Danielsford: The Danielsford Saga, #1

By Charles J. Barone

Businessman Frank Jackson, on his way to a client, drives into a town that doesn't exist.

He soon realizes supernatural forces are at work involving a malevolent witch intent on changing history.

Frank becomes immersed in a struggle that began with the Salem Witch Trials and could cost him his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charles J. Barone
• Release date: Jul 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393221784

Charles J. Barone

Chuck Barone was born a long time ago, too long ago he says, to contemplate without slipping into bouts of self-pity. He began writing in 3rd grade.      A few years after graduating high school, it occurred to him to find a career. At the time, two jobs seemed the most likely. One was law enforcement. He figured he could retire while still in his 40’s. If possible, he preferred retiring the day after starting.      Chuck worked patrol, various ‘special’ details, and investigations. He also served as a firearms and tactics instructor for his department for 16 years. For 15 years he participated in firearms competition with handgun, rifle, and shotgun, and was a champion handgun shooter in police competition in New Mexico. Chuck placed 3rd in national police revolver competition.      A couple of years after retiring, he wrote his first novel. The first story impressed no one. The people he let read it were either fast readers, or they gave up after a few pages. His next effort ended at around 150 pages. Its reception proved he learned little.      While wandering through a bookstore he discovered books on writing. He purchased and read several, then sat down for a third try.       Two reams of paper later, he sent a script to a small publisher. Three months later, Chuck was stunned to receive word that the publisher liked it, and offered a contract to publish it.       After some back and forth to ‘fix’ this, or change that, the book went to publication. Not many months after, the publishing house was out of business.      A year later, another small publisher wanted his next novel. They were out of business before a year passed. Chuck sometimes ponders the significance of the two closures.      In the midst of all this he managed to make time to find a wife and get married. Linda has been his rock and support. She’s also a great writer in her own right, when she can find the time.       Which brings us to now, and the several books available.  Have a look. You might find them interesting. If not, thanks for stopping by, and try not to be a stranger. There are others coming.

Book preview

Chapter One

Seeing the little town when I topped the hill on the twisting two-lane road gave me a sense of relief. In the almost fifteen years I traveled the highway, twice a week, the town of Sherburne Center had become something of a milestone. It sat at the bottom of the hill only a few miles from Rutland, Vermont and was the last town before my destination.

It was a typical scene that you can see over and over in other small towns and villages throughout much of New England. The tall, white steeple of the church reached above the green maple and oak trees surrounding it. Here and there, hidden by the trees, I could see a rooftop or the side of a building.

It didn't look the same as I remembered, but I dismissed the thought. I saw a lot of similar scenes in my travels, and I was tired from the long drive from Boston.

The road wound down the mountain into town. At the edge of Sherburne Center, I was surprised when it turned into a dirt trail which was out of the ordinary. I slowed and prepared to stop for road construction.

A sign appeared proclaiming my entry into Danielsford, founded in 1693. I had never heard of Danielsford, and seeing the sign confused me. Slowing to a crawl, I pulled to the side and stopped. I spent a minute looking around before opening the car door.

There was no road work. I climbed out of the car only to be greeted with silence. There were no traffic sounds. The several vehicles that were behind me had disappeared. They hadn't passed me, and I knew they hadn't turned off. I had glanced in my rearview mirror as I began to slow down. They were all there. As I rolled to a stop, they were gone.

What the hell? I said aloud. 

I wondered if I could have gotten sidetracked, but that didn't explain the traffic behind me disappearing. A knot of fear formed in my stomach as I looked at the town that wasn't supposed to be there. While I wanted to leave, something else kept me from climbing back in the car and getting out of there. I couldn't explain that other feeling then and I don’t understand it now, except to say that I felt a need to be there.

The houses, and what I assumed to be businesses, were large and drab looking affairs painted in dull browns or lifeless reds. They were an old design yet I could see that they were of a rather new construction. For the size of the homes, the windows were strangely small and few.

Similar houses and buildings exist but not in Vermont. The structures were reminiscent of any of several Massachusetts coastal communities. It was as if I had driven into the past.

That isn't unusual in Vermont, or anywhere in northern New England where time seems to have stood still in some smaller towns and villages. The feeling seemed to be more intense in Danielsford. Everything spoke of age while not being centuries old.

On my left sat the sparkling white church whose steeple I saw from the hill. The church building was in stark contrast to the other places. The shining white paint was as out of place as the church.

Mine seemed to be the only vehicle in town. Since entering Danielsford I hadn't seen a car or truck of any kind. I shrugged off the thought since I hadn't been looking for cars or trucks. Danielsford itself had me transfixed. As I stood there something, a sixth sense or whatever, urged me to leave. Yet I couldn't.

I didn't feel in danger, nor was I being threatened by anyone. Up to that moment I had seen no one else. I think the feeling came from the fact that I was in a town that wasn't supposed to be where it was. Not only did it not belong there, from all appearances it didn't belong in our century. That should have been enough to make me leave. It didn't.

With a sixth sense warning me and the odd sense of needing to remain, I listened again to the deafening silence. It was almost palpable. The pings and pops of my car's engine as it cooled broke the unnatural stillness.

From the Common, or park, in the middle of the town came soft, muffled ripping sounds of cows tearing loose mouthfuls of the tall grass. All else was a quiet that soon weighed on my nerves.

The Common was a large untended area, only a moderate size field in the center of town, with high grass and four or five large maple trees shading it. A half dozen cows and an equal number of sheep grazed placidly over it. No herdsman tended the animals. They fed on the thick grass and didn't seem inclined to leave.

Clustered around it were homes and what I assumed were the businesses. The buildings seemed to squat dark and plain on their foundations but were also, in their archaic way, interesting. 

As I watched the livestock, people appeared here and there. They eyed me with what I took from their body language to be a combination of suspicion and curiosity. Two men watched me from the corner of the Common and another stood by himself near a building. I guessed that not many travelers stopped in Danielsford. None of the three approached me. I sensed from their stance they weren't very welcoming, but that could have been an incorrect impression created by the shock of coming into the mysterious town.

If they were watching me, I looked at them with puzzlement and a growing sense of confusion. Their style of dress was as antique as the town. The three men dressed in clothing that matched the homes. It was an old-fashioned style not seen in centuries. The men wore wide-brimmed dark hats, the brims bent or slouching. Pants were tucked into knee-high stockings, and all wore light shirts with billowing sleeves.

It was as if I had driven into an early American village or an outdoor, living history museum. I placed the look, based on the homes and clothing style to be late 17th or early 18th Century. If anyone was out of place, it was me in my slacks, light blue shirt, and wearing my loafers.

I stared at the large untended Common, the white church sitting nearby, and the antiquity of the town. Any moment I expected one of them to come and tell me to move my car.

From all appearances, Danielsford looked like a Puritan village. As far as I knew the sect never got to Vermont, but I was no more familiar with Vermont history than was anyone who didn't live there.

A few signs hung over the doors of the businesses. The signs were of wood and the names either painted on or carved into the wooden boards. Most of the places I took to be businesses had no markings of any kind.

One of them stood out. Like the church, it had been white at one time. It was now a more dirty white with a yellowish tint. Still, the bright color clashed with the muted hues of the rest. I walked across the road, peered in the window and discovered that the white building served as a drugstore.

I tried the door. It rattled back and forth but seemed to be locked. I stepped back, almost bumping into a young lady who appeared as if from nowhere.

Pardon me, I said, quickly stepping aside.

Good morrow, sir. The store be closed since Mary were condemned. said the young lady. I had not seen her on the street and guessed that she came from one of the other shops.

She wore a long green dress that almost touched the ground and a bonnet of the same color. The dress buttoned up the front. It was cinched at the waist, but loose and flowing from her hips down. It looked similar to clothing worn by our pioneer women, functional while not being fancy.

Condemned? I asked, surprised at her heavy English accent and archaic style of pronunciation.

The girl moved a couple of steps away and turned. She eyed me from head to toe.

Aye, condemned and she were hanged from that tree there, on the Common, she said. She pointed to a large maple tree that sat near the center of the Common and then turned back. You be from the outside.

I’m from Boston, I replied, glancing at the tree.

How strangely do they dress there, she said. Her eyes raised to mine. She were accused of sorcery and witchcraft. I thinkest she did bear no guilt.

Where am I? I asked.

She glanced across the street at the Common. Everyone had disappeared. Her expression, once pleasant, turned to one of concern.

It be most wise good sir if you did hasten to leave. Outsiders seldom have come here. A most horrible curse do possess us. Still staring across the street, she said, Evil does possess us of a most frightful fashion, good sir. You did come thus you be able to leave. Would that I could. Thou ought leave lest you be trapped as are we.

She shot me a quick look, spun on her heel and hurried away. I stood, baffled by her words and warning as I watched her disappear around a corner.

Her style of speech was as archaic as the town. The way the woman pronounced 'closed' was strange. She spoke every vowel, so it sounded like close and ed.

I stood and stared at the corner, wondering what she meant. The town had a strange feeling, but I attributed that to the shock of driving into a place that shouldn't be where it was. The sensation wasn't one of danger. I wondered what she meant by being cursed, and what she meant by being able to leave.

I turned and looked in the shop window. Goody Bradbury sold pharmaceuticals and elixirs, none of which I expected to see in a modern pharmacy. I studied the jars and bottles, all with names handwritten on each of them. The writing style was odd, and the spelling lax even by today's lax standards.

Turning from Bradbury's store, I slowly scanned the street for a grocery. If one existed, I didn't see it. Nor did I see a bank, a clothing store, a restaurant or any business one expects to find in a town.

The young woman’s warning came back, echoing in my mind. I shook my head and returned to the car. At the moment, other than what she said, I neither felt nor saw anything that I could consider a danger. Yet the girl was serious when she warned me to leave.

I climbed into my car, started the engine and drove unhurriedly away, negotiating the rutted trail until I reached the edge of town, where the road again became paved. Before I had gone a quarter of a mile, I saw several cars in front of me. Where were they while I sat in Danielsford? None of them had come through the town.

I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw a pickup truck a short distance behind me. I wondered if I had, in fact, stopped in a strange town that no one else seemed to see?

The rest of the short trip to Rutland was routine. I met heavier traffic as I neared the city, which told me that I was back in civilization, or what passed for modern civilization. By the time I was in Rutland proper, I felt an odd longing for the quiet and silence of the old town.

––––––––

Chapter Two

Rutland looked old and the part of town in which my business contact was located was an even older section. Compared to Danielsford, however, that part of town was, I thought, state-of-the art.

Frank, Walt Arnold greeted me when I walked into his office. Damned near on time for a change.

Walt was a big guy of above average height, with dark unruly hair that never seemed combed and bright, intelligent brown eyes. He was about my age and, like me carried a few more pounds than he should.

I got sidetracked for a few minutes, I said and spent a few minutes recounting my experience as he led me to his office. He listened as we walked, brow furrowed, and shook his head.

What did you say the name was?

Danielsford, founded in, I think it said, 1693.

And it's close to here? He settled behind his desk and played with a pencil, rolling it back and forth.

On the road to Woodstock, I told him. Where Sherburne Center is supposed to be.

I have no idea where you're talking about. You didn't get lost?

Nope, no way, I said. It's my regular route. I've traveled that road every week for years.

Vermont was settled a lot later than 1693.

I mentioned the young woman and the people I saw and told him about their style of dress, her peculiar accent and the strange manner of her speech. I made a failed attempt at trying to mimic her curious dialect and mode of speech. In the end, I told him how the girl had warned me that I should leave while I could.

He shook his head again. Vermonters might be fighting tooth and nail to stay out of the 21st Century, but we aren't that backward. He laughed and added, Most places in the State, anyway.

I frowned, not knowing what else to say. I knew he was right and knew he was right about the town. It didn't belong. What I didn't know was what the hell I had driven into more than an hour earlier.

He shrugged, losing interest. "I don't know what to tell