Imps of Willow Dell

By Wentworth M. Johnson

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

• Language: English
• Publisher: AUK Authors
• Release date: Oct 7, 2011
• ISBN: 9781849896856

Book preview

Title Page

IMPS OF WILLOW DELL

ADVENTURES IN TIME

By

Wentworth M. Johnson

Publisher Information

Imps Of Willow Dell

Published in 2011 by

Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

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

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

Copyright © Wentworth M. Johnson

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

Chapter One

The jagged pieces of a puzzle make very little sense until at last they are all fitted together and only then the picture becomes evident. For instance, take old man Melenski. Although a recluse, an inventor and an entrepreneur, he lived most of his life in a log cabin on an open and dusty plain north of the tiny mining village of Davisville, Ontario, Canada and then he retired. His business, the Melen Mining Company, was winding down as the gold became uneconomical to retrieve. More and more people moved south where a better living could be made in the new and upcoming industries of that era.

Never a man for other people’s inventions, Melenski had no phone or even that new fandangle electricity stuff. The new house, his retirement home, was heated by wood or coal. The light came from candles or oil lamps with the occasional use of chemical battery power – his own invention. As a hedge against inflation and possible robbers he had buried a thousand 2-ounce bars of pure hallmarked gold under the floor of the new house. The gold came from the Melen mine and effectively cost him nothing.

On a hot summer’s night in the year 1909, old man Melenski walked from his new house to his private laboratory for what would be the last time ever. An hour later an inferno broke out in the new house. Flames and sparks leapt into the hot night sky, yet no one seemed to be around to sound the alarm. The volunteer fire service would take far too long to reach the blaze – that is if anyone ever noticed it. Horse-drawn vehicles along with hand-operated pumps eventually reached the site of the conflagration and proved totally ineffective against this well-established fire.

Time settled over the area like a hot and dusty blanket. Great snows in the winter and arid desert-like dryness shrivelled all but the shaded grass in the summer. The Melen mine became just another dangerous area with hazardous, unprotected and disused ventilation shafts dotting the countryside. The new house grew older and older as the weather and insects consumed what remained of any uncharred woodwork. The only surviving and undamaged tree was a giant horse chestnut which shaded the old laboratory. New conifers grew from seeds brought by the wind and birds, replacing the surrounding pine trees burned or disfigured by the fire.

The advent of the automobile brought people north again, once more making living there practical. The World Wars I and II came and went as the tiny village of Davisville grew into a farming town and expanded with the growth of the twentieth century. As the twenty-first century rolled round hardly anyone remembered Gustaf Melenski or the Melen Mining Company. No longer did anyone ask the question: whatever happened to that old man?

Chapter Two

Late in the twentieth century a young girl vanished from a caravan and camping site just outside Davisville. Neither she nor any trace of her turned up. Despite a high police presence nothing at all could be found. Eventually the media and the investigators tired of their fruitless search and little more was said on the subject of a missing camper. The child’s parents went back to their Toronto home and the town of Davisville returned to northern Canadian obscure normality.

A couple of years after the beginning of the new millennium yet another disappearance plagued the area with great excitement. Again just another jagged piece of life’s jigsaw puzzle and like the others it did not fit into the picture. In an isolated house almost half a mile west of town lived a family originally from India who had escaped from Kenya, where they had been living for many years. The political and social pressures of Kenyan reform forced the Sonmiani family to find somewhere else to live in the British Commonwealth – Canada seemed as likely a place as any.

One day the eldest daughter of the family came home in great distress. She screamed and cried about a devil that had consumed her sister. Quickly the police forces of the area responded. The Ontario Provincial Police, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and the local police force poured into the surrounding district. As was in the case before, not a single trace of the missing girl could be found. Neither a wisp nor even a hair remained – well, almost.

Officer Belmont, a specialist in cases of missing children, politely questioned the only living witness. He sat in the front living room of the Sonmiani home and gently spoke to Mehar, the eldest daughter of the family.

I would like you to tell me in your own words what happened, he said softly.

The girl glared at him through swollen and tear-stained eyes. I told them. I told them, she bleated.

Belmont smiled. Yes, dear, but I would like to hear it from your lips. I promise you. I’ll do everything possible to get your sister back. Now just tell me what happened.

No, you won’t do anything. She’s dead. The Devil took her. How can you help?

Ah! said the cunning policeman. That may be so, but even devils aren’t above the law.

We … we went for a walk to Angel Falls, up in Herman’s Wood. Sonyi ran on ahead. Mehar stopped and sobbed into her hands for a moment. Eventually controlling herself she continued the saga. I saw it near the pool. A dark fog and then the creature grabbed her and vanished into the cloud. Nothing, except a splash in the green water and her hat. That’s it, that’s all. There’s nothing else I can tell you.

For sixteen weeks, four whole months, the police searched and questioned. Tracker dogs and cadaver search dogs were brought in, but all to no avail. The pond at Angel Falls was searched thoroughly by expert divers. A cave in the water-filled hole led into a labyrinth of submarine tunnels. Hundreds of miles of unexplored and flooded passages that seemed to lead nowhere. Only the victim’s pinafore was found, mysteriously weighted with smooth round stones, and a hat floating on the green water.

With no useful clothing, no body, no DNA, not even a hair or a footprint, the investigation slowly ground to a stunning and immovable halt. The general theory drifting around town was that the elder girl must have murdered her younger sister and successfully hidden the body in one of the old mineshafts. An unfriendly black cloud hovered over the Sonmiani household, imprisoning the parents and ostracizing the remaining children. The town became deeply affected as tourists stayed away in droves. What use taking a holiday only to lose your young ones?

The solution, or at least the glue for building the solution to the puzzle of the missing people lay in the town of Dingham in England. Archibald Hendry Blythe, a 12-year-old genius and fully paid-up member of MENSA, started the ball rolling in a way that would change the world. Well, maybe that is a minor exaggeration, but it would change quite a few lives and quite drastically.

Tranquillity settled over the small town of Dingham like a sickly blanket. A cuckoo hooted at its companion and a dog barked in the distance. The early spring sun beat down on the parish church as the tower clock clicked to ten and the great weight began pulling the wheels to grind out the hourly chimes, which rang out over the peaceful English country town, echoing through the sleepy streets.

A cacophony of squeals and yells quickly swelled into the air as the children ran from the school, rushing from the building like termites startled by an anteater. To a mere bystander the raucous children appeared to have no meaning, no controlling force and no purpose. As the seeming cloud of youngsters fled the premises a thunderous clap burst forth, belching out the windows of the school. The air being rent by the clamorous tintinnabulation of breaking glass and a rumble like thunder as the explosion echoed from the surrounding hills. Birds, beasts and passers-by had fled and taken cover. Though the excitement and immediate danger had passed, all but the educational institution returned to normality.

Chapter Three

At about the same time as Archie was having difficulties with his phosgene reactor at the Dingham Primary School in England, Albert Harvey Bernie was about to test the limit of his own mother’s patience in Canada. Albert, 11 years old and a little short for his age, had a serious problem – one that always managed to get him into trouble. Alas, he actually had two problems. One, he was far to fast and eager to use his fists. The other ... well, he occasionally seemed to have difficulty in distinguishing reality from fantasy and never understood the principle of ownership.

Somewhat of a loner, Al would invent playmates and stay out all hours playing and having adventures with his imaginary followers. Often returning home long after dark and usually being chastised for doing so. Mom was a hard-working single parent. Money’s not made of rubber, she would yell. I just can’t stretch it to reach all the bills and now you’ve ruined another pair of shoes. Or whatever it was on that occasion that Albert had carelessly ruined.

As if shoes or whatever was all there was to life. There just didn’t seem to be any way of pleasing her. Home early and she’d tell him to go away for a while. Home late and he’d get heck. She’d always find something to shout about, something to moan about and something to reinforce her poverty-stricken situation.

Albert Harvey Bernie, she would yell, where have you been?

I went to the subway, to watch the trains.

Like the traffic’s not dangerous enough for you, you have to play near trains. Did you steal a ticket?

No.

Did you ride the trains?

No.

She cuffed his ear. I can’t believe a word you say.

What was a guy to do? If he told the truth he would be punished, if he lied he would be punished and if he kept his mouth shut he’d be punished for insolence.

The food was always the same: bread, margarine and baked beans. The only time he’d had a good meal was when he found that five-dollar bill and bought a hamburger and fries. Even then he got a thrashing for stealing.

The world more or less came to an end on the following day. Albert was at school walking down the corridor on his way to the next class when he spotted a new and shiny toonie lying on the floor. Toonie is a colloquial term for a Canadian two-dollar coin. He stopped, bent down and retrieved the money; after all, it didn’t seem to have an owner. At that very moment a larger kid snatched it from his hand and said, That’s mine, you crap-faced booby.

The insult, of course, was enough. Albert hauled back and smashed the kid in the face with his clenched fist. The offending boy went down like a ton of bricks. Albert retrieved the coin and continued his journey to the next class. Less than ten minutes into the lesson the head entered the classroom and whispered something to the teacher. Mrs. Culledge looked up from the head’s whispering and glared at Al over her glasses.

Mr. Bernie, she growled, your presence is required in the head teacher’s office now, this very minute.

Yes, Mrs. Culledge. There was no real surprise, Al knew what the problem was, or at least he thought he knew.

The head mistress said nothing, just walked smartly to her office with Al following. She walked round her desk and sat. You know what this is about, young man?

No, miss, he lied.

She clasped her hands together and placed them on the desk in front of her. The look in her eyes expressed a far more serious event than a corridor punch-up. James Wardley says you stole his lunch money, is that true?

No, miss.

He did not or you did not?

I didn’t, miss.

You maintain that he is lying? You did not take his money?

Yes, miss.

Is that yes you did take his money or yes he is lying?

It was my money, miss. Wardley tried to take it from me. I wouldn’t give it to him so he hit me.

He hit you?

Yes, miss.

He hit you, lost a tooth and his money and you are entirely innocent?

Al shrugged his shoulders. It would serve no purpose arguing. Already her mind was made up. He could feel tears welling up, but he didn’t want this woman to see them. Rushing from the room he fled from the school. Going home would be out of the question – Mom wouldn’t be there and she’d kill him if she were. Al began walking the streets as a plan slowly formulated in his head. The main basis of the idea would be to run away. Run away from home and school.

With his mind made up, Al headed for the nearest subway station. It’s easy to get a ticket if you know how and he knew how. A carefully arranged piece of popsicle stick and wait for some sucker to drop a coin in. The wait was much longer than he had expected. Everyone used all the machines except the one he had chosen. Eventually the plan bore fruit. When the would-be passenger gave up and left, Al moved in and retrieved the money. When enough cash had been collected, he bought a ticket and boarded a train.

Downtown Toronto is exciting and energetic with so much to see and do. Young Street always offered amusement: beggars, buskers, strip joints and tourists. He still had James Wardley’s toonie and some change from the ticket machine – enough for a junior burger and fries from McDonald’s.

At night all the gaudy lights come on and the ladies of the night parade the streets. Al was not hungry, but he had begun to tire. He would have to find somewhere to sleep, a cosy place off the main drag. He found an interesting spot where he could see into one of the nightclub windows. The glass was cracked and a small piece had fallen out, revealing a hole in the otherwise painted black window. With his nose crushed against the exterior of the frame and one eye lined up he could see the people sitting around a stage. A young girl was dancing and looked to have no clothes on. The view was awkward and people kept crossing his line of sight. Suddenly a pain wrenched through his right shoulder as a large hand grasped him very tightly.

So what are you up to, my lad? came a deep and powerful voice.

Al struggled to escape but the grip was too strong. The policeman turned him round to get a better look at him. So who have we got here, then?

I didn’t do nothing, Al protested.

I think you’ll have to come along with me, young man.

I’m waiting for my dad. He’ll be along in a minute.

Very well. We’ll wait in the car together.

No, you don’t understand. He … well, I have to be out here or he’ll go home without me.

Another policeman joined them. So what you got here, George?

A peeping Tom. Says he’s waiting for his father. What’s your home address, son?

I … er … I don’t know. That is I can’t remember. Well, I can but it’s ... You see, I don’t live in Toronto. I’m from, from another town. We’re just passing through, me and Dad that is.

The first policeman chuckled. In the car, boy.

The other cop switched on the interior light. What’s your name, son? he said, gazing hard at Al.

Er, it’s, it’s James Wardley.

I don’t think so, George said. How about Albert Bernie?

The jig was up. Albert burst into tears – captured by the pigs, even before he could make any distance. He tried to make a dash for it, but the policeman held on tight and then closed the door. The other cop climbed in behind the wheel and started the engine. He picked up the handset and mumbled a few words into it then turned to his passengers in the back.

I’ll take you home, son. Your mother’s frantic. Lucky we received a fax of your picture.

After a fifteen-minute drive one policeman grasped Albert’s hand firmly and led the way into the apartment building. Together they took the elevator to the apartment. Mom stood in the doorway waiting for them. She seemed too upset to say anything and followed them silently into the room. Other people were there, including two female police officers.

When the door was closed and all eyes were on Albert, Mom yelled, Albert Harvey Bernie, where have you been?

Al ducked, expecting the usual blow to the head. Mom ranted and raved for a short time then the cops left.

I should kill you, she screamed at Al. You have been expelled from school – did you know that, expelled?

Al shrugged and wiped the tears from his face on the back of his hand. He trembled as his mind raced faster and faster trying to find things to say, but Mother did all the saying. The screaming and ranting continued for some time, when Al decided he’d had enough and tried to leave. Mother grabbed him and slapped him several times. The last slap knocked him to the floor and blood flooded into his mouth. Albert knew he was going to die, but it didn’t matter anymore – at least it would be one way of escaping this terrible nightmare.

Bruised, battered and with a foul taste of blood in his mouth, Albert was allowed to stagger to his bed. Sadness and anger clouded his thoughts. I hate you, he shouted as his mother closed the bedroom door. I hate everybody.

With a heavy heart the lad fell asleep. When he opened his eyes, his mother was standing in the doorway glaring at him. So youre awake, then?"

He didn’t answer for fear of encouraging another tirade of blows.

It’s past ten. I’m not working today and it’s all your fault. I’m still shaking. I phoned your uncle Bert. You’re going to stay with him. Do you understand that, Albert Bernie?

Al sat up and shrugged. His jaw felt stiff and his eyes were sore. What did he care? He would be happy to stay with the Devil rather than stay here.

Well? she snapped.

He shrugged.

You little thief, you useless child, I’m sick and tired of you. I just can’t take any more of it. Uncle Bert will soon sort you out. He’ll beat some sense into your stupid little head.

As punishment Al didn’t get any breakfast, but that was nothing new. Lunch was bread and jam as the nagging continued. Uncle Bert would be here at six. Al felt bilious, every nerve seemed to jangle and his stomach must have been filled with butterflies while he slept. He’d heard of Uncle Bert but fortunately never actually met the man. Visions of a hideously fat truck-driving monster with tattoos and fists the size of basketballs came to mind.

Uncle Bert was Mom’s older half-brother, a truck driver. He lived somewhere up north. That’s all Albert knew of him. As six o’clock crept closer and closer, Albert felt worse and worse. He knew that this terrible ogre would probably eat him before they reached the hideout up north.

The door buzzer sang out making Albert jump. Mom went to the intercom and pressed the button opening the building’s front door. The clock read six on the dot. Albert had difficulty preventing what little he had in his stomach from coming up into his throat. Tears began to wash into his eyes, blurring his vision. The clump, clump of unbelievably heavy boots could suddenly be heard on the concrete floor of the corridor.

Chapter Four

Grandma Blythe eyed the crowd nervously as they flooded from customs and immigration and into the reception hall. Alice Blythe had retired from teaching the same year her only son moved to England. Now life had turned full circle. Archibald Hendry Blythe, her 12-year-old and only grandson was being sent to Canada for punishment. Alice sighed deeply as she contemplated the implications.

Although British by birth, Alice had lived most of her life in Canada – Ontario to be more precise. For thirty years she taught in a high school and took early retirement. Now at sixty-five she had been given the dubious privilege of bringing up a grandson, a precocious and troubled grandson – a boy she had never seen in the flesh. A tear crept into the corner of one eye as she spotted the lad entering the room.

In moments Archie met his grandmother. Greetings, Grandmamma, he said in his funny English way and trying hard to be as polite as possible.

Alice grabbed the lad and gave him a hug. Come along, boy, we have a long way to go. Is that all your luggage?

Yes, ma’am.

Grasping the youngster’s hand firmly she battled the crowds and made her way to the parking area, then took the elevator to the appropriate level and so to the car. Alice placed the boy’s single suitcase in the trunk of the vehicle then said, You sit in the front with me, boy.

Yes, ma’am.

Climbing in behind the wheel she began the long journey to Davisville, a small farm community north of Lake Simcoe. Archie sat tensely looking out the window watching the big city of Toronto fly by as they sped along Highway 401. He looked a sad sight, tired and a little unruly in his green blazer and grey flannel slacks. Standing only 152 centimetres tall, about 5 feet, his intensely blond uncombed hair crowned his round face; two huge blue eyes glared at the world through heavy plastic lenses balanced on his nose.

What happened to your cap? Alice asked.

How did you know I had one?

Part of your father’s description. So where is it?

He chewed his bottom lip for a moment deep in thought. I suppose I must have left in on the aeroplane.

Alice took the 400 cut-off and headed north. You do know why you are here, do you, boy?

Yes, ma’am.

"Your father told me you deliberately