The Monsters That Never Die

Robert Penfield

Description

When he was nine years old, Robert Penfield heard an eerie voice beckon to him from the hurricane-ravaged waters of the local river. He believed the garbled voice speaking to him from the bowels of that dirty flood water was the voice of death. From that moment on, his life changed forever, and his story began.This is a story about a young boy who went fishing and came home with more than any kid could fit into his head, the lore of a 300-year-old monster from another realm. It's a story about a young Indian maiden, murdered by a rogue band of warriors in 1670, reincarnated as a monster from another world. It's a story about common people and common lives, who journey through fear and deal with life's everyday monsters…whether they're real or make-believe. This is a story about a young boy who grew into a man, one who lives a life where he spends every day thinking about dealing with those monsters.

Sujets

• Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers LLC
• Date de parution: 31 janvier 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781645365709
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

The Monsters That Never Die
Robert Penfield
Austin Macauley Publishers
2020-01-31
The Monsters That Never Die About the Author Dedication Copyright Information © Acknowledgment Prologue 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 Epilogue
About the Author

A Simsbury, Connecticut, native, Rob is a retired, self-employed International Business Training Consultant who ran his own Baltimore-based company for over 30 years. A graduate of American International College, Rob worked as a Sports Editor for the Farmington Valley Herald during the 1970s and covered national events such as the World Series, Super Bowls, and the Olympics for national publications. He is a decorated and twice-wounded Vietnam veteran who served with the 9th Infantry Division. He owns and maintains two Model A Fords that he drives throughout the Mid-Atlantic region. He and his wife, Bonnie, who also retired after 43 years with a Baltimore law firm, live a comfortable retired lifestyle with their cats in Phoenix, Maryland.
Dedication

To my wonderful and loving wife, Bonnie. Her timely suggestions reminded me that I had stories to tell, and her patience helped me find the paths to bring back to life those terrific memories from so long ago. Her guidance and support are the reasons I was able to recapture so many of my precious childhood memories, getting them down on paper before I forget them.
Copyright Information ©
Robert Penfield (2020)
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.
Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Ordering Information:
Quantity sales: special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.
Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data
Penfield, Robert
The Monsters That Never Die
ISBN 9781643789477 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781643789460 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781645365709 (ePub e-book)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019917072
www.austinmacauley.com/us
First Published (2020)
Austin Macauley Publishers LLC
40 Wall Street, 28th Floor
New York, NY 10005
USA
[e-mail]
[phone]
Acknowledgment
To longtime friend and author, Tony Connor. I thank him for his confidence and convictions, convincing me people would want to read my words and my stories.
I thank my work partner and Managing Editor at the old Farmington Valley Herald , Caris Carr, who urged me to keep writing because she always said I could tell a good story with my words.
To Cathy Johnson Cook, a friend from years ago. I thank her for showing me a more effective way to use my words and better identify my audience.
I owe special thanks to my friend, Al Fick, a transplanted Baltimorean now living in Bath, Maine. Al listened to my stories and read my words, urging me to have them published.
Additionally, I own my thanks to all those unnamed people who allowed me to be invasive into their lives for the past five years.
Prologue
I never really thought much about death or monsters. Not until I reached the ripe old age of nine. For me, it began in August 1955. Hurricane Diane left an indelible mark on me and my hometown, Simsbury, CT. Diane was an arrogant bitch. A very scary and awful storm; a killer. She arrived quickly in the middle of the night, then slowed to a crawl, swirling overhead and battering Connecticut with her 110 mile-per-hour winds and 17 inches of rain, destroying hopes and dreams of so many of my neighbors. It felt like the eye of the storm was focused on my town, my friends, and my life.
The ground area was already saturated and vulnerable, still reeling from the residual effects of Hurricane Connie. Classified as a tropical depression, Connie blew through our area about a week before Diane, dropping six inches of driving rain, flooding most areas’ waterways and farmlands. The already soaked ground and still flooded streams never had time to recover. Then, ugly Diane came calling. During daylight, I watched debris fly across my yard. Trees cracked and came crashing to the ground. Hedges were uprooted. Electrical wires snapped and danced wildly like the end of a bullwhip. Sparks exploded like fireworks. Even in the driving rain, fires started.
At night, I lay in my bed listening to the howling winds and vicious rain attack my house. The roof creaked and windows rattled. For me, Diane became the Monster before the storm.
Boy, I didn’t have any idea or thoughts that this storm would soon drag me through one of life’s unexpected intersections. Introducing me to one of my lifetime monsters. I had no idea of life’s monsters that were waiting for me during the ensuing years. Some would come and go. Others lingered. This one came visiting and stayed. Hiding in my head. The kind that never die. Here I was, dealing with one Monster, Diane, who would introduce me to another because at the age of nine, I would hear the voice of death. And it would talk to me.
1
One day, I was a kid watching Saturday morning shows on a black and white Philco TV with a 12-inch screen: Looney Tunes, Johnny Jupiter, Mickey Mouse Club. I had few cares. No big fish stories, no wars, no town drunks or old, black gentlemen. No thoughts of monsters.
Now, 65 years later, not a day passes where one of those monsters is not in my thoughts. Or, in my life. Talking to me. Listening in on my life. And, I wonder, Did I ever, really, not think about them?
Like I said, I was nine years old. Just an average kid. I played little league baseball, fished local waterways, rode my bike with neighborhood kids, and watched Saturday morning kids’ TV. My mom worked part-time at the firehouse. When Diane arrived, it was all hands on deck. The small volunteer fire department was a good group of caring and hard-working locals. But that disaster was, in the words of one of the locals, “Like trying to catch a tidal wave in a shot glass.” The effects of the storm were just too much to overcome without a full community involvement, far more than any volunteer group could ever hope to deal with.
Local groups, ladies auxiliaries, scout troops, churches, the Rotary, bowling teams, masons, the Knights of Columbus, and heavily armed national guardsmen. All were going to be needed and involved for weeks, maybe months. It was the last time I remember everyone in my town coming together for a common cause; neighbors, friends, enemies. Everybody showed up to contribute with hard work, materials, money, and care. I wasn’t a religious kid, but that was the act of god. And in my lifetime, it would be the last time I could recall the community being one. Truly, the beginning of the end.
2
I began with my Cub Scout den, picking up small tree limbs and trash along neighborhood roads. The next day, I happened to be at the main firehouse as a note runner. With little or no communication, the main station used kids like me to carry hand-written notes to groups nearby and wait for a reply. That was how they stayed in touch.
On that day, and due to a series of unfolding situations and manpower shortages, I ended up being picked to drive the station’s small motorboat during post-hurricane and flood cleanup. I was helping load a pickup truck with supplies headed for the north end of town.
A fireman who lived in my neighborhood pointed towards me, saying, “Hey, he can drive the boat. He’s old enough, plays in the Little League. You can trust him. He’ll do a good job.”
I was now drafted into the rescue corps under the guidance of one of the Assistant Fire Chiefs. Probably not the best choice for the job, but on that day, at that hour, I was the only choice.
Within 15 minutes, I was sitting in the small boat now moored across the street from the firehouse. It was a small dirt road that led down to the Meadowlands. I had ridden my bike down that dusty road many times. Now, it was flooded. The water creeping up to within 100 feet from the main street. As I was being indoctrinated on the how-to s of operating the boat, my mind suddenly drifted. I heard drums, rhythmic, like in a cowboys’ and Indians’ movie. Faint, but I could hear them. Sounds, songs, maybe words, but indistinguishable.
My brief mental lapse was interrupted when I felt the smack of the fireman’s hand on my knee.
“Hey! Numbnuts. Focus on what I’m saying,” he said loudly into my face. I could feel the impact of his words as they rushed and spewed from his throat, hanging and vibrating in the air between our faces.
“This is important shit, kid,” he added. “You listen to me…or you will die out there.” He smacked my knee again, hard! I was nine years old and all ears.
3
Thus, began my Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn adventures on the flooded waters of the Farmington River. The first two days were exciting, albeit I was working from 8AM until almost dark. Ten to twelve hours a day. To hell with child labor laws. Up and down the raging Farmington River I drove the small, wooden motorboat. Always hugging close to the shore so as not to find myself caught in the currents that could be seen roaring past, just 30 to 40 feet from shore. My job was to deliver supplies, people, and the mail to work locations in the lower floodplains.
From the north end at the Town Dump to the south end at old Pettibone Tavern, I did a good job and I was proud of my accomplishments. I delivered mail, medical supplies, food, and coffee to folks in the south end and Weatogue, where floodwaters devastated homes, fa