Lost Illumination

By K.C. Dunford

When an eerie voice interrupts Christian’s ordinary life, the familiar scene of the Fall Valley Boarding School crumbles into uncertainty. Soon this boy’s worries are shifted from the troubles of his past to the terrifying disturbances that haunt him at every turn. In a matter of days, the menacing voices and shadowy shapes become the least of his troubles.

Christian decides that he must face his foes or live forever in fear. In doing so, a mysterious force drags him into a strange and unfamiliar land where the unnatural terrors are somehow perfectly catered to torment him.

It isn’t long before Christian is discovered by the inhabitants of this new realm. A peculiar but seemingly trustworthy fellow leads him to safety and introduces him to an ancient kingdom that has been lost for ages.

Christian may think himself a victim of circumstance, but he soon discovers that he has been chosen to determine the fate of an ancient people. The task may seem impossible, but if Christian does not succeed, hundreds of lives may be lost . . . and billions cursed forever.

The terrors are relentless, the secrets are endless, and the expectations that are thrown upon this thirteen-year-old boy are almost overwhelming. The past may have stolen his hope for the future, but Christian must decide if he has the courage to abandon his doubts and seize the path to a truly unfathomable destiny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514468067

K.C. Dunford

K.C Dunford is a fantasy and horror author whose works have appeared in Scare Street, High Dive Publishing, and The Remington Review. She is best known for her YA Fantasy, Lost Illumination (book one in the Mirallantic Series). You can follow K.C. on Instagram and Twitter @kcdunfordbooks.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The Black

A commotion pulled Christian’s attention away from the depths of his novel. He peeked from behind the pages and squinted as his eyes adjusted to the afternoon light. On the grassy field before him, a cluster of schoolboys were shouting and kicking wildly. It seemed that their sport was becoming more of a struggle to the death than a game. Dust and gravel sprang from the ground in a dirty cloud, and their shouts escalated in volume.

There was a hollow thud, and a sun-faded kickball sprang from inside the group and soared across the playing field. It bounced twice before skipping off the gravel and rolling down into an open storage cellar.

Like a frightened rabbit fleeing a foe, it leaped down the concrete steps and disappeared into the thick blackness of the room.

The sun-squinted eyes of the boys trailed after their escapee. A taller boy stepped forward. You there! he called from across the field.

Christian lowered his book and touched his chest.

The boy nodded once. Get the ball, he said, wiping the sweat from his brow and pointing to the cellar.

The cellar was close to his shade tree, so Christian shrugged and stood without complaint. He sat his book on top of a large root and turned to the cellar entrance. The edge of a bicycle wheel was peeping from inside, but the kickball was out of sight, lost in the depths of the shadow.

The shouts from the boys grew more insistent, and he hurried forward, kicking a rock out of his way as he jogged toward the cellar.

These boys weren’t Christian’s friends, but he didn’t mind fetching their ball. In fact, there was a time when he would have liked nothing more than to join in on their boyish brawl of kickball.

Since arriving at the Fall Valley Boarding School for Boys, however, the excitement of sports had been replaced with a hollow feeling that left Christian with little motivation to play. He much preferred the solitude of a good storybook, a place where he could lose himself in private enjoyment and forget the things that troubled him.

He reached the edge of the stairs and glanced over his shoulder. The boys were standing watch—some with hands on hips and all with expectant eyes. He turned away from them and peered down. The afternoon light stretched to the base of the steps where yesterday’s rainstorm had created a puddle of water. The light reflected over the surface but then faded away in a subtle barrier between light and darkness, comfort and unease.

It was a simple task: retrieve the ball. If he did so, he could return to his shade tree, lose himself in his story, and maybe even doze off for a few minutes before returning to class. It was broad daylight, and the sounds of children’s scuffle were all around him. He assured himself that there was nothing to be afraid of, nothing to dread.

Somehow, however, as he stared into the shadow, the security of the school grounds seemed distant, and the looming darkness of the cellar took charge. A tingling ran down his spine as he lowered his foot onto the first step.

Just as his shoe touched the concrete, however, a sound stopped him in his tracks. It was not far off, certainly not the distant commotion of the school grounds nor the subtle rustling of the swaying trees.

It was a voice.

The words were brief, but the moment they broke the silence, his ears stretched in question, perking up with a surge of surprise. The voice was a whisper, subtle yet crisp. "Christian, it said, stay away from the …"

Then it faded away into silence.

Startled, he turned quickly to look over his shoulder. He was uncertain from which direction the sound had come, and looking back, there was nothing to be seen but the crowd of impatient boys in the distance, turning their palms forward in expectancy.

He inhaled deeply, disturbed by the eerie sound, and turned back to the stairs. A breeze ruffled his hair and shook the leaves. September was coming, and although the afternoons still glowed with heat and sunshine, the warmth was beginning its descent, and rain was a daily probability. In one dimming moment, the sun shrank behind a cloud, and the boys moaned in displeasure.

Now the stream of light that shined on the stairs was gone. The puddle was black, and the air around him was chilly.

He was about to descend to the next step when a sudden crash of thunder struck. The rumbling started low, but in an instant, it grew into a resounding boom that pushed a startled gasp from inside him. Then, as though it were happening before him, he imagined the heavy door of the cellar swinging closed. The last sliver of light disappeared, and he was locked inside. Alone, with nothing but chilling blackness and the sound of the beating rain overhead. His cries for help only delighted the other schoolboys, and he became the object of a merciless game.

His heartbeat quickened, and a heavy drop hit his arm. He looked up, and a moment later, the sky released a downpour. The boys in the field shouted and laughed as they ran toward the school building.

Christian tore his eyes from the cellar and turned on his heel. He raced toward his shade tree and scooped up his book, tripping twice and almost falling as he hurried into the building.

The rain had never bothered him much, but he hurried inside nonetheless. He didn’t like the idea of shivering through a class in soaking clothes.

Before coming to Fall Valley, however, there had been times when he had purposefully sat outside in a rainstorm just to feel the cool prickles on his skin. The insects, animals, and everyone else fled for shelter, but for Christian, there was something freeing about doing the opposite. Something about it was magical.

Of course, such things had only ever lasted a few short minutes before his mother had discovered him and insisted that he come inside.

As he reached the school’s back entrance and pulled the door open, he could almost hear his mother’s voice say, You silly boy. You’ll freeze to death out there in the rain. Then he saw her face. She was smiling warmly and pushing a lock of his sandy-blond hair away from his eyes. Come on, baby, she whispered, let’s get you dried off.

How he missed her gentle touch and soft-spoken words.

As he remembered her voice, another came to mind: the one that had spoken his name just outside the cellar. He would have blamed it on another schoolboy out to frighten him, but there was something different about that voice, and he didn’t think the boys were capable of creating such a sound.

The thought was unsettling.

Christian raked his hands through his hair and wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. His head and shoulders were soaked, and his feet were damp, so he removed his shoes and unfastened the first three buttons of his shirt. He decided that, for now, he would not think about the voice but instead find a way to enjoy the rest of his break time.

The other boys had gone to play ball in the gym, so he decided to head to class early. There he could sit in his desk and read a few more pages before break time ended.

He headed down the hall with his shoes in one hand and his book in the other. The cover was sprinkled with drops of rain, and he wiped them on the front of his shirt.

The title of the book had been worn by time, but the words two cities and the name Charles Dickens were still clearly readable. He tilted it forward and was pleased to see that the pages had not been too severely dampened. Then he sighed and pressed the book to his chest. Dickens could be a bit long-winded, but Christian loved to lose himself inside of the pages of his novels.

Out of all the characters in this particular story, he felt the greatest connection with the imprisoned Dr. Manette. Perhaps he was only feeling sorry for himself, but at times, he couldn’t help but feel that this boarding school was a sort of prison. Only instead of making shoes as Manette did, Christian distracted himself from prison life by losing himself in schoolwork and literature.

He suppressed a smile and stared at a hole in his left sock. Manette’s brilliant physician mind was being wasted in prison, and Christian’s brilliant childhood was being wasted in boarding school. Manette, however, was a grown man who had lived a good life, while Christian was only thirteen, and these years of his life were precious.

Now he abandoned the effort to fight back his smile because he knew he was only embracing his own self-pity with this comparison. He tightened his grip around the book cover and gave a silent thank you to the doctor. Manette distracted himself with shoes, and Christian distracted himself with Manette.

He turned the last corner to his classroom, and just as he did, a monstrous sneeze tickled and built up inside of him. It was a sneeze that called for a deep and steady breath of preparation before being let loose. He closed his eyes and sucked in his breath, releasing the sneeze with a satisfying blow, and not even bothering to cover his mouth. The sensation was relieving, but as he opened his eyes, the good feeling was swept away and replaced by one of sinking dread.

Ms. Hawthorne, the school’s housemaster, was standing just in front of him, her arms open in disgusted surprise. Her lips pressed into a tight line when he looked up at her.

Christian stepped back. I’m so sorry, Ms. Hawthorne, ma’am. I didn’t—

Don’t, she said, closing her eyes and raising a finger. Just go, Mr. Bennett.

Christian lowered his head and stepped around her.

One moment, she said.

Christian turned with a grimace. Yes, ma’am?

Your shoes, Mr. Bennett?

His could feel his cheeks burning. It was raining and they got wet, ma’am.

She raised a thin and pointed eyebrow. You were out in the storm?

He nodded sheepishly.

All right, then, she said, weaving her thin fingers together. You best be off to the medical matron’s office.

Ms. Hawthorne, I—

She raised a hand to silence him. I’ll hear none of your excuses. You are soaked and sneezing, not to mention looking rather pale. Off with you, Mr. Bennett. I want you to be feeling your best for tomorrow.

Christian’s shoulders slumped. Perhaps he did appear rather sickly with his dampened clothes and sneezing, but he knew that this trip to the medical matron’s office was more of a punishment than anything else. He nodded and excused himself, hiding his dampened shoes in hopes that she would forget that he was not wearing them.

He sighed in relief when he was away from Ms. Hawthorne and turned to the corridor leading to the medical matron’s office. It was a pity that his favorite doctor wouldn’t be there. Even if Manette managed to escape from prison, he wouldn’t escape A Tale of Two Cities.

He sighed. The matron was pleasant enough if she didn’t get so close as to share her rubber-and-mothball smell. Although he was unpleased to be visiting her, Ms. Hawthorne was right. He needed to feel his best for tomorrow.

He had been counting the days until this season’s school excursion, and he wouldn’t want to miss it. Every season held a special trip to a museum, monument, or geographical site. One of Christian’s favorite excursions had been their trip to the caverns. The boys had been bused outside of town and were allowed to hike to the mouth of a massive cave. They were permitted to explore a small part of the entrance but were heavily cautioned that the caverns ran extremely deep, and any confusion could lead to a child lost forever in the depths. Many explorers had entered there, never to be seen again.

All these excursions held some educational value, all except for the special summer excursion. Summer was always the same, The Fall Valley Fair. It was the only excursion of the year that was pure entertainment. The students looked forward to the trip all year, Christian included. Yes, Ms. Hawthorne was right; he needed to feel his best for tomorrow.

He knocked on the glass window of the matron’s door and waited, wondering, and hoping she wasn’t there. This would give him a perfect excuse to leave and return to class. He was preparing to knock again but paused when he looked through and realized that there was already someone inside.

He squinted through the textured glass, and his eyes found a shape to the left of the room. It was a figure, hunched over and dressed in dark clothing. Christian stared more intently and moved closer until his nose was touching the glass. Whoever it was, they were facing away, and they swayed slightly as though sitting in a rocking chair.

May I help you?

He leaped in surprise when the medical matron appeared behind him. Oh, excuse me, Ms. Winters. Uh, I was … He motioned to the door. I was looking for you.

Are you feeling unwell?

Yes. Well, no, not really … I guess you’ve already got someone in there, so I’ll just go.

She cocked her head. No. No one in today.

He turned to the door. Yeah, I saw— Now there was nothing but his own reflection in the foggy texture of the glass.

You saw what? she said, leaning closer with a look of concern.

I uh …

Yes? Her voice was pointed.

I saw someone in the waiting area outside, he lied. Maybe they left.

Yes, they must have, she said, leaning back to see into the waiting area. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her keys. Come in.

After a few moments of fiddling, she opened the door. Christian looked to the right but found nothing but an empty chair and a small white bed.

Have a seat, Ms. Winters said. She opened a drawer and pulled out a thermometer, placing it under his tongue. What’s the ailment today? Is your head aching?

He shook his head.

Feeling queasy?

Mith Hathow seh I wath lookin’ pale, he babbled over the thermometer.

Ah, that Ms. Hawthorne, she said, clicking her tongue. You ought to consider yourself lucky to have a housemaster so caring. Why, when my son attended this school … She began to relate the various discipline systems of years past, stories that the students had heard many times. Christian, however, was not listening. Something else caught his attention.

It was in the frame of a small picture mounted to the wall. He turned his attention to the painting and stared intently. Perhaps Ms. Hawthorne was right. Perhaps he wasn’t feeling well after all.

His eyes were playing tricks on him.

When he looked into the picture on the wall, there was something on its surface, something that seemed to be moving. His eyes grew more intense, and as he stared, the moving became clearer. The framed picture was nothing more than a nature scene with a brook and a border of aspen trees. However, something else was spreading across the glass-pane surface, something thick and black. As he watched, his body tensed, his eyelids stretching wide.

But of course you would know nothing of—

It wasn’t until Ms. Winters abruptly ceased to speak that Christian realized he hadn’t been listening at all. However, his eyes remained on the painting. She turned her silver head in the direction of his gaze and looked back with narrowed eyes. You know, Mr. Bennett, you do look rather pale after all. Perhaps you could use some rest. She tugged at the thermometer in his mouth. No need to bite down, she said with a hint of annoyance. Christian hadn’t even noticed. He unclenched his jaw, and she removed the thermometer, pushing his shoulder down onto the paper-covered bed. Close your eyes, she said. I’ll come back to check on you shortly.

She left the room, leaving him with a racing heart and sweaty palms. His eyes remained glued to the painting, and he was astonished that she had not noticed the blackness. It was right in front of her, and she had looked right at it. He remained silent, not daring to move a muscle as the darkness pulsated across the picture until it covered the whole frame. His face was burning, his breathing quickened, and his heart nearly ripped out of his chest when he heard the same whispery voice that had spoken to him outside.

Christian, it whispered, stay away from the mirrors.

The lights flickered and the room went black.

He sat up, and almost involuntarily, a terrified cry escaped his throat.

The door swung open and light flooded into the room from a window outside the office.

No need to raise such a fuss, Ms. Winters scolded. It’s just a power outage from the storm! Christian leaned forward to see out the window. Steady rainfall streaked across the glass, and it reminded him of the inside of a prison cell.

You’re shaking, she said, taking his hand. Lie back down, Mr. Bennett.

No, I’m all right.

Lie back down. Her voice was sharp and commanding.

Christian hated being told what to do, but he obeyed nonetheless. His heart continued to race, and he looked back to the painting. The blackness was gone, and the framed picture was back to normal. He swallowed hard, wondering if it would return. I’d like to go back to class, please.

Her loosely pinned bun wobbled back and forth as she shook her head. I don’t think so, Mr. Bennett. Not in the condition you are in.

Please, I feel fine. His eyes darted in every direction. I need to go back to class … There’s a big exam coming up.

She pulled her brows together. I’d feel better if I could keep an eye on you.

Ma’am, he begged, please. It’s really important, and I’ll come back if I need to.

She sighed, scribbled a message on a notepad, and ripped it out. If you insist on returning to class, give this to your professor. She handed him the paper with an uneasy expression. Will you be able to make it with the power outage?

He looked through the glass on the office door and could make out the glow of an exit sign. Yeah, I’m all right.

Ms. Winters narrowed her eyes, but he took the note and hurried out of the office before she could speak again. All he wanted was to get away from the office and the voices, away from the prison cell that trapped him in their company.

He hurried away, barefoot like an inmate escaping from prison.

CHAPTER 2

Reflections

"Stay away from the mirrors."

Early the next morning, much earlier than usual, Christian opened his eyes to the sound of voices echoing down the hall. He sat up and found that the other boys were still sleeping peacefully in their beds. Slowly, he lowered his head back to the pillow and closed his heavy eyes.

"Yes, Christian, back to sleep."

This time, he was sure there had been a voice, and his heart rate quickened. Cautiously, he peeled back his covers and swung his legs off the bed. The wooden floor paneling stung cold beneath his toes, and the early morning light shined through the drapes. It was a dim blue haze, but it was just enough to let him find his way through the dormitory.

Christian had always been one to awaken early, and he often found himself rising before his schoolmates. However, this day was different. Today he had not awakened naturally, and a cloud of foggy sleep still hung behind his eyelids. Perhaps it was unwise to leave his bed, but his mind was a persistent one, and he was driven to investigate. Yesterday was almost a blur, and he had gone to bed with a troubled mind. The voices and the shapes were indeed disturbing, but now that the initial shock had worn off, another feeling had taken its place.

It was a feeling that found him often and had most recently been brought about by a closet on the second floor. For months he had passed the door, and it had always been shut and latched closed. Every day he looked at the door, and it practically begged him to see behind it. That same door had earned him a week in detention when Ms. Hawthorne caught him trying to pick the lock with a pin. She unlocked the closet with a key and swung the door open to reveal an upright stack of mops and brooms. "You always were just a little too curious, Mr. Bennett," she said, slamming the door shut and leading him away.

Christian pushed away the memory and inched toward the door, taking care not to awaken the sleeping boys.

The shadowy hallway had an ominous look in the morning light, and for a few waiting moments, he held his breath in the threshold. There wasn’t a clock in the boys’ dormitory, and it was possible that the housemaster could appear at any moment. She would surely disapprove of his early rising. After his brief hesitation, however, he pressed his lips together and took a step in the direction of the voices. He hurried over to the long floral rug that stretched down the hallway and was pleased when it muffled his steps.

Several doors lined the hallway, and at the end was a large rectangular mirror embellished with brass framework. He made his way over and stood still in front of it, still weary with sleep, and stared at his own reflection.

He shook his head slowly. The voices had warned him to avoid the mirror, yet here he stood, inches from the glass.

He sighed and began to turn, hoping he hadn’t deprived himself of too much sleep. Before his gaze had departed from the mirror, however, a movement in the reflection caught his eye, and his head whipped back around.

It was a small edge of blackness, almost like a strip of material, resting in the bottom corner. He turned his head to the side, but there was nothing beside him but the swirled floral pattern of the wallpaper. Then his eyes returned to the mirror, and the blackness slid out of the frame.

Christian stared for a few more moments, frozen in place. He had always been an imaginative person, and with a night’s sleep still hanging on his consciousness, the sight was as equally intriguing as it was frightening.

Soon the seconds turned to minutes, until he finally turned around and crept back into the bedroom. Slowly, he lowered himself into bed, handling his blankets delicately and barely daring to breathe.

The strange occurrence played over and over in his mind, as did the ones from the previous day. He felt as though his eyes had only been closed for a matter of seconds before Ms. Hawthorne rapped on the door with her usual Six o’clock, boys!

The room filled with muffled moans and sleepy sighs, and the memory of the morning’s strange encounter still clung to him as he stood and pulled on his robe. However, when the curtains burst open and dim light shined onto the bustling boys who were hurrying about the room, it grew distant. He allowed himself to put it away and dressed for the day.

The morning started out as a bit of disappointment to everyone. The sky was still veiled with heavy clouds, and a chilly breeze shook the trees.

Despite the dreary weather, the boys still managed to hurry about with excitement, anxious for the day’s adventures at the fair.

Christian didn’t speak as they walked along the soaked sidewalks toward the fairgrounds. Although a night’s sleep had placed a fog over the morning and previous day’s events, the happenings still lingered in his mind.

They passed through the ticket booth, and the other boys rushed off in various directions.

He sighed. A Christian from the past might have hurried to join the other boys in excitement and fun, but he remained calm, thoughtfully taking in his surroundings. He felt strangely out of place, and the feeling disappointed him after all the days of looking forward to this excursion. It was times like these that he truly missed the way things used to be.

Back home, he had been friends with many of his neighbors, schoolmates, and teachers. Upon moving to Fall Valley, however, he found it difficult to even want to make friends. He could admit to himself that he had become somewhat of a blank slate.

There were times when he questioned who he really was, questioned if the boy that he had been before coming to Fall Valley would ever return. He wondered such things but could not bring himself to believe that Christian was lost for good. He knew that his old self was deep inside, locked away from a place where he didn’t belong.

For now, the real Christian had gone away, and unfortunately, Mr. Christian D. Bennett was not sure when he would return.

He walked around the open field, watching the other boys play games and laugh at the clowns who were performing silly stunts. He had never been particularly fond of clowns. They didn’t frighten him, but something about their jeering white faces and lined red lips made him uncomfortable. He watched as one of them put his thumbs into his ears and stuck out his tongue. The boys around him laughed, but Christian glared. His father’s voice came to mind and boomed, Stop acting like a clown.

He turned away, and they walked deeper into the grounds. There was a colorful booth full of treats, and he decided to wait in line for cotton candy. He could scarcely remember the last time he had eaten it, and he wondered if he would enjoy it as much as he once had. Just as he had claimed his place in a line, he noticed that a large group of boys was hurrying toward a small travel trailer. He turned to face it, and then his curiosity pulled him out of line and toward the pressing group of boys.

On the top of the trailer, there was a large circular clock. The markings on the clock read from one to sixty, and the little red hand was now resting on fifty-eight.

What’s going on over here? he asked as he approached a fellow classmate.

It’s a magician, said the little boy, standing on his tiptoes. He performs every hour.

Christian smiled to himself. Obnoxious clowns with water balloons and cream pies were close to the bottom of his list of preferences, but illusionists, on the contrary, were very well near the top. Before he had passed away, Christian’s grandfather had been a master of tricks. Some of them were easy to catch onto, but others were so incredible that a fascinated toddler-Christian could not help but believe in magic.

He relaxed and joined in on the anticipation for the beginning of the act.

The red hand clicked over the sixty, and a short bald man wearing a yellow vest waddled around from behind the trailer. He stood no taller than three feet. Welcome, friends! shouted the man as he raised his stubby arms. "It is with great pleasure that I present to you today, the one, the only, the amazing, Allesandro Leodini!"

A loud bang and a puff of smoke escaped from the trailer.

The boys gasped and then cheered loudly as a tall, muscular man with dark skin stepped out from behind the curtain. He wore a red vest, a black suit, and a long velvet robe. The magician smiled mischievously and stroked a long black braid, which ran down the side of his chest.

Memories from his childhood flooded his mind as Christian attended the magician’s show. He performed entertaining card tricks, sawed his assistant in half, cast a spell to make her levitate, and caused a long rope to go stiff. Christian could almost hear his grandfather’s voice as the magician announced each of his magical acts.

After he had pulled a rabbit out of his hat, the magician cleared his throat and announced, And now for my most spectacular magic of all!

His assistant rolled a large, body-length mirror out from behind the trailer. A weight of despair hit Christian’s stomach, and his body stiffened as he looked at the ground.

He wished it wasn’t a mirror. There was no telling what gloomy image might be caught inside of the reflection, and eerie memories kept his eyes strongly averted. The magician continued his act, and the boys continued to cheer. He knew that he shouldn’t, but he peeked up, taking care to keep his eyes away from the reflection. The magician pulled a small red handkerchief out of his vest and held it up. Keep your eyes on the handkerchief, he announced. Christian did not disobey.

The magician made a fist and placed the small piece of material over his hand. He used his left pointer finger to push the handkerchief into the opening in his fist, leaving a small tip of red poking out of the top. You see that the handkerchief is still in my hand?

They rumbled in affirmation.

Now watch this.

They all watched as he brought his hand to the mirror, placed his fist on the surface, and flattened it out. He cocked his hand to the side and slowly brought his