Stan's World

By Adam Neail

“Only good things come to those who believe.” So an elderly woman remarks to young Stan Gessey on a double deck bus one crisp winter day, but what can this cryptic message mean to a typical 12-year-old British schoolboy? The statement lies at the heart of Stan’s World.

Stan has always been a quiet boy with few friends, but on that same day a strange little old man offers a special gift, sending Stan on a quest to a new world known as Torgia, which seems to be located in a different dimension. After encountering many unusual individuals in a range of strange circumstances, Stan soon learns the value of friendships and achieves the strength of mind to save this alternate world and ultimately return to his own.

This coming-of-age story focuses on a child from average circumstances who must learn to believe in himself to conquer incredible odds and succeed in an important achievement. His adventures throw him into situations that demand growth and courage, at the risk of death and disaster on a worldwide scale if he fails. With its unique and quirky characters, vivid imagery, and dramatic situations, the book allows young readers to feel as though they are truly sharing Stan’s experiences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Adam Neail
• Release date: Mar 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476142210

Book preview

Stan’s World

Adam Neail

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Adam Neail

Cover design: Adam Neail

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Stan’s World

by

Adam Neail

Chapter One

Perched on a rooftop, a white dove gazed down on a tranquil street. Its dark eyes focused on a brick house positioned across the road, surrounded by similar brick buildings. The house on Winders Way was distinguishable from the other dwellings only by the wooden door with its odd colouring of green and yellow. Through darkened windows, the house appeared still, but its silence was about to be broken.

* * *

Mum!

The young girl screamed as she raced through her bedroom door for the top of the staircase. Mum, I can’t breathe!

She clasped her throat with small hands, struggling to stifle the series of retching noises escaping her mouth. Her thin face had grown scarlet as she scrambled down the stairs, taking three, sometimes four at a time. I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe! she croaked again and again.

The clanging of dinner plates from the kitchen in the distance came to an abrupt halt, and a burly woman stepped out into the hallway.

What is it?

I can’t breathe! It’s 'orrible and my throat hurts! Louise screamed, racing into the outstretched arms of her mother.

What has happened? Tell me, said Mrs Gessey. Her deep-set eyes were filled with horror as she wrapped her arms protectively around her daughter. Come on, you can tell me.

My throat, it hurts and . . . and . . . croaked Louise, rubbing her tearful face against her mother’s chest.

Louise, tell me, what it is? said Mrs Gessey, her question asked with compassion rather than alarm as she began to sense that her daughter’s apparent panic was no more than disgust. Come on, you can tell me, it’s all right.

No longer choking, Louise stared up at her mother, whose face wore a hint of suspicion.

C’mon, tell me what it is. What horrible smell? Mrs Gessey said, wrapping her plump arms more tightly around her daughter until her sobbing had quieted to a sniffle.

There’s a 'orrible smell in my room, and it smells of dead cats.

What are you talking about, smells of dead cats?

Dead cats…and it’s him again, sniffed Louise.

Louise. You’re not making any sense.

Go and have a smell. She sniffed again.

Mrs Gessey released the girl from her arms and led her through the hallway to the staircase. By the time they had reached the bottom step, a thick, rotten smell had begun to infiltrate the stairway from upstairs.

Oh, jeez…! Mrs Gessey spluttered, masking her face with her hands. What on earth is that?

Louise stared at her mother knowingly. I told you so. It stinks!

Stay where you are a minute, said Mrs Gessey, already turning to climb the stairs.

Louise stood silent and wide-eyed, listening to her mother’s feet thump against every step, her slippers chattering against her heels as though they too had an opinion about this latest drama. She disappeared around the upper banister and out of sight. Seconds later Louise heard a yell of fury as Mrs Gessey reappeared.

Where is he? she bellowed.

Louise answered cautiously, knowing exactly whom her mother meant. I think he’s in the cellar.

Wait until I get my hands on him!

Leaving her daughter motionless at the bottom step, she stormed off and disappeared into the kitchen, heading for the door that led to the cellar.

* * *

Stan Gessey was twelve years old. He had always been small and skinny for his age. He had a thin face, bright blue eyes, and a tiny nose. And hair that was whiter than the first fall of snow.

It had been an intense week for Stan. From the moment he first woke to the moment he surrendered himself to his bed, he had been modelling the miniature world that covered a good portion of the cellar. Only school and the need for sleep could draw Stan away—he had forgotten a few meals as well. But it was the passion that he put into the work that made this model so precise and likelife. The diorama was filled with papier-mâché hills, forests of trees made from tiny twigs and green-dyed cotton wool, and buildings constructed from wood and thick paper. At the crest of this world stood a large grey castle boasting four flagged towers. But there were no people in his world.

For the last several minutes, he’d been distracted from his building by the commotion coming from above. His mother’s raised voice had been seeping into the basement. Even though the muffled racket of the conversation was too low to understand, its tone was apparent--this was no ordinary discussion.

Seconds later, the voices stopped abruptly, and silence returned. All was well again – or so he thought. He returned to painting the door on a model house that was no larger than his hand.

Suddenly, the cellar door swung open, pounding against the wall. Looking up, startled, he saw his mother standing at the top of the stairs, casting a heavy shadow into the cellar.

What have you been doing to your sister? she bellowed, hands firmly planted on her hips.

I … I … Struggling for an answer, he felt his own voice suddenly snatched away. He could see his mother quivering with anger as he tried to moisten his parched lips. He knew there was serious trouble in the air but couldn’t for the life of him imagine what it was.

Eh? Well? Explain, young man! she roared.

His heart pounded in the back of his throat, but still no answers were to be found. I…I don’t know, he responded weakly.

You don’t know? she snapped. Answer me now!

But I haven't done anything. He was sure that he was telling the truth, but he couldn’t help fidgeting on the stool.

His mother now commenced a menacing approach down the stairs. Her face had not softened as her slippers continued to click angrily against her heels, echoing in the eerie silence of the cellar. He knew he needed to figure out the reason for this hostility before she reached him. He began, Mum, I--

It was too late.

Instantly she clasped his ear with her thumb and finger and ordered him to follow her back to the house.

You’re coming with me!

Ooww! That hurts!

It’s supposed to! she yelled. This is what you get for your little pranks! One day, you will learn!

Mrs Gessey marched him up the cellar stairs and through the house until they arrived at the staircase. His sister was still standing at the bottom step with her hand clamped to her nose, watching the proceedings with a contemptuous sneer. He brushed past her, his eyes watering from the pain of having his ear pulled from his head. Louise's broadening smile infuriated him.

He was about to open his mouth in defence when he felt his throat suddenly tighten. A putrid smell overwhelmed him. His stomach muscles began to convulse as the nausea ripened.

Before he realised what was happening, he was dragged up the stairstwo, sometimes three at a timewith increasing pressure applied to his ear. They reached the top and rounded the banister. Stopping in the doorway of his sister’s bedroom, his mother finally surrendered his ear and forced him into the room with a hard nudge to his shoulder.

Well! Explain yourself now! she commanded.

Hands stuffed inside his trouser pockets, he stood and stared at his mother with astonishment. He didn't understand the context of her last question. What was he supposed to say? What does it matter, anyway--you never listen to what I say. Whatever happens in this house is always my fault, cried Stan.

How dare you speak to me that way? You had better watch your mouth, young man! roared his mother.

But it’s true--it’s always the same. Louise is never treated that way. She never gets the blame for anything.

Well, maybe you should start thinking about your actions instead of spending all your time in the cellar. It’s not normal for a kid of your age to be wasting his time.

I’m not wasting my time. You may think it’s not important, but since no one ever listens to what I have to say, I might as well spend my time in the cellar. . . . I’m fed up with this house! Stan sensed he had crossed the limit of his mother’s tolerance, but he couldn’t stop himself.

Well, you can stay in here until your father gets home. That should give you enough time to think, and then you can explain your actions to him!

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t answer. He stared miserably at the door as it slammed closed, hearing his mother descending the stairs.

He slumped on the bed, disheartened, and pulled the thin sheet over his head, and then he remembered.

Carl. . . . Oh no, he muttered. Now what am I going to do?

He remembered his friend Carl talking about a box of stink bombs he’d gotten from his older brother. But why would Carl put a stink bomb in Louise’s bedroom? What was he thinking?

He closed his eyes, listening to the faint noise in the distance of his mother talking to his sister. For a while longer, he tried to reason through why Carl would do such a thing. His thoughts were finally dissolved by sleep.

* * *

He woke, feeling rather sluggish. It had been a turbulent sleep full of mystifying dreams. He headed for the bathroom. He’d had these visions before, but never with such intensity as on the last few occasions. Still, he could not remember their contents by the time he’d awoke. Flushing the toilet, he returned to his bedroom, wondering how long he’d been dozing, when he heard the front door of the house open.

Hi, came the deep voice of Mr Gessey.

Stan halted in his tracks and squatted on the top stair, watching his father enter.

Hi, said his mother, entering the hallway. She aimed a brief peck at her husband’s lips.

You look as though you’ve had a rough day.

Quite right, replied his mother, returning to the kitchen. It’s been an awful day.

Removing his coat, his father followed.

He did not look in the least like his voice suggested. Although his work at the local printing factory demanded that he be physically fit, he was quite a small man. He had a thick head of mouse-coloured hair, cut short, and glowing blue eyes.

And always, the atmosphere was calm whenever he was home. It was very rare that Stan’s father would raise his voice at the children, but when he did, the whole house seemed to vibrate on its foundations. The children knew that it meant trouble. Serious trouble, and Stan could not help feeling that this could be one of those occasions.

Listening intently to his father’s mellow voice, Stan crept down a few of the steps.

What’s happened?

His mother let out a sigh of frustration. Where do I begin?

How about at the beginning?

I sometimes wonder where our son gets his ideas from.

What has he done now, something at school?

No, this afternoon he decided it would be fun to let off a stink bomb in Louise’s bedroom.

Nice, answered his father, sounding unimpressed. Where is he now?

I sent him to his room and told him that he should wait there until you got home.

I’ll go and check on him in a bit.

But, John--

Yes, luv.

You need to speak to him about this model. He is obsessed with it. He hasn’t left the cellar in almost a week apart from when he has to go to school, and that is also becoming a struggle. It’s not normal.

Oh, Annie, don’t worry. All kids go through phases. I’m sure it will pass, said Mr Gessey as he rose from his chair. Anyhow, it’s good that he shows creativity, wouldn’t you agree?

But I don’t know. I am just worried about him. It´s hard enough for him to make friends as it is and if he carries on the way he is now, practically living in the cellar, he’ll soon lose those.

Stan began to fidget uncomfortably.

His father coming to him was not a good sign. Stan realised he needed to resolve this, but how? Moments later, believing there was no other choice but to tackle this predicament head on, he crept down the stairs, heading for the kitchen.

The telephone rang from the front room of the house. Stan froze on the spot, watching his mother hurry by below.

This is my chance now, maybe, whispered Stan. Maybe he’ll be softer if Mum’s not there – if only I can get there quick enough.

Listening to his mother’s muffled voice in the distance, he crept further down the staircase. Leaning over the banister, he peered into the kitchen. He could see his father’s legs stretched out before him. Slowly, slowly, he crept further down.

The telephone clicked as his mother replaced the handset.

Stan gasped. His stomach twisted in panic. He had backed up a few of the steps, hastily retreating against the wall and watching his mother return to the kitchen, when he heard her say:

Oh . . . what have I done?

Ann, what is it? asked his father, sounding concerned.

That was Carl . . .

Carl? said his father, apparently surprised. Stan’s Carl?

Stan sat upright, also shocked. Carl … what did he want? he muttered.

I feel so bad, said Mrs Gessey.

Why, what did he want? said his father.

He called to apologise.

Apologise, what for?

He said, him and Stan were playing soldiers this afternoon upstairs. And that they were pretending to set booby traps. He put a stink bomb above the door of Louise’s bedroom, but by the time they had finished playing, he’d forgotten all about it.

But who let it off? said his father.

He didn’t know that it had gone off. But he said that it was placed in such a way that when anybody opened the door, it would smash the capsule. His mother is absolutely furious with him.

I can imagine.

He said he was really sorry but wanted to call before anything happened, said Mrs Gessey. I told him it was too late. But it was good that he called. It took a lot of courage to own up like that.

Stan, by this time practically hanging over the banister, slumped back onto the step, letting out a sigh of relief as his mother continued, But now what am I going to do? I feel so bad and it wasn’t anything to do with Stan. I didn’t even listen to his side of the story, I just fired straight at him.

Annie… said his father. He always called her that when he was being sympathetic. Don’t let it get to you, he continued. He’s an understanding kid. He’ll understand that you didn’t mean to be so hard. Come here, we can make it up to him.

Am I understanding? Stan thought. He wasn’t even sure if knew what the word really meant. But he did feel quite distressed. He didn’t like to hear his mother sounding so upset.

Come on now, said his father. You take it easy for the rest of the night and I’ll make us all some food. We can call Stan in a while and let him know what happened, okay?

I guess you’re right, said his mother. Do you think he will really understand?

Of course he will.

Stan entered the kitchen and cleared his throat nervously. Er . . .

They both stared at him, looking surprised.

His mother was the first to approach him. Oh, Stan, she said lovingly, wrapping her arms around him. I’m so sorry.

Stan returned the hug and said, It’s okay, Mum, you wasn’t to know. I was on the stairs and I heard you both talking.

She brushed the side of his cheek with the back of her hand and said, You don’t know how bad I feel about this, but I am just under a lot of stress at work, and--

Mum, interrupted Stan, it’s all right . . . I understand, but it’s all right, honest.

I know, said his mother, staring directly into his face. But I should still have listened to your side of the story.

It’s okay, Mum, said Stan. I am not mad at you. And he reached up, giving her a comforting hug.

* * *

The sun sat high in the void of a clear blue sky on a beautiful February morning as Stan peered out from the kitchen window. It was mid-term holiday and he was free from school for the next week. He was planning out the day inside his head, when he heard his mother behind him.

Have you finished your breakfast? she said, taking his dirty plate and beginning to wash it.

Yes, thanks.

What are your plans for the day?

I think I’m going to go out, said Stan thoughtfully.

Where to?

Maybe go to town, said Stan, jumping from the high stool and slipping into his shoes.

Who with?

By myself; Carl is out for the day with his mum at some family thing. And I think he’s grounded for the next week, after yesterday. I phoned him earlier.

Well, you be careful. You know how I don’t like you going by yourself.

Mum, I am twelve, answered Stan, battling to tuck his shirt into his trousers. I think I can handle taking the bus myself.

Yes, well, I know it’s not far. His mother reached over to help. But just be careful. Have you got enough money for the bus?

Yes. . . . Mum, I know it’s only Wednesday, but can I get my pocket money today?

I haven’t got any cash on me, his mother replied. Why, what do you need it for?

I was going to the model shop, and maybe I might see something.

You and your models, said his mother, now attempting to straighten his hair. You spend too much time down in the cellar. You should be outside more, playing football or something. Don’t you think it’s a little odd?

Not really.

Well, I do, and I don’t have any money to give you, so you’ll just have to wait until tomorrow.

Standing on tiptoes, Stan pecked his mother’s cheek and headed for the front door.

And don’t be late getting back, called his mother. I don’t want you keeping us waiting for lunch.

I won’t, answered Stan, stepping out of the house into the crisp, cold air and heading for the bus stop.

* * *

Stan took his seat on the bus, patiently waiting for a young woman helping on an old gentlemen. Thinking about the drama of the previous day, he suddenly noticed a white dove, perched on a roof on the opposite side of the road. At first, he didn’t think there was anything odd about it. The bus jerked forward with a growl of the engine and pulled out into the stream of traffic. The dove suddenly took flight, hovering above the bus. It was at that point Stan could see thin, dark stripes running the length of its wings. It was too far away to see the colour as the dove zigzagged in and out of his view.

For no apparent reason, he thought the bird was actually following him. Even though he felt rather silly about the thought, he still couldn’t take his eyes away.

The bird flew off and disappeared from sight. He suddenly looked around and noticed that an elderly lady sitting by his side was staring curiously in his direction. Her face, threaded with lines, made his grandmother--the oldest person he knew--look young. Her hair was like a mass of spider webs tied into a bun on the top of her head. Her eyes were tiny, her mouth tight, with hardly any lips. But her words, as she spoke in a low voice, were welcoming.

Don’t mind me, she said, the corners of her lips turning up into a smile.

I--I was just watching a . . . bird. It--it was following me, stammered Stan.

She glanced around at the other passengers before murmuring to Stan, I have many things that follow me too.

Stan felt his cheeks blush with embarrassment. He turned to look at the other passengers. They were watching him, he was certain of that, and their scrutiny made him shudder. It was always the same; the moment he believed he was the focus of attention, he would begin to fidget, feeling that he was trapped.

Just watching was making him dizzy, when he heard the old lady speak.

Are you all right, son? You’re looking rather peaky.

They’re all looking at me, said Stan softly, turning to face the old lady.

The old lady glanced around and said, Who’s looking? I can’t see anybody looking.

Stan dared to look again. She was right; all the passengers appeared to be absorbed within their own thoughts.

But . . . I’m sure they were.

The old lady rested her hand on Stan’s knee and said, Never mind, young man. There are many children who feel insecurities at times, just like yourself. But believe me-- she leaned closer to him and continued in a softer tone, almost a whisper, --you look as though you are a believer, and only good things come to those who believe. Mark my words, son; one day you will be a man of all men, I’m sure of it.

Her words were interrupted by a bell ringing. The old lady peered through the window and said, Oh, it’s my stop. I must get off here. She hastily rose from her seat.

But wait, called Stan, forgetting about the other passengers.

The bus halted at the side of the road.

Just believe, my boy. . . just believe in yourself, called the old lady back to him as she made her way to the front of the bus. She disembarked. Stan suddenly remembered the other passengers and sank into his seat, not daring to take his eyes away from the figure of the old lady as she disappeared around the street corner.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, he disembarked from the bus and stood blinking in the sunlight. The road was unusually quiet for the time of the day, and the bright reflections from the shop windows lining the street dazzled his eyes. Forgetting about