Kismet: A Ridgewood Tale

By Steve Campbell

A diary from the past warns Addison Taylor about her future. However, it is Christmas and she is too busy with her recent marriage and problems at work to worry about a book whose author is certainly delusional.
But when she and her husband hike Myers Ridge, the diary’s warnings become real and force the couple headlong into mystery, suspense, and a strange world of past, present, and future.
Will she and her husband change the past to protect their future together?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Campbell
• Release date: Mar 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310880070

Steve Campbell

I'm Steven L. Campbell, a writer and artist for as long as I can remember. I pen contemporary, paranormal fantasy in my undisclosed lair in northwest Pennsylvania. I live there with my wife, where I write and create art. I have a bachelor's degree in studio art and graphic design, and I graduated magna cum laude from college. I have been a wildlife artist for 30+ years, an indie author longer, and an avid reader of all genres of fiction since the age of 5. My passion for writing stories developed during high school, but it took a backseat after college while I painted art for a living. Now, I'm passionate again about writing full time. I am new at Smashwords, but I have published independently at Amazon since 2013 and have given away short stories at my websites and blog since 1990. My books of fantasy and paranormal fiction feature characters living in Ridgewood, a fictional Pennsylvania town based on my own hometown where my relatives fueled my imagination with their ghost stories and urban lore, prompting me to write my own fantasy tales for everyone in love with the genre and young at heart to enjoy.

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Kismet

A Ridgewood Tale

Renewed Edition Copyright 2014 Steven L. Campbell

Published by Steven L. Campbell at Smashwords

Cover design by S.L.Campbell Graphics and Books

All characters, organizations, places, and events portrayed in this ebook either are products of the author’s imagination or are fictitiously used. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead, locales, organizations, or events is purely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book is a licensed copyrighted property of the author. However, you are welcome to copy and share it for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to your favorite ebook retailer to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support and respecting the hard work of this author.

To Beverley

For showing me the way

Table of Contents

February 27, 1981

Prologue

December 24, 2000

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

December 25, 2000

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

April 26, 2003

Chapter 5

April 26, 1988

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

April 27, 2003

Epilogue

About the Author

Author’s Note

Connect with Steven L. Campbell

Other Books by Steve

Bonus Short Story: The Vanishing

February 27, 1981

The past is but the beginning of a beginning.

—H.G. Wells

Prologue

NINE-YEAR-OLD Sara Holcomb stood behind the wheelchair and, with small fingers, worked braids in the woman’s long red hair.

Don’t move, Jane, she said. I’m almost done.

Slumped in her oversized chair, the thin woman known as Jane Doe stared ahead, out through the large bay window at an early spring storm settling over Ridgewood. Beyond the snow-patched sloping lawn that ran a short soggy distance to a large black iron fence and busy street, cars and yellow school buses sloshed past, while kids in winter coats scurried around—and sometimes through—puddles of slush on their way to school. How she wished to be outdoors among them, to share their camaraderie, and not imprisoned to a wheelchair and this enormous Victorian house called Holcomb Manor.

Since her arrival three months ago, Jonathan Holcomb’s staff brought her here every morning to watch the traffic. Nurse Rachel hoped it would help bring back memories of her past and fill an empty mind that had become a blank slate. She was supposed to write down anything that looked familiar in the small but fat blue diary she held in her lap. But nothing about Holcomb Manor or its busy street looked familiar.

She tried with difficulty to remember something—anything—before awakening at the clinical research hospital in Philadelphia for coma patients. All she knew about herself—little as it was—had come the day she arrived here, from Jonathan Holcomb, a self-made millionaire from Pittsburgh who owned Holcomb Plastics located in several cities and towns in Pennsylvania.

I like the Mayberry picturesqueness of Ridgewood over the other places I call home, he had told her that day at his big shiny desk in his library.

He was a cigar-smoking, black-haired man in his early forties with smartly styled wavy hair. He had worn a shiny suit as dark as his steel-blue eyes that day, and a red silk tie that glistened bright against a white shirt.

It was a Sunday, April, back in ’71. I was hiking Myers Ridge, looking for arrowheads and whatnot. He smiled. I’m an aggregator … a collector. Numismatist and philatelist, mostly.

He spoke with an even, soothing voice while he gestured with clean white hands with manicured nails. Large gold rings on both hands suggested that he had attended several universities. Jane wondered why she associated the rings with academia.

That’s when I found you unconscious and near death at the bottom of a ravine. Your legs were broken, so I fashioned a stretcher with my jacket and got you to my car where I drove you to the hospital. You were nearly ten years in a coma while the authorities tried to find out who you are. You had no identification.

At this point, Jonathan paused and appeared to look at her the way an appreciator of art would appraise a valuable piece. Then he frowned, as though discovering a flaw. Oddly, he said, your fingerprints have revealed nothing. You’re a living Jane Doe, which is why I call you Jane. No family has ever been found … that’s why the hospital released you to my care.

The memory retreated. Outside, a sprinkling rain threatened to wash away the remaining snow. Beyond the fence, three redheaded girls in winter dress dashed along the sidewalk. Every weekday morning, she watched for the girls. They were probably sisters and, as her caregiver, Nurse Rachel had explained, on their way to school.

She wondered about her own childhood, and wondered if she had any siblings. If so, had any of them been as delightful as the youngest who always stopped at the fence and made faces at her?

She looked forward to making faces back at the girl until both broke out in laughter. The older girls never joined in. They were around Sara’s age, but Sara did not know them. She was homeschooled, after all.

Today the youngest hurried by, which saddened Jane. She withheld the sudden urge to weep. She would have time to cry later, alone in her bedroom.

Thunder sounded and the skylight outdoors darkened. Anxiety practically danced across her back, which made her shiver and tremble. Sudden flashes of lightning made her yelp and press the diary against her useless knees.

Pain stung the back of her head.

Ouch, she said. That pulls.

All done, Sara said triumphantly. She clapped her