Showing posts with label House on Top of the Hill. Show all posts
Showing posts with label House on Top of the Hill. Show all posts

Sunday, May 31, 2026

Sunny Days: Peaceful Morning Music by Peder B. Helland

Anyone new to the BryonySeries blog might wonder why I post piano music on Sundays and how that fits into the BryonySeries world.

That's because one character - John Simons - was a nineteenth century world-renowned pianist and composer before he died and became a vampire.

Here is another piano piece by Peder B. Helland, whom I "discovered" on January 7, 2022, when a song on YouTube played through to this song

I sat on the bed next to my calico Faith and petted her, while the music quite spontaneously locked my year-long writer's block for this BryonySeries novel.

This sweet piano piece fits the peaceful and poignant discovery of the forgotten and abandoned Fisher Farm in the third novel of the BryonySeries Limbo trilogy, "House on Top of the Hill."

Enjoy!


Tuesday, April 28, 2026

BryonySeries Excerpt: Picture Postcards

I rarely post excerpts from the BryonySeries to this blog because most lost their context without the weight of the story behind it.

However, many chapters on "House on Top of the Hill" (the third book in the Limbo series) also work as standalone short stories (you have to read the book to understand).

So for your reading pleasure today, here is "House on Top of the Hill," Chapter 5: Picture Postcards.

While the secondary characters in this excerpt appear in other chapters, the main character does not, making this chapter self-contained and able to stand on its own.

The time frame is June 1942. 

The place is Munsonville, Michigan, a depressed fishing village in Northern Michigan.

Fourteen-year-old Helen Chalouf fluffed her blonde finger curls, smoothed her pencil skirt, and skipped out of Munsonville Inn, the latest stop on her parents’ full-scale “capture John Simons” tour. She was more than ready for a root beer float at Sue’s Diner, ecstatic to leave the stuffy dining room, where the latest John Simons 78 RPM played on the new victrola, and dying to flip through the latest edition of “Film Fan,” currently tucked under her arm.

A bell jangled when she opened the diner’s door, announcing her arrival. Male heads swerved in her direction and nodded in greeting and approval. She acknowledged them with a toss of her pretty head and a half smile as she scanned the room. Counter or table? Five men sat at the counter, munching triangular sandwiches or slurping coffee and smoking cigarettes. Helen’s parents always warned her of the dangers of sitting alone at a counter full of men. Helen worried more about the passive taste of tobacco in her ice cream. Besides, she needed room for both the float and the magazine. So she sauntered to an off-center table, settling into the west-facing chair, the better to survey and be surveyed. Finally, she set her magazine in front of her, smoothing the wrinkles from the cover.

“Root beer float,” Helen told the pony-tailed young waitress before the waitress opened her mouth to ask.

The waitress nodded, scribbled, and scurried away. Helen leisurely leafed through the pages until she came to the spread in the center: The Private Life of Willy Baxter.

Helen barely noticed when the waitress returned with her float; she’d sunk that far into the exclusive interview with photos that showcased Willy’s dreamy eyes. As Helen alternately sipped the cold drink through the straw and sucked each fizzy frozen bite off her spoon, she absorbed Willy’s early dreams of medical school, his journey to Hollywood, and why he preferred blonde-haired woman above all others. Willy wasn’t some old stuffy pianist, Helen thought as she traced his black and white image with an adoring index finger, a has-been who’d crumble to ash if the spotlight shone too brightly on him. Willy was real, relevant talent. Helen rudely set her elbow on the tabletop and leaned her cheek on her palm, gazing past the constraints of the diner into her future as Mrs. Willy Baxter.

“Like my wall?” a gruff voice said.

Helen’s arm slid onto her lap, and her face grew hot as she jerked into present time and place. An old man with a droopy face stood patiently at her left, leaning on his cane and waiting for her reply.

“Your wall? What wall?” she asked, bewildered, darting her eyes around the room.

She saw it as soon as the words left her mouth. The entire west wall was covered with an array of colors, swirls, and jots – typical of childish scribblings – on random pieces of cardboard, lined notebook paper, the blank side of circulars, paper napkins, and backs of old envelopes.

“Yes, my wall.” He gestured with his free hand. “Take a closer look.”

The man tapped his way across the room. Helen quickly slurped the rest of her float, grabbed her magazine, and reluctantly followed him, annoyed that he pulled her from such pleasant imaginings. The pictures, fastened in place with yellow cellophane tape, were even more hideous up close. The young artist was obviously too sheltered, judging by his choice of subject matter. Helen’s eyes roamed over drawings of coat hooks, cottages, chair backs, cigarette lighters, a halved apple, an upside down mop, pots on stove burners, the back of an alarm clock, partially open boxes, silhouettes of birds in the sky, tinned food on counters, a flower bud, clouds, a tree stump, a toad, scattered wildflowers in the grass, customer meals arranged for serving…

Whatever hatchling – or hatchlings – sketched and sloppily colored these crude images with number two pencils and cheap crayons clearly lacked any artistic abilities. As in none. Zero. Zilch.

Helen opened her mouth to say so, but the man with the cane turned to her, beaming with pride. “My boy Steve made these. They’re impressive, aren’t they?”

Her laugh rang out before she realized it. Delusion obviously infected all of Munsonville. Well, she could squelch it – even as her parents would greatly profit from it.

“Impressive?” Helen snickered. “They’re terrible, even for a child.”

The old man’s expression didn’t change. “Do you really think so?” He held out his hand. “Name is Barnes. Sam Barnes. You may call me Sam. Welcome to my diner.”

Helen accepted the handshake with even less enthusiasm than Sam had offered it – and he was very unenthusiastic, too, engaging her with a forced politeness. Well, he should have left her alone with Willy Baxter.

Sam snapped his finger on the first drawing. “So tell me. Why is this terrible?”

“The line quality is poor and hastily drawn,” Helen blurted without thinking, automatically repeating the words Helen’s own art teacher dropped on her before she and her parents embarked on their tour.

“I see,” Sam said thoughtfully, gaze glued to the wall. “But the composition is remarkable, don’t you think?”

“Not really.”

Sam frowned as his eyes swept over the scrawls “Maybe you’re standing at the wrong angle.” He faced her again, this time with a genuine smile. “Try stepping back a few paces.”

“Changing the angle won’t change my opinion.”

“Are your parents as narrowminded as you?”

Helen blinked at the abrupt change in topic. “My – parents?”

“Yes, Edward and Florence Chalouf.”

“How…how do you know them?” Helen stammered, taken back that this strange man knew her parents’ names. She hadn’t even sat at the counter!

“I don’t know them. I know of them. They spent the morning talking to Briana Miller.” He grinned slyly. “For their book?”

That grin rankled her.

“That’s right, Sam,” deliberately ignoring the fact that he was ancient, and she was only fourteen. Quickest way to kick him into place, she decided. “We are touring the country, talking to anyone with firsthand accounts of John Simons.”

“That’s an expensive undertaking.”

“Oh, we have plenty of money.” Helen shrugged as if she never concerned herself about money. “Metropolitan Oil Company is sponsoring them.”

“Well, then, they should talk to him.” Sam pointed to a table in the rear corner, where a short, hunched man with heavy, thick-rimmed black glasses and dark hair slicked to one side was twirling spaghetti onto his fork and reading a newspaper. Beside his plate sat a pipe.

Helen sniffed. “Why should they talk to him?”

“Dr. Rothgard’s parents knew John Simons and often visited him at Simons Mansion when Bryony was alive.”

“Where are his parents now?”

“Dead,” Dr. Rothgard boomed in a cold voice, which cut through – and then silenced – the chatter of the other patrons.

Helen rewarded him with her best icy stare. She knew his type. They encountered it in every town, people so hungry for publicity that they begged for it. “Then, good doctor, they won’t be interested in talking with you. Their book is for firsthand accounts only.”

“I see.” Dr. Rothgard set his fork down and closed his newspaper.

“Look, mister, I’m sure your parents told you many stories, maybe even fascinating stories. But my parents can’t put just any story in their book. The stories can only come from firsthand accounts. That is the only way to verify them. Accuracy is especially important to my parents – and to their sponsor.”

“I see.” Dr. Rothgard lit his pipe and puffed reflectively. “And how will your parents verify Briana’s information, to ensure its accuracy?”

            Helen flushed at his arrogance and persistence. Anyone else would slink away by now. She looked to Sam for help. But Sam was now leaning on the counter, chatting to a customer. The other patrons had paused their eating to watch the show.

            “I guess Briana knew what she saw,” Helen shot back. “Besides, my parents are very perceptive. They know when sources are lying if that’s what you’re implying.”

            Dr. Rothgard puffed in silence. She sure showed him! But then he rose and shuffled across the room – all eyes following each movement – until he reached Helen.

“Perceptive, eh?” he asked, monitoring her closely. “Perception is a rare, exquisite quality. A pity – or perhaps a blessing – more people aren’t perceptive.” He waved his hand over the artwork, but his gaze never left her face. “Perhaps you inherited your perception from your parents.”

“Don’t even try insulting me! Anyone with half an eyeball can tell these doodlings are ugly.”

“Yet, you’re the only person in this room with that viewpoint.”

“Are you surprised? Perception picks up subtle details most people never notice.”

“Such as?”

“Details right in front of your nose!” Helen tossed her head again. “I know things about you most people don’t – just by looking at you!”

“What might those details be?”

A slight cunning appeared in his green eyes. Helen blinked and shook her head. Nope, just plain green eyes. She’d sparred with him too long. Time to end it.

“OK, mister, since you asked for it, here goes! You’re a man who likes long walks – exceptionally long walks, miles and miles of walks – deep into the woods. So there!”

A hush spread through the room.

Dr. Rothgard lowered his pipe, pausing either in stupefaction or for effect; Helen couldn’t decide. Finally he asked, “And how did your arrive at that conclusion?”

“It’s easy. Your shoes, for one. Or should I say boots? Very special boots. Your boots are made with thick leather and rubber cleats, caked with mud. I noticed that under the table the moment you started speaking. Not the type of boots a doctor might wear to see patients.”

“I see.”

“And the cuffs of your pants are permanently stained with grass.” Helen pointed at the offending fabric. Dr. Rothgard’s eyes followed. “They stains are faint where someone tried scrubbing them out – but definitely there.”

“I see. Anything else?”

“You don’t want to hear anything else I have to say.”

“But I do. I really, truly do.” Dr. Rothgard took a step forward. “This is most interesting.”

“Fine. You’re a phony.”

A chorus of objections rose from random tables. Dr. Rothgard held his hand up for quiet. “Let the little girl talk.” His gaze never left her face. “What led you to that conclusion?”

“Your fingers are dusky, like my grandpa’s before he died. It’s a sure sign you’re lacking hemoglobin. So you’re a doctor who can’t fix himself. And your black hair is colored with hair dye. This tells me you’re older than you try to appear. That makes you a phony. You are the very last person my parents want to interview. You’re not a firsthand report. And you’re a phony.”

“I see.” Dr. Rothgard resumed puffing.

Helen suddenly felt herself relenting. Maybe she was too hard on him. After all, he was just a country bumpkin doctor amusing himself by toying with her mind, a consolation for failing at buying himself fame on John Simons’ name.

“I’m not trying to brag,” Helen said, softly but with great authority, hoping she sounded sympathetic to his position. “But my parents are skilled in human motivation and behavior. They have an uncanny ability to notice details. I picked it up from them.”

“I see. Well, it’s not the first time cognitive bias has led to ruin. Vicki, I’m ready to settle my bill.”

. A lanky, gap-toothed woman with frizzy hair scurried to the cash register. Helen’s sympathy fled; her cheeks flushed, and her chest tightened; and she forgot decorum and grabbed his arm. “What do you mean,” Helen hissed, “by ‘cognitive bias?’”

Dr. Rothgard gently extricated himself and reached for his wallet. “You saw what you wanted to see. You drew the conclusions you wanted to draw. Cognitive bias.”  He opened his wallet and removed a crisp five dollar bill.

“Which means what?” Helen demanded hotly.

Dr. Rothgard pointed to the art wall. “One picture is worth a thousand words. Or in this case, one good interview is worth a thousand stories.” He called out with a wave, “Sam, I’ll return mid-week.”

Sam returned the wave with a smile, and Dr. Rothgard strolled out the door, which jingled its farewell, leaving Helen to stand like a fool, gaping like an idiot. What just happened? How did she lose to this creep? Helen stopped the waitress on her way to the kitchen. “What is he talking about? What did I miss?”

With a benevolent smile, the waitress led Helen to the middle of the room and off to one side but still in full view of the artwork. “Do you see it?” she kindly asked Helen.

“See what?”

“The smile in every picture. That’s why Steve drew them. Each item, if you look closely, has the semblance of a face. A smiling face.”

The waitress headed toward the kitchen. With a loud HUMPH, Helen folded her arms and studied each photo. The screws on coat hooks. The alignment of windows and doors on the cottages. The carvings in the chair backs. The emblems on the cigarette lighters. The halved apple with its seeds. The nails and open space in the upside down mop. The arrangement of pots on stove burners. The cutouts on the back of the alarm clock. The flaps on the partially open boxes. The silhouettes of birds in the air. The ordering of tinned food on counters. The pieces of the open flower bud. The positioning of clouds in the sky. The rotted pieces of wood on the tree stump. The open-mouthed toad. The way wildflowers scattered over the grass. The customer meals arranged on trays for serving. Smiles in every drawing.

Now that Helen saw it, she couldn’t unsee it. She glanced at the closed door, where Dr. Rothgard had exited just minutes ago. Then she tossed her head and stomped out of the diner. A child’s drawings had nothing in common with her parents’ book. And they had nothing to do with her keen assessment of Dr. Rothgard. He was nothing more than a stupid, attention-seeking idiot. Helen congratulated herself for putting him into his well-deserved place.

 



Tuesday, March 3, 2026

32 Quotes from "House on Top of the Hill"

When we were getting ready to release Bryony back in 2011, my daughter Sarah (who did a lot of the marketing for me) suggested I pull thirty teaser quotes from the book that she could post on Facebook, one each day.

We did the same for the second book, Visagewhich is also part of the BryonySeries.

But for some reason, I never did the same for another book.

So I'm catching up with the other books.

Here is the synopsis and chapter headings for House on Top of the Hill, (the third book in the BryonySeries Limbo trilogy), followed by thirty-two quotes, one from each chapter.

Enjoy!

Change comes slowly to Munsonville, and for Steve Barnes, who spends his entire life in the village, that's just fine. From boyhood to manhood, he savors the slow pace and friendly smiles, even while working by his parents' side from sunup to sundown to run the family diner.

The only blight is this fishing village's preoccupation with an empty mansion in the woods, whose tales of former glory and catastrophe fueled a rampage of ghost stories. Steve doesn't believe them, but some do – and no one can deny the power the crumbling old building holds over them.

Especially when it changes everyone, including Steve, forever.


Prologue

Asclepius.

Amazing word, isn’t it?

Asclepius was more commonly known as the “hopeless case clinic” – when it really should be called the “hopeful case clinic.” For any patient who passed through its glass doors was healed.

Or so the media said.

Still, Asclepius was the only facility in the world offering revivification, hematophagy, alba faelis anima transference, corpus vis separation, pneuma preservation, and odic force conduction, processes that leaped the great expanse from science fiction to actual science.

And here I stood, letting a really good coffee get cold while ruminating on a word I couldn’t even pronounce.

Chapter 1: The Traveling Salesman

Lenny drummed his fingers on the desk while Lou, coffee in hand, strolled into the office. His eyes roamed over the dingy space and faded carpet. He’d stood in plenty of lobbies over the years, everything from palatial hotels with marble floors and thick oils on the walls to roach-infested shanties, no bigger than an outhouse. They all bought mirrors, every single one. In fact, Lanny couldn’t remember any hotel, motel, inn, or boarding house that refused to buy mirrors. 

Chapter 2: Roundtable

A voice rang out, “Excuse me, Mr. Mayor.”

And this, MeeMaw, is where the meeting flipped. I jotted comments as rapidly as they fired. I couldn’t attribute most of them and didn’t even try. Just read on. You’ll get the gist of it.

Chapter 3: Bottle of the Red Stuff

Soon Marjorie was on her feet, shaking cobwebs out of her head and smoothing her rumpled slacks and bouse. She dug her brush out of her suitcase and freed the tangles in her brown hair while watching Shirley, who stood before the old bureau mirror and reapplied her red lipstick with a tiny brush. Shirley’s reflection stared unblinkingly into Marjorie’s, and Marjorie instinctively squeezed her thighs together as she stroked, stroked, stroked. Picture perfect, that’s how people described Shirley. “Too negative” – that’s how people perceived Marjorie. Shirley and Marjorie. Light and shadow. Little did they know.

Chapter 4: Cracking Open the Nest Egg

“Sam, simmer down. I just don’t understand why you surprised her with such a car. Women like jewelry. You could have bought her a nice ring for a fraction of the cost.”

“She can’t drive a ring to California!”

Chapter 5: Scrawls on the Wall

A bell jangled when she opened the diner’s door, announcing her arrival. Male heads swerved in her direction and nodded in greeting and approval. She acknowledged them with a toss of her pretty head and a half smile as she scanned the room. Counter or table? Five men sat at the counter, munching triangular sandwiches or slurping coffee and smoking cigarettes. Helen’s parents always warned her of the dangers of sitting alone at a counter full of men. Helen worried more about the passive taste of tobacco in her ice cream. 

Chapter 6: Whispers of the Heart

“So my mother – remember, I told you they owned and operated Munsonville Inn – so my mother sent me to Harper’s for a two-pound bag of coffee, as she’d run out and her large shipment came later in the week. She’d tied up the coins – all eighty-three cents of them – in a fresh handkerchief and instructed me to present the entire parcel to Mrs. Harper and come immediately home with the coffee – and no dawdling, because, well, I was quite the dawdler. But when I walked through the door – oh my word, I saw Steve! He was wearing an old droopy undershirt and old droopy pants, and he was leaning against the vending machine, gulping that cola like someone might wrest it from him. And my heart just – stopped.”

Chapter 7: I Run at Night

I stretch, get out of bed, and yank the old blanket back to air the bed. (Terry Rule No. 2). It’s an old creaky bed, but it’s a bed. I wasn’t allowed on the bed when Ma was alive. But that’s all changed now. She’s dead and I have the bed.

Chapter 8: Laid to Rest

Despite Chester’s background Chester always lived within his means, and Mindy never complained. When Chester was between jobs, his father only gave Chester enough money to keep the wolf from the door, as Roderick liked to say. But modestly never meant slovenly. Mindy was a good little woman and kept their tiny home spick-and-span and filled with mouth-watering smells, for Mindy cooked and baked as well as she cleaned, as good as or better than any of his father’s private chefs. But this little cottage stank of garbage, and Chester sneezed repeatedly at the herd of dust bunnies scampering across the room as he crossed the small parlor. Unruffled, Fred led the way into the kitchen where a woman about Chester’s age sat at the kitchen table in a cloud of choking cigarette smoke. She wore a bright orange and green frock that looked more like a tent than a dress. The table was filled with supplies to make jewelry: gold wires and chains, silver wires and chains, hoops, bells, zebras, trout, spires, rutabagas. Dishes caked with cement food were stacked high on the counter and in the sink. Food scraps, paper plates, and foam cups spilled out of the metal garbage can and formed molehills on the floor. A small paper strip had fluttered off the table, so Chester bent to retrieve it:

Moonstone (hecatolite) is named for Hecate, goddess of magic and the underworld. She waits for you at the crossroad. Bring your requests to her, for she sees the past, present, and future.

Chapter 9: Necking

“Ah, Madison, I can never think of Steve’s first kiss without also thinking of Ollie and Floyd.”

Madison choked and tea ran from her nose as she groped for a napkin. “Ollie and Floyd? More boyfriends?”

“No, dear. Not boyfriends. Drifters and drunks.” She gestured to the platter. “Do try a sandwich.”

Chapter 10: Spider and Fly

Chester kept his head down as he rolled the cart into the kitchen. He hated talk of Simons Mansion, and he hated village roundtable meetings. He hated the conflict; he hated the drama. But he attended every meeting for the sake of Mindy and the children. Like him, they thrived in Munsonville – as he knew they would. Kenneth, age ten, Douglas, age eight, and Melody, age six, rapidly shot to the top of their respective classes at Munsonville School. Even little Jakey, now age four, attended school, although he couldn’t partake in any of the work. But that didn’t matter to the little boy. Jakey loved school, and tears welled up in Chester’s eyes just thinking about it. All Chester’s children tugged at his heart – but Jakey tugged a little harder.

Chapter 11: Death Heard Round the World

“John Simons forever grieved the death of Bryony and his unborn child,” said Dorothy Fisk, John Simons historian and author of “And God Said, ‘Let There Be Music:’ The Definitive Biography of John Simons.” Fisk added, “Because of this wound in his heart, John Simons was able to fully devote his entire being to his music and attain a brilliance a family man could never have reached.”

Chapter 12: Mine

Lou started to take a sip from his empty cup, but Vicki was already scurrying up with the coffee pot. After a couple of quick fortifying gulps, Lou smiled encouragingly at his audience, which only increased Chester’s disquiet.

Chapter 13: Second Sight

Hand in hand, we strolled across the grass to the dock and settled at its edge. In silence, we removed our shoes and socks and dragged our feet in the water. For a time, the only sound in our world was the light splashing of our feet.

I broke the silence first.

Chapter 14: Chop, Sizzle, Broil, and Bake 

The Sandman smiled and waved from the dock, and the world whirled around her, and his cane tapped out the words, and she remembered when she used to traipse out to see her friends, silent and bloated blue under the rippling waters and gazing at her with purpled eyes and grinning with full inky lips, and she laughed aloud.

Chapter 15: The Rage

“Janice,” Bob clasped her hands and leaned close to her face, not to intimidate her, for Bob was never intimidating, despite his size. He leaned close to reinforce their solidarity, that he was with her, on her side. “You been on the lake. You know there’s more in the lake than anyone will ever know. You’ve been in the woods. You know there’s more in the woods than anyone will ever know. But you haven’t been inside Simons Mansion. And I believe ‘things’ happen inside that mansion we’ll ever know.”

Chapter 16: Hard Choice to Make

I’m past ninety – and I’ve never experienced a darkness as dark as Munsonville when the lights go out.

Chapter 17: Through the Camera’s Eye

Pure sunshine, he thought, wishing he’d brought his camera and then instantly killed his wish. Standing at the window snapping photos of her was decidedly creepy, especially since he was forty-six, and she looked no more than twenty-five. Still – he’d love to capture the soft pink in her cheek as she bent to sign the children’s hardcover book and then, beaming, raising her head and placing the copy into the outstretched hands of its new owner, her eyes bright with excitement. Did she realize how honestly lovely she looked?

Chapter 18: Words Enough For Me

She cocked her head and smiled kindly, well pseudo-kindly. She sure as fuck didn’t fool him. “You’re ruining your health.”

“It’s my health to ruin.”

“And if you die, what happens to me?”

“That’s why I’m here today. To plan for your care.”

She took his hand. “A good son should care for his mother.”

He yanked his hand away. “Well, I’m a shitty son.”

Chapter 19: The All-Hallowed Albatross

Anna Marchellis’ room was last on the left. She lay in bed in the airless little cage, covers flung aside, curtains drawn. She looked too gaunt and too pale for his liking. Probably due to an outdated wartime rations policy. He’d talk to the staff. He certainly paid enough for this dump.

Chapter 20: Dancing in the Past

June stretched her toes, hoping she carried an inkling of Granny Bea’s gumption in those shoes. Granny Bea also grew up in Boston; she’d known another life. But she met a mountain man while on holiday with her family and eloped with him under the cover of night. In those days, Granny Bea was Miss Beatrice Wilson, the “surprise” child of her parents, their second and their last. Beatrice’s sister Bertha was twenty years older than she and married by the time Beatrice landed on earth. So Beatrice’s parents poured their time and wealth and Boston’s finest tutors into her. Beatrice birthed one child late in life – Maureen – and Maureen birthed one child late in life – June. Both women’s husbands died before the babies arrived; both women raised their daughters themselves. June broke that tradition. June birthed no one, because of Mickey.

Chapter 21: The New Professor

At that moment, Dirk Weston walked up to their table. It was only a matter of time. Dirk had started canvassing the cafeteria the moment the girls set their trays on the table. Dirk had curly brown hair, brown glasses, a permanent solemn expression, and brown “abandoned puppy” eyes that spoke of his greatest desire: getting laid – by anyone; he wasn’t choosy. But. as president of Jenson College’s music club, Dirk made it his personal mission to recruit all three members of the Friendship Harmony to whatever project he cooked up (and secretly hoping one might take pity on him afterwards by, well, you know). “You ladies coming to the fundraising dance on Saturday night?”

“The ‘what’ dance?” Robin asked.

Dirk set a flyer on the table with a smirk. “This one. If you’d attend club meetings…”

Chapter 22: Enigma in Residence

“Why Julie,” Mrs. Clements said. “Is something wrong?”

“Did you see a strange person with a dog?” Julie asked breathlessly.

“A dog!” Mrs. Feigel said with a laugh. “In the library?”

“So – no?” 

Chapter 23: Rain

“I’m almost ashamed saying it, but Steve’s mother ‘gave me the creeps’ that day; there’s no other way to explain it. She was huddled in a chair, a ratty blanket to her neck, staring out the picture window with glassy eyes, and muttering, “Rain-rain-rain-rain-rain-rain,” in such an unsettling way that even the recollection raises the hair on my arms and neck. I remember my gaze traveling with hers. I saw the shining sun glistening off the deep blue water. What she saw, I do not know.”

Chapter 24: From Fry Pan to Factotum

The remainder of the meal passed with more lively banter, and they left Sue’s Diner together. Scott needed to walk a stray dog and scoop his growing collection of litter boxes. Someone dumped four white kittens at his door last night, he said.

“I’m also behind in paperwork,” Scott added as they ambled down Main Street.

“That’s what you get for frittering your time with a fishing pole.”

Their soles thunked in unison on the old wooden planks. June tried not to think about Vicki.

“I sure could use a secretary. Feel like moonlighting?”

“Hmm, well, I sure could use a clerk at the circulation desk. Know anyone?”

“Still won’t bite? Well, then, could I interest you in a tabby? She’s s a sweet girl, about nine years old.”

Chapter 25: Nutty Tina Swanson

“I hate people sometimes,” Ann said as she reluctantly returned “her” puppy to its cage.

“Me, too,” Dr. Samuelson said, which made all three girls look up in surprise. They’d never heard an adult speak like that, especially an adult resembling Santa Claus. “That’s why – when you find a good person – you treat that person like royalty. A good person is a rare breed indeed.”

Chapter 26: Preternatural Guest

I rouse to unearthly screaming, but the room was gray and silent except for the low rumble of the television. I was silent, too. Someone else was shrieking. Someone not in this room. It happens here. It happens often here at this time of day.

Chapter 27: A New Lease on a Very Old Dream

“Finally, let’s not forget that John Simons’ wife and only child died in that mansion.” Dr. Rothgard paused to relight his pipe. “So while we’re touting the name of John Simons and parading strangers through his home, we should be mindful of the heartache he endured there. Will we show off the bed where his wife – one of Munsonville’s own – and his baby passed into eternity? Will his grief be part of the tourism? If so, we should charge an appropriate price.”

Chapter 28: The News That Changed Everything

“Hurry up, Katie. Don’t you want to ride on the new trail?”

Katie kicked a stray stick off the porch. “I don’t know.”

 

“Come on. Ghost or no ghost, it will be fun.”

Chapter 29: Journey of a Thousand Heartaches

Darlene gripped the steering wheel with slippery hands as the attendant cleaned her windows and headlights and then checked the tires and under the hood. She had never driven out-of-state alone – until now, at age forty-two. She dreaded the trip, not because she was alone but because of what being alone meant. Plus, she’d never felt this degree of anguish, anger, betrayal, and terror, and she felt them simultaneously and struggled to process them. Process them? Who was she kidding? She was barely coping.

Chapter 30: Severed Links

 “And you’ll both have the chance to get to know Grandma Marchellis.”

  That was a selling point? 

Epilogue

He chuckled because of all the families that could have moved onto the Simons estate, the absolute best family would soon move onto it. Fate finally dealt him a card he could actually play.









Tuesday, November 18, 2025

BryonySeries: Limbo Trilogy

I think vague ideas for the BryonySeries Limbo trilogy started coming into my mind in 2018.

I wanted to explore what happens when a place becomes frozen in time.

But I didn't start jotting thoughts (none saved anyway) until spring 2019.

However, I realized as I wrote the three books in the Limbo trilogy ("The Phoenix," "Call of the Siren," and "House on Top of the Hill") that the value of this series was more than a fun exploration of the activity in a seemingly stalled and stagnant locale.

The Limbo series actually connects the ends of the original "drop of blood" young adult vampire trilogy and its prequel (the five-installment "Before The Blood"), filling in the blanks, answering (and raising) questions, and creating a seamless story loop without any real beginning or end.

As I wrote at the end of my second writing retreat in 2024:

Now, I could be wrong about “House on Top of the Hill” being the last novel. But at age sixty-three, I want to be sure I finish these other BryonySeries books, while I’m still able to finish them. So I'm definitely not bidding creative writing good-bye. I have plenty of book projects to last me a long time.

Also, for anyone who has read the BryonySeries, this "House on Top of the Hill" brings the series to a nice full circle. 

You see, if one starts with the drop of blood trilogy (“Bryony,” “Visage,” and “Staked!”),  the five installments of “Before The Blood” becomes a terrific prequel to the series. Limbo then fills in the time period between “drop” and BTB, the eighty years when nothing seemingly happens.

Or if one reads the books in chronological order – beginning with “Before The Blood,” and then moving onto to Limbo and then “drop of blood,” the novel “Staked!” gives a nice finish to the series. 

And if you start with Limbo, you can read BTB and “drop” to see what happened before and what happens after, which also works quite logically, especially since "drop" seamlessly follows "House on Top of the Hill."

Now, I don’t want to forget HOW to write a novel. And who knows? I might have another lurking in my brain somewhere, just waiting for the right time to show itself.

Or perhaps I’ll co-write a novel or helps other authors polish theirs. But from my viewpoint on this Monday morning, “House on Top of the Hill” is likely my last novel.

Of course, I did say that after “Before The Blood,” too. 

And if we want to travel down that path, I really only intended to write one novel, “Bryony.” But the story was too big for one book. 

Fine, I thought. I’ll write a sequel. But the story was too big for THAT book, too.

Fine. A trilogy then. Except now I had all this background backstory and my little band of fans for “drop of blood” wanted to read the series back story, which turned into an eight-year project for the five installments.

So there you have it. A series that overtook itself much like the poisonous bryony took over Simons Mansion, the Simons estate, and worked its way into the woods (which wasn’t Simons Woods after all, as you shall see in "House on Top of the Hill").

And with that, here is a summary of the trilogy, along with the back cover copy of all three books.

Limbo

Its tagline reads: "What happens when time stops in a fishing village in Northern Michigan? The supernatural reigns."

This BryonySeries trilogy - in three separate and very unique novels - explore the time period of the very late nineteenth century through nineteen seventy-five, when all progress appears to stop in Munsonville, Michigan, giving the illusion that time has also stopped.

The first novel spans a few short months. The second two span approximately forty years each. 

The third has an unusual structure: each chapter is (almost) a separate short story that (most of the time) moves the greater story forward. You would have to read it to know what I mean.

The Phoenix

Late 1895 in Munsonville, Michigan is all about survival and rebuilding: for the fishing village still reeling from deadly tragedies, for twelve-year-old Marie Clare who is grounded at Munsonville Inn with her dying father, and for two newly turned vampires foraging their meals from a dwindling supply of villagers. 

But to rise strong and unscathed, some will be sacrificed along the way. Who gets to live and thrive? And who decides?

Call of the Siren

Sue Bass is haunted by dreams of her father, who died in a boating accident before she was born, alluring dreams of water and song. But then a soft-spoken outside man with an inside plan comes to town, and Sue's sleepwalking fades, only to resurface with greater magnetism when he leaves. 

Two voices beckon. Which one will she heed?

House on Top of the Hill

Change comes slowly to Munsonville, and for Steve Barnes, who spends his entire life in the village, that's just fine. From boyhood to manhood, he savors the slow pace and friendly smiles, even while working by his parents' side from sunup to sundown to run the family diner.

The only blight is this fishing village's preoccupation with an empty mansion in the woods, whose tales of former glory and catastrophe fueled a rampage of ghost stories. Steve doesn't believe them, but some do – and no one can deny the power the crumbling old building holds over them.

Especially when it changes everyone, including Steve, forever.



Tuesday, June 24, 2025

About the BryonySeries: Beulah County Legends

Last week, I wrote an introduction to the fictional Beulah County in the ByronySeries.

Today are the seven mysteries associated with the county.

They are told through the eyes of the Munsonville's first librarian, as she reviews them over lunch during her first train ride in the early 1960s in the BryonySeries novel "House on Top of the Hill."


At noon, June Clements headed for the dining car and ordered a simple meal: a roast turkey sandwich with potato chips, crisp pickles, and hot tea. Then she pulled out her notebook and reviewed her scant research of Munsonville’s origins, legends, and scandals in order of their appearances. The more June learned, the more June questioned – and the more June wondered…

Owen Munson: Wealthy Scottish/Italian mustang runner and mill owner. Founded Munsonville in 1835 when he bought a large parcel of land from – who?

She couldn’t find a shred of evidence that Owen Munson purchased the land that he later established into a Utopian community. Nor could she find a shred of evidence of who owned this uppermost part of Michigan before Owen did. And if anyone could find elusive evidence, she could.

Strange, indeed.

June sipped and stared at the words, thinking.

Someone must have staked his claim into the land, for it escaped becoming an official territory of Michigan until after Owen’s death, when Munsonville went to Beulah County.

But who claimed it first?

John Simons:. World renowned pianist and composer, son of a highly successful industrialist banker. Raised on Fifth Avenue. Attended the once prestigious and now-defunct Wesley Music Conservatory in Connecticut. Married Bryony Marseilles, daughter of a Munsonville minister, on Christmas Eve, 1893. Bought an unknown acreage of woods, named it for himself, and built a mansion on a hill. Abruptly left Munsonville two years later after death of wife and baby in childbirth. Died at age ninety-two in 1955. Mansion and estate intact and rumored to be haunted.

And yet – why, with all the places in the world John Simons had traveled, why had John Simons gone to Munsonville? With all the women he might have married, why had he chosen the pastor’s daughter and built his home in such a remote area?

Educated, cultured music enthusiasts still appreciated Simons’ work, even though the commoners gravitated toward the current rock and roll heartthrobs.

But she had attended John Simons’ final concert in New York. He was outstanding, certainly worth the half a week’s pay the tickets cost. A John Simons ghost story could positively impact tourism – for the right tourists. Yet, time and again, Munsonville failed to acquire the estate, and the ghostly rumor persisted.

Why?

Siren Spell: Least known of the Beulah County legends, despite receiving much press shortly after it occurred. On October 15, 1894, a violent storm sprang up and drowned most of the Munsonvillian men while they fished off their boats on Lake Munson. Only one man returned,

Legend blamed the drownings on sirens, but time drowned even the legends. Why?

The Ghost of Highway 7: Yes, the most famous of the legends because it involved a lesbian ghost and notorious individuals. The lovers were Shirley Wraith, daughter of William Wraith, corrupt mayor of Thornton in the 1940s and Marjorie Mejoriak, daughter and lover of crime lord Michael Mejoriak. Shirley died instantly under a full moon on July 19, 1940, on Beulah County’s Highway 7, when the car Marjorie was driving left the roadway and plowed into a tree. Majorie’s body was found the following day in a fishing cabin in Munsonville. William Wraith subsequently bought the vacant lot at the site and named it Wraith Park. Through the years, motorists claim they’ve seen Shirley and Marjorie walking down Highway 7 toward Munsonville – especially when the moon is full. Legend says Wraith Park is exactly as it’s named: a place for wraiths to park.

Arvid Borgstrom Scandal: Arvid Borgstrom was a Scandinavian who moved to Munsonville around 1885 with his twin sons Erland and Erasmus, who were also fine fishermen. He hanged the following year, the gruesome murder of his wife Astrid Borgstrom, who had been filleted alive. Owen Munson was arrested for harboring Arvid. But those charges were dropped. Erland and Erasmus were among the villagers who drowned in the storm of October 15, 1894.

Mustang Horse Operation: Owen Munson and Clyde Fisher ran an operation that rounded up Mustangs, sent them to Fisher Farm, where they trained and then sold them to ranchers or the U.S. Army. Those that couldn’t be trained or were maimed were killed and sold for their products: leather and horse meat.

The Devil’s Moonshine: The most perplexing operation of them all. One of the barns had a distillery where Clyde prepared, and Owen distributed, “The Devil’s Moonshine” across the United States. Two of their most notorious smugglers were Douglas and Marion Copeland, a pair of newlyweds who bought Munsonville Inn with their banker parents’ money more than thirty years ago, where they remained to this day, operating the inn, instead of facing arrest and prison – even though everyone knew they lived there.


And there you have it. Seven mysteries that are still mysteries in 2025.

And we haven't even gotten into the mysteries or the notoreity that's later than the early 1960s.

For instance, in the late 1980s, the medical director at Jenson Memorial Hospital had produced convincing evidence that Dr. Rothgard had been stealing patient blood samples and experimenting with them at his home. 

During the investigation, authorities discovered freezers full of blood on Dr. Rothgard’s property. The judge ruled Dr. Rothgard mentally unfit, dissolved his practice, and ordered twenty-four hour supervision.

Because of state budget cuts, no other suitable facility could offer mental health services to elderly patients than Golden Years Retirement Home in Thornton.

And that didn't turn out well.

But Dr. Rothgard is a mystery for another blog.





Saturday, April 19, 2025

Will You Take a BryonySeries Superhero Bag Home on April 26?

Ten members of WriteOn Joliet will explore various aspects of heroism in original radio-style stories and poems at 7 p.m. April 25 and 2:30 p.m. and 7 p.m. April 26  at the Billie Limacher Bicentennial Park and Theatre.

Yes, this year we have a matinee performance.

In celebration of WriteOn Joliet's first matinee, the BryonySeries table is giving away "superhero" bags to the first fifteen attendees who stop at the BryonySeries table (you have to stop at the BryonySeries table; they will not be at the ticket table).

By "attendees," we mean people who aren't performers or park staff. Sorry, guys.

So - what is a BryonySeries Superhero Bag?

Well, it is a bag that will look like this. And it will contain at least four items from local superheroes. Keep scrolling for details!


One item will be a copy of the BryonySeries novel "House on Top of the Hill," a collection of short stories (that move the entire book forward) centered on a village's preoccupation with a mansion that is literally on top of the hill.

Chapter 2 features the story that's been adapted for the performances. And that chapter will be marked with a special gift card from the The Book Market in Crest Hill



Not only is The Book Market a treasure trove of new, used, and rare books, the owner is a superhero to local authors in that she carries their books and hosts their events in store.



Another item in the BryonySeries Superhero Bag will be a hand-painted, plastic wrapped greeting card from local artist, WriteOn Joliet member, and super hero Barbara Eberhard

Each card is unique in design (no peeking to pick the one you want) and comes with the words "Be kind" on the front.

Barbara is a superhero in that she makes and sells these cards to benefit Lightways Hospice and Serious Illness Care in Joliet. (yes, hospice benefited from the card in your bag).

So when you give that card to someone, you will be giving more than a loving greeting. You will also be giving a piece of local art (suitable for framing) and the knowledge that hospice can help another family because of Barbara's generosity.



Finally, each bag will also include a Superhero Ribbit from Cindy. Each Superhero Ribbit is one-of-a-kind (again, no peeking to see which one you want) and individually packaged.

All Superhero Ribbits feature everyday heroes (could it be you? could it be me?) to help inspire you each time you look at it.

The Superhero Ribbit below is a nurse.



In addition to the BryonySeries Superhero bags, the first 15 attendees at EACH performance will receive a free copy of WriteOn Joliet’s 2024 anthology “Write Where We Are,” courtesy of Saporta Law Offices in Joliet, owned by superhero Stephen Saporta.

Admission to “We Can Be Heroes” is $5.

Authors and performers are Denise M. Baran-Unland, Mauverneen Blevins, Edward Calkins, Holly Coop, Steve Cordin, Diana Estell, Cean Magosky, Colleen H. Robbins, Jenny Russ and Duanne Walton.

Director is Anne Magosky.

Production Assistant is Rebekah Baran.

Lobby doors open one hour before performances. Concessions and drinks are available for purchase. WriteOn Joliet books and anthologies will be available for purchase one hour before the show, during intermission and immediately after the show’s conclusion.

The Billie Limacher Bicentennial Park and Theatre is at 201 West Jefferson Street, downtown Joliet, 60432.

For tickets and more information, visit bicentennialpark.org or contact the office: 815-724-3761/ bipark@joliet.gov.

WriteOn Joliet is a welcoming, diverse group of writers of varied skills, interests and experience. The group includes professional journalists, fiction novelists, bloggers, screenwriters, musicians and poets. We promise a safe, comfortable and supportive atmosphere to share your work, and constructive feedback so that everyone can benefit from our shared knowledge.

WriteOn Joliet is a proud partner of the Joliet Public Library and The Book Market in Crest Hill.

 For more information, visit writeonjoliet.com.

Stop out if you can! We strive to entertain and inspire you!