Mortal Zone

By Nathan Godwin

There is a certain person on this earth who has been reincarnating continuously for more than a hundred thousand years and he remembers all his previous lives. With his vast knowledge, he has discovered a means by which to possess the bodies of other human beings.

There is only one man who might be able to stop him. But how does he fight, much less stop, an enemy whose identity is mysterious even to him?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nathan Godwin
• Release date: Nov 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386550631

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Mortal Zone

By Nathan Godwin

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Copyright © 2018 Nathan Godwin

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All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher or author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

Contents

The Visit

The Blacksmith’s Secret

The Girl and the Bird

The Mysterious Enemy

The Living Dead

The Man in the Cupboard

Mortal Zone

The Adversary

The Final Duel

The New Dawn

Notes

Mortal Zone

The Visit

This morning, it happened again; one of those occasional but strange visions I had been having in recent months. I was still in bed, asleep, when my ears picked up the sound of knocking. Then I heard it in a dream. In the dream I saw the image of a person’s hand knocking on the door of my shed. The image was not quite clear in the way things are clear when perceived with the physical eyes. It was somewhat dreamlike, with a caliginous atmosphere. But it was clear enough in its own way that I could tell things about it. I had the impression, from what I saw, that it was an elderly man’s hand. But I wasn’t certain. The sleeve that clothed the hand was brownish and seemed of thick linen material. My distinct impression was that it was the sleeve of a dark brown coat.

I also detected wetness on the hand and in the surrounding atmosphere; though it may have been the steady dropping sounds from outside that informed my ears and, thus, my brain that it was raining. In any case, it had rained most of the nights for the past few weeks.

I opened my eyes drowsily and lay on the bed for some time, staring at the corner of the ceiling. The lamp was still on just as I had left it before I crashed onto the bed fully dressed the previous night. Taking out the watch from my pocket, I looked at the time and saw that it was nearly 5:30am. Then I turned my head to the direction of the door as the knocking persisted.

Who is it? I called out.

The person may not have heard me properly because of the rain. The person may have thought I said come in for the door then opened. Indeed I forgot that I had left the door unlocked the previous night after returning home tired and spent.

The door opened wide and a clean-shaven elderly gentleman in a slightly soaked umber jacket stepped in. He removed his matching brown hat as he entered, revealing a head of receding grey hair. He apparently had no umbrella on his person. He was slightly below average height. He wore a light waistcoat under the jacket, a pair of matching trousers and dark travelling boots. He closed the door behind him after mumbling an apologetic greeting to me. I had risen to a sitting position on the bed and was staring at him dumbly.

Of course, it had struck me the moment the door opened and he appeared at the doorway the confirmation of the vision I had prior to his entry. By this point I was no longer surprised, yet I still couldn’t help marveling with a slight awe at the reality of such phenomena.

Good morning, Mr. Seden, he said as he put his hat on the small table near the center of the room.

I did not recognize him at all and did not believe I had ever seen him. I wondered how he knew my name, and I still wasn’t sure what he was doing in my humble little house at this hour. My impression up to this point had been that he was simply stranded in the rain and needed somewhere for temporary refuge. But now it seemed that he actually came to see me specifically.

I weakly put my legs down from the bed onto the plank-tiled floor. I still did not say anything. My eyes were focused on the man as I waited for him to explain himself.

I’m sorry to have woken you, sir. I didn’t realize you were sleeping, he said.

Who are you? I finally asked.

My name is Alex Ruther, he replied. Sorry about the wet floor; I didn’t expect it would rain while I was on my way.

How do you know my name?

It was given to me, written on this card. As he said that, he put his hand into his coat pocket and brought out a small card. He then walked over to me saying, Here it is.

I took it and looked at it, front and back. It was simply a plain white paper card, but on one side – the side I was shown – was written my name in a person’s cursive handwriting: Adam Seden. Astonishment flashed through me when I saw it. I glanced up at the man.

I was given the card as well as the name of this town, he said. I just arrived in the town a few hours ago and I asked people for a man of this name until someone told me where I could find you.

And who gave you the card? I said. Who do I owe this visit to?

Don’t you recognize the handwriting, sir? he asked. He was standing about two feet in front of me and looking at me with a slightly puzzled expression.

I looked at the name again and my eyes lingered curiously on the writing. The note said almost exactly the same thing as the one I had seen when I first came to this town a year ago. And for the first time in almost a year, I studied the handwriting again. It looked rather similar to my own writing style except that it was more neatly