Dark Lightning Read online

  DARK LIGHTNING

  A Novel by Mary L. Farmer

  Part One: Chapters 1-14

  Text © 2013 by Mary L. Farmer

  marylfarmerwriter.com

  Cover Illustration © 2013 by Jeanine Henning

  jeaninehenning.com

  Smashwords License Notes

  Thank you for downloading this eBook. The material in this publication is the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied or distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes without the prior written permission of the author/publisher. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage others to download their own copy at Smashwords.com or their favorite eBook retailer, where they can discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

  This eBook is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author’s use of names of actual persons, places, or characters are incidental to the plot, and are not intended to change the entirely fictional nature of the book.

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost, I would like to thank my family for their love, understanding and support while I pursued my dream of writing a novel. I would also like to thank Pat and Rachel in Philadelphia University’s Office of Admissions for generously and patiently answering so many questions about the school; the helpful folks at the Newtown (PA) Historic Association; and the members of NWG—your advice and encouragement have been invaluable to me throughout the past year and a half.

  My gratitude also to G. Miki Hayden for her editorial guidance; Charles Plath for his assistance with my author website; and finally to Jeanine Henning for her beautiful cover design.

  Finally, I would like to thank the Creator for blessing me with such loving and supportive people in my life, and for granting me a second chance to live it.

  An Improper Burial

  Hall Farm, Bucks County, Pennsylvania

  November, 1879

  JOHN HORN SHOOK HIS head, then heaved his ax down on a seasoned log, splitting it in two. Miss Clara Hall, his elderly employer, had made peculiar demands in the past, but this one really took the biscuit. He glanced at the path leading back to the barn, hoping the other farm hands would be arriving soon. The men had a long, difficult morning of digging ahead of them, and he was eager to put this troublesome task behind him.

  Horn tossed the pieces of split hickory into a basket and set another log on the stump.

  “Mr. Horn!”

  He turned, surprised to find Mrs. Flanagan hobbling toward him across the courtyard behind the old stone farmhouse, her labored breath visible in the frosty air.

  “Mr. Horn!” she called again.

  Horn sighed. He was generally the only person out of doors on the farm at daybreak, so it was completely pointless for her to shout. “Morning, Mae,” he answered, raising his ax. “What brings you out here so early?”

  A loud sob echoed off the flagstones, stopping him mid-swing. He looked over at Mrs. Flanagan. The gray wool shawl around the stout housemaid’s shoulders was heaving up and down, her naturally cheerful expression appeared anguished, her eyes moist and puffy.

  Horn brought his ax back to the ground and his face clouded with concern. “What is it, Mae? What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, Mr. Horn!” Mrs. Flanagan wailed into her handkerchief. “‘Tis poor old Miss Hall. Passed from the world in her sleep last night, God rest ‘er soul. The family’s all gone now…there’ll be no one left for us to look after anymore.”

  Horn sat unsteadily on the edge of the stump.

  “I’m afraid we’ll both be out of a job right soon.” Mae Flanagan dabbed at her eyes before exhaling heavily. “Well, I’d best go and send for the undertaker.”

  “Yes…yes, all right,” muttered Horn.

  The report of his aged employer’s death came as no great surprise to him, but Horn was troubled nonetheless. He recalled the strange conversation he’d had with Miss Hall just yesterday when the woman had summoned him to her sitting room—an occurrence so rare that at first Horn feared he was being let go.

  Instead, Miss Hall issued what was to be her last command.

  “As you are no doubt aware,” she’d said as she shuffled across the creaking floorboards, “and you must be, for gossip and rumor have surrounded my family for over a century now—I am in possession of a certain artifact. A very dangerous artifact, Mr. Horn.”

  Horn relaxed. Oh…that old chestnut. Everyone in the county knew of the Hall family curse, about the mysterious disappearances and deaths that had plagued them since before the War for Independence. People also said that the misfortunes were somehow connected with something hidden deep inside the farmhouse, an item with a dangerous past that had been continuously guarded by trusted members of the family for more than one hundred years.

  John Isaac Horn thought himself a sensible man, however, and didn’t put much stock in superstitious nonsense. He’d worked on Hall Farm for some twenty-odd years and had yet to encounter any such object. He cleared his throat.

  “Well, yes, ma’am, I may’ve heard some talk around town about all that, but I don’t believe—”

  “In this case, you should,” Miss Hall interrupted, “for I’m afraid the gossip is true. This object is real. The thing is right here, locked away inside this house. And until this moment, I was the only living soul aware of its whereabouts.”

  The old woman’s penetrating gaze caused Horn to fiddle with his hat. Good Lord above…Miss Hall must have eaten too much fruitcake with her afternoon tea. She’s gone clean off her rocker. Still, no harm in humoring her…

  “Er, what is it you’d have me do, Miss Hall?”

  Gathering up her bustled skirt, the old woman slumped into the chair in front of her antique secretary desk and coughed noisily. “Before my own dear mother died, I made her a promise to get rid of this object once and for all before I departed this life myself. I fear I’m running out of time to honor her wish. The moment has come to act, Mr. Horn, and so I’m charging you with this duty. This task must be executed immediately, and without delay. Please understand that what I ask of you is of the utmost importance—you must not fail me.”

  Horn assured Miss Hall that whatever her request, he would personally see to it that it was carried out that very afternoon.

  The ‘dangerous artifact’ in question turned out to be a large, impossibly heavy old wooden chest. Though strange, the chore sounded simple enough: He was to remove the antique piece from the cellar and bury it the middle of her farthest field. Horn inquired as to whether the chest could be burned or chopped up for kindling instead, but this suggestion was met with such an icy glare that he immediately dropped the subject.

  When the other two farmhands set their eyes upon the multitude of iron chains wrapped around the chest, they promptly balked at going anywhere near the thing. Their protests fell by the wayside, however, when Horn promised them an extra two days’ wages, and soon the three men set to work hauling the chest out of the farmhouse cellar.

  Unfortunately, the evening’s weather had worsened and a cold, driving rain forced them to drag the chest to the barn instead. They’d left it in a corner horse stall, intending to finish the job in the morning if the weather came off more favorably.

  Now, with Miss Hall gone, Horn doubted he could convince the other men to go near that chest again, and he couldn’t possibly move the heavy thing by himself.

  Horn stood up. As he saw the matter, he had only one choice.

  He grabbed a bag of tools from the shed and headed straight to the barn. Working most of the day, he built a wall over the horse stall, sealing it off. Then he put up a rack of pegs for harnesses and fashioned a covered storage bin along
the bottom of the wall for oats. When Horn was finished, no one could tell that a stall had ever stood there.

  “Not bad,” the farmhand told himself, “not bad at all.” Then he gathered up his tools and walked out of the old barn on Hall Farm for the very last time.

  Interred within its wooden tomb, the chest waited.

  ONE

  Ronson Residence Hall

  Philadelphia University, East Falls, Pennsylvania

  Friday, October 5th, 6:32 p.m.

  HAVEN MEADOWS WAS sliding her laptop into her messenger bag when her roommate Kristy burst into their dorm room, plopped down on a chair and ripped a bright green flyer from inside her backpack.

  “Oh my God, girl, I’m so excited,” she said, waving it in Haven’s face. “Look at this!”

  “Okay…” Haven said. “Look at what?”

  “There’s a free show at Kanbar tonight.” Kristy thrust the paper into her hand. “Check it out. You have got to go to this thing with me.”

  Haven glanced at the flyer.

  Direct from Morocco

  The Amazing Abdul Aleem Al-Assad

  World Famous Hypnotist

  In the Performance Space at the Kanbar Campus Center

  Fri & Sat - 7PM

  “Hmm. Sounds fascinating, but I can’t, Kris. I have an exam on Monday. I’m heading straight to the library after dinner.”

  Haven slid the flyer onto her roommate’s cluttered desk, then shouldered her messenger bag and edged toward the door. Kristy McGlynn rarely took no for an answer, and Haven wanted to make her getaway before she was talked into an evening of shallow entertainment.

  “Wait, you have a test? On Columbus Day? Ugh, that sucks,” Kristy said, wriggling out of her leggings and selecting a black dress from her wardrobe of artfully upcycled clothing.

  Haven shrugged. “Yeah, well…I think Professor Dalcour enjoys tormenting undergrads.”

  “Seriously, Haven, you need to see this guy—his show’s totally incredible. I saw him two years ago at a show in Point Pleasant.”

  No. You are going to the Gutman Library to study. “I believe you, but—”

  “C’mon, it’s only for like, an hour. You can study afterward.”

  Don’t cave. “Nope. I can’t.”

  “But it’s Friday. Who studies on Friday night?”

  Haven sighed. “Me, Kris, and a few of the other Mole People who hate to fail tests.”

  Kristy picked up the flyer and pointed at it. “But it’s over at Kanbar, which is right next to the Gutman. You’re going in that direction anyway.”

  Haven wavered. The idea of being near a hypnotist caused a worrying feeling to swirl in her stomach, but it was very hard to say no to a person with a pair of red chopsticks poking out of her hair. “Well…”

  Sensing victory, Kristy grinned. “It’ll be a blast, I promise. Julian’s coming, and he’s bringing Tyler. We can all sit together.”

  Haven grimaced. Great…I’m being set up with yet another one of Julian’s fencing club friends.

  Kristy gripped Haven’s shoulders and pulled her toward the door. “Come with us. You know you want to.”

  Haven sighed. “You’re a terrible influence, you know that?”

  “But I’m cheap entertainment and you love me.”

  “Ugh!”

  “Pretty please?”

  I am a spineless jellyfish. I deserve to fail my exam. “Yeah, okay. Why not?”

  “Yay!” Kristy shrieked giddily. “Trust me, girl, you’ve never seen anything like this!”

  ***

  Once inside the Kanbar Campus Center, Kristy clutched Haven’s wrist and pulled her past the curious crowd gathered near the entrance to the Performance Space.

  “Ow…you’re going to crush my hand, Kris,” Haven protested.

  “Sorry. But we have to hurry—Abdul Aleem’s shows are standing-room-only, and I want to make sure we have a decent view of the…hey, there’s Julian, and he got us front row seats!”

  Haven rolled her eyes. The front row, awesome.

  Kristy bounced her way down the center aisle toward the stage, where her boyfriend stood waving at them. “Oh my God,” she gushed to Haven, “so like, the last time I saw this show, the dude puts this one girl under, and she starts speaking in a different voice, talking about how she was Mary Todd Lincoln’s maid in another life. Totally crazy, right?”

  “Hmm,” Haven mumbled, gazing apprehensively at the sea of faces in the chattering crowd. Geez, Kristy was right—there have to be two hundred people in this room. But whatever happens, I am NOT going up on that stage.

  Kristy planted a big kiss on Julian’s waiting lips. “Hey, babe!”

  “Hello, duchess. Saved you some seats.” Julian moved his coat and backpack off their chairs, and Kristy sat down next to him. Looking around nervously, Haven reluctantly sank into the other chair. Every seat was taken, and there were already people standing in the back of the room two rows deep.

  Kristy kept babbling about the girl who’d channeled the Civil War-era maid. “…and it was so bizarre. This woman was actually speaking through her. She told us about stuff going on at the White House during the war that like, nobody was aware of before. Said her best friend was a maid at the house across the street from Ford’s Theater—you know, where the president was shot. She was the one that had to wash the bloody pillows and everything.”

  Haven made a face. “Sounds gross.”

  Kristy shrugged. “Yeah, but it was kind of cool, too. I mean, that was President freaking Lincoln’s blood.” Kristy had been a Goth in high school, and her taste in entertainment still leaned toward the macabre.

  Haven leaned forward. “Hi, Julian. How’s the, um, sword thing going?” she asked him, changing the subject.

  “Won our last match by a landslide. And Tyler’s still undefeated.”

  “Really? Wow, that’s awesome.”

  “Wait a second,” Kristy said, looking up and down the row, “where is Tyler, anyway? Wasn’t he supposed to be coming with you for this?”

  “Oh, he had some studying to do. Said he’d catch up with us later on.”

  “Aha!” said Haven, frowning at Kristy. “See? I’m not the only dork who studies on a Friday.”

  “We’ve got a competition tomorrow afternoon at one-thirty, Haven,” Julian said. “Why don’t you come with Kristy and check it out? You’ve only watched us practice—you haven’t seen how down and dirty things can get in a real match yet.”

  “Yeah, I heard Tyler wants to show off his advance and thrust moves for you,” Kristy said, knocking her foot into the side of Haven’s suede UGG boot.

  “Ew,” Haven groaned. “Seriously, Kris?”

  Kristy laughed. “What? Don’t you like my obvious, off-color fencing joke?”

  Haven rolled her eyes. The sport of fencing was mildly interesting, but she could think of better things to do on a Saturday than watch Julian and his buddies hop around in white suits for two or three hours. “Thanks for the invite, Julian, but I told my brother Brian I’d work for his auction company this weekend. Good luck to you guys, though.”

  All at once the lights dimmed and the conversation in the room slowed to a murmur. Here we go. This had better not be lame. A handsome Middle-Eastern man in gray slacks and a black turtleneck walked out onto the stage to enthusiastic applause. After adjusting the tiny microphone that jutted out from his left ear, he greeted the crowd.

  “Good evening!” he said with a slight accent. “I am the Amazing Abdul Aleem. Welcome to my show, my friends.” The man’s smooth, authoritative voice commanded complete attention. “How many of you have ever been hypnotized before?”

  A smattering of hands went up.

  The hypnotist nodded. “A few of you…good, that’s good. I hope it was a positive experience for you. Let me begin by saying that hypnosis is oftentimes a deeply misunderstood art.” Aleem walked slowly across the stage as he spoke, each of his movements fluid and sure. Everything about him exuded confidence
. Haven figured this was an act to put the audience at ease.

  “The hypnotic state is not sleep—you are not unconscious. It is merely a heightened form of consciousness, a highly creative state of mind, if you will. You cannot be made to do anything under hypnosis that you wouldn’t ordinarily do. When you wake, you will feel relaxed, refreshed and rejuvenated. You’ll be able to remember everything completely, as if you’d been awake the entire time…”

  “Will you listen to that voice?” Kristy whispered. “And is he good-looking or what?”

  Haven shrugged. “I guess so…if you’re into magician-types who wear makeup and guyliner.”

  Abdul Aleem began by asking for a volunteer. Haven watched for the next half hour as one by one, the hypnotist brought several people up to the stage for demonstrations. Once someone was seated in a comfortable chair, he asked the subject various questions in his deep, soothing voice. Aleem had them perform various harmless tasks once they’d fallen into a suggestive state—some of them quite comic, but nothing scandalous.

  The performer was charming and the man obviously knew what he was doing, but so far, Haven hadn’t witnessed anything particularly ‘amazing.’ Every time he asked for a new volunteer, she slumped in her seat and tried to appear as inconspicuous as possible. Her tactics weren’t very effective, however, since Kristy’s hand shot up and flailed around violently right next to Haven’s head at every opportunity. By the time the sixth volunteer appeared on stage, Haven was surprised her roommate hadn’t dislocated a shoulder.

  Finally, the hypnotist motioned at Kristy.

  “Yes, the young lady down here in the front, in the gorgeous black dress. What is your name, please?”

  “Kristy!” Haven’s roommate leaped out of her chair and bounded up the stage steps with the speed of an Olympic sprinter.