Mystery of Mysteries

By James Shannon Abney

This is a tale of a man plagued by nightmares brought by guilt.

Nightmares are different than bad dreams. Both can be very disturbing, but only a nightmare can wake you up.

The word nightmare is derived from an old English term "mare," which is a mythical demon who visits those who sleep alone and torment them with frightening dreams

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stratton Press
• Release date: Sep 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781648955853

James Shannon Abney

James Shannon Abney is an artist and an engineer. He is a student of world history and the Christian Bible. He grew up in rural Georgia, experiencing the outdoors with his two dogs and horse. He spent many hours with his three companions exploring woods and creeks as he sketched and wrote short stories.He and his family trained horses and competed in hunter/jumper shows while instructing riding students throughout the southeast for many years.He holds a master's degree in mechanical engineering and is a student pilot. What he enjoys most is watching his daughter train horses and compete in show jumping horse shows.He writes a variety of stories, ranging from children's books, which he illustrates, and short mystery and horror stories plus western novels set back in history.

Book preview

Prologue

It has been written…

When Lord Byron died, found in his Bible was a letter to Mrs. Sheppard. It read,

Within this awful volume lies

The mystery of mysteries;

Oh, happiest they of the human race

To whom our God has given grace

To hear, to read, to fear, to pray,

To lift the latch and force the way;

But better had they ne’er been born

Who read to doubt, or read to scorn.

Living alone for so long, I had grown accustomed to the quietness that seemed to settle around my cottage late at night. But it was this quietness that brought me out of a deep sleep and into an early morning slumber. I woke filled with the same sickening dread that was haunting my soul before I slept. My forehead burned from a fever.

I lay motionless, trying to gain enough time to subdue the pain. I labored to breathe; my heart felt like it was being squeezed by mysterious hands clutched around it.

Nightmares—how real they are even after you first awake. It was horrible—too horrible to think about. I wanted to erase it out of my memory, blur the details that seared my brain, but the details were just too vivid to go away. The scandalous, sickening feeling was mixed with horror and morbidity.

Dreams and nightmares are the mystery of mysteries. They mix fact and fiction and weave it into a fantastical tale that has no guidelines or boundaries.

This one started with a gray headstone in the fog. Shadows cast by the full moon, stealthily glided across the half-effaced inscriptions on a gray headstone. It sat cocked beside four or five other nameless and neglected grave markers tilted at various degrees of attitudes.

The graves were close together and surrounded by a deformed wrought iron fence. A rusty gate hung by only one broken hinge that creaked as the night breeze moved it ever so softly. It made the only solitary sound in the night for the exception of a few dead leaves rattling as they dangled quivering from their drooped limbs. Fog hovered the ground, darkening and diming all the images of the tree trunks and gravestones. All the wooded creatures hidden in the trees were still; they did not stir. It was the