually had two problems. One, he was far to fast and eager to use his fists. The other ... well, he occasionally seemed to have difficulty in distinguishing reality from fantasy and never understood the principle of ownership.
Somewhat of a loner, Al would invent playmates and stay out all hours playing and having adventures with his imaginary followers. Often returning home long after dark and usually bei