Easy Guide to Escape Hell

By Elisa Menz

You inherited a house, but it has a minor demon problem...

Dagon Gunthersson—a powerful demon warrior and a renowned member of Hell's nobility—stands accused of treason by his commander. His abrupt escape leads him to the last place he expects: the human world. Stuck in a decrepit manor haunted by lesser demons, Dagon masterminds a plan to return to Hell and take his revenge.

Josephine Gardiner's sheltered life vanishes the moment she escapes her controlling parents. When she's offered the opportunity to claim a mysterious manor, no heaping trash, nor the looming threat of eviction will stop her from building the home she's always dreamt of. But the ghastly creatures scurrying in the shadows might.

While Heaven and Hell gamble with war, the manor inhabitants stand against greedy lawyers, hostile angels, and the Department of Housing and Urban Development.

Can an arrogant demon and a strong-headed woman stop pretending they don't care about each other and save the only home they've ever loved?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elisa Menz
• Release date: Jun 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215358573

Elisa Menz

Elisa Menz is a self-taught writer and a fantasy literature fan. Born in Bolivia, she grew up surrounded by mythical creatures and supernatural folklore through local writers and storytellers. Inspired by those tales, she started writing her own stories at a young age. Now living in Chile, she works full-time as a writer, while dawdling in video game programming, comic design, and alternative sources of storytelling. A member of the Chilean Tolkien Society and an avid reader of fantasy classics, her work is heavily influenced by authors like David Eddings, Raymond E. Feist, and Robin Hobb. Her stories are full of witty, sweet, and hilarious characters, always with a pinch of magic.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Bloody allegiances

Dagon Gunthersson, captain of the demonic forces of the Third Ring, conqueror of the Plains of Ghouls, son of Gunther the Nightmare, and heir to the Glowing Deeps, was on his knees. His ragged breaths rattled over the infernal clamor of the dwindling battle, as his eyes widened at the massacre.

His commander had sent his forces to ward off an invasion to Erehwon, no-man’s-land. The barren territory at the edge of Hell where a thousand battles had been fought back in the day when the forces of Heaven sought to invade their realm.

There had been no invaders in centuries, not since the passageways between Hell and Earth were sealed. No angel or human had set foot here since ancient times.

Based on the vague reports Dagon received, human scouts had crossed the border and moved toward the capital. He had never fought humans in his life, but the stories of old portrayed them as weak, worthless creatures. Which was why Dagon couldn’t understand the reason behind the slaughter.

Of the two hundred elite demon warriors he took with him, none survived. As he staggered to his feet, his wounded body threatened to collapse any minute.

Mere inches from the tip of his boots, a pair of pitch-black eyes gazed at the gray sky, lifeless.

Carrion was dead. His second in command, his right hand. His friend. After an excruciating clash with an unknown, mighty enemy, he fell to their blade. His severed head now lay on the arid soil of Erehwon.

Dagon lifted his gaze, clouded by the blood pouring from a deep cut under his right horn. He sensed his enemies closing in on him, and for the first time, he saw them without the cloaks of illusion. The sunlight that filtered through the smoke cast ghostly shapes on their blemished armors, and the same blood that dripped from their swords splattered their faces and wings.

He let out a pained chuckle, loaded with contempt. Dark ashes fluttered around in the breeze while across the battlefield—littered with the mutilated corpses of his comrades—an eerie silence fell.

No human could do this.

After centuries of peace, angels had found their way through the hidden frontier. And it took only twelve of their filthy kind to send his glorious battalion into oblivion.

The twelve drew near, spreading their wings and staring with emotionless eyes. If they hated him as much as he hated them, their hollow stares showed no sign of it.

Dagon coughed up blood before raising his chin and sneering at them. Didn’t mamma tell you not to play with your food? His voice came out ragged with the pain in his chest. Blood gushed from his cuts and every breath made him wince. Broken ribs were no fun. Still, he wouldn’t submit to pain or fear like a puny devil. Instead, he spat at their feet and curled his lips into a disrespectful smirk.

How did you get here? Dagon said. King Lucifer got rid of you scum long before my great-grandfather was born. Angels had always been a part of Hell’s history and the elders’ tales. But that’s all they were for Dagon; ghosts of a forgone past who had marred Hell’s landscapes with greed and bloodthirst. To see the carnage they were capable of with his own eyes, took his breath away.

The angel leading the others smirked. Dead things don’t get to ask questions. All traces of emotion gone, the angel rose a shining sword and cut through the filthy air.

There was still life in Dagon’s body. He was of noble blood, a lord among demons. He wouldn’t fall to the likes of them without spilling their blood first.

Drawing strength, he parried the blow, pushing back to destabilize the angel while scattering the others. He roared and thrust forward with precise, potent attacks.

Dagon didn’t stop the assault for a moment, and the angel—too preoccupied with blocking the hits and with no space to counteract—lost ground.

Numbness took over Dagon’s fingers—the strength behind his arm fueled by anger. He had been deceived. There was no way in Hell these angels had crossed a passage and reached so far undetected. Someone had betrayed him, and the least he could do to avenge his fallen soldiers was to take one of those wretched, self-righteous bastards down.

With a mighty kick to his stomach, Dagon sent the angel sprawling on the ground. The golden warrior gasped for air as his mask of composure shattered, betraying his unease. Blond locks stuck to his forehead, drenched in sweat as his breath quickened. If the angel expected an easy kill, he had something else coming.

Weighed down by exhaustion and the grinding pain, Dagon staggered, loosening the grip on his sword. Frazzled, he stared down at the angel and bared his teeth in a maniacal grin. You don’t kill my people and expect to leave with perfect hair. His jaw tensed and his taut muscles shifted under the battered armor when Dagon readied to land the final blow.

However, the others were not about to sit and wait for him to kill one of their own. Dagon sensed the angels closing in on him, eleven against one. Damn cowards. He wouldn’t fall before claiming his revenge.

Gathering his energy, Dagon shaped a blazing whip from an ember burning close by and lashed it at the angels, hitting their faces and bodies. With no time to relish in their screams, Dagon charged forward and pierced the fallen angel’s chest.

His opponent froze; bright blue eyes wide in disbelief as a desperate gasp left his lips. Dagon pushed the blade deeper and twisted it with a firm twirl of his wrists. The sickening sound of tearing flesh fueled the anger coursing through his veins.

The angel’s broken body fell to the ground, and Dagon shook his head to get rid of the drowsiness that swamped his reflexes. His clouded eyes searched for the horizon, away from the corpses on the field, and from Carrion’s void stare. All Dagon glimpsed was the chipped bark of the dying trees and the wisps of smoke concealing the vastness of Erehwon. His head leaned loosely to the side, and Dagon closed his eyes, exhausted.

The others charged once more.

A life of fighting, killing, and the never-ending search for glory was about to go out, and yet, Dagon felt nothing but relief. In his last moments, he thought of his father; on how disappointed he would be with his failure. At least I won’t have to hear it from your mouth, father. His thoughts quieted when the wind shifted behind him, and the blades’ metallic chant rang through the silence. Dagon took a deep breath and lifted his arms to his sides, dropping his sword.

A spectral hand grasped inside his chest and Dagon hollered, stunned by the searing pain. Startled by his reaction and the sudden heaviness in the air, the angels hesitated.

The oldest soldiers in his family’s garrison told stories of this power. Desperate, Dagon tugged at his armor to ease the pressure, to no avail. This was the first time he experienced it himself, yet his excitement faded when he gasped for breath. Father! he yelled, fearing he might lose consciousness.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dagon caught movement. The angels drew near, but before they reached him, a forceful pull lifted him off the ground and yanked him across the air. The wind blasted in his ears, and his stomach churned as he left the battlefield behind. Startled as he was, Dagon knew precisely where he was heading.

After long, agonizing minutes, his body slammed against the sharp cobblestones. Shaking his head from the daze, the familiar sight of his home appeared before him. The courtyard of his family fortress, the Glowing Deeps; gray and unwelcoming in the twilight. He also noticed he wasn’t alone. Threatening spears surrounded him, his father’s guard pinning him down on the ground. Among them, the tall, menacing figure of the man who raised him stared down in anger. Dagon had grown used to this look since it seemed to be ingrained in his father’s face ever since he was born.

For an endless moment, no emotion crossed Gunther’s face. Only the dark bags under his sunken eyes, and the rhythmic movement of his chest—taking in long, agonizing breaths—showed Dagon how much energy his father spent summoning him.

Dagon, Gunther mumbled.

Father... Dagon struggled to stand, only to be seized by two guards. I... I didn’t expect you to rescue me. How—?

Shut your mouth! I summoned you here because of your crimes.

Dagon frowned, staring at his father. What crimes... are you talking about?

Gunther took two unsure steps toward him, but his glare didn’t falter. He had never used his summoning ability to save Dagon from harm before. It was powerful magic, draining and dangerous, so something else must have forced him to spend so much energy.

I’m not in the mood for your games, runt. You have put the honorable name of this family to shame for the last time. You are a disgrace! To abandon your soldiers, leaving them to die by the hand of filthy humans, is the ultimate shame.

It made no sense, but there was no doubt his father believed in what he said. The veins in his temples bulged and his bright red eyes—so much like his own—flamed with rage.

Father... I didn’t—

Gunther silenced him with a hard jab. Dagon spat blood on the stones; hurt, but mostly rattled. This was so like his father, never one to listen. I did not abandon my people! The crimes he was being accused of were a lie, but when he tried to get closer, the guards held him. With no energy left to shake them off, Dagon could do nothing more than shout at Gunther. We received insufficient information. We were supposed to fight human exorcists, not angels.

His father scoffed. Lie all you want, boy. I already heard the truth from your commander.

What...? How could that be possible? The battle wasn’t even over when his father summoned him. Commander Ghalore couldn’t have reached the battlefield and assessed it before meeting with him.

The demon in question chose that precise moment to make his appearance. From the shadows, he emerged—short, hesitant steps and a doleful expression.

Unlike Dagon, Commander Caius Ghalore had the demeanor of a well-bred demon lord. His lanky frame rose high above his guards and yet failed to be imposing. Long, elegant drapes covered every inch of his pale skin, and a thick coat of white powder hid the wrinkles on his face, along with other unnatural tricks to mask his true age.

Despite his youthful appearance, Ghalore was no fledgling demon.

When Dagon’s father had barely reached adulthood, Ghalore’s ascension through the intricate net of King Lucifer’s court began. He amassed titles and lands, making him one of the most influential demons in Hell and bearer of the grandiose title of Commander Supreme of His Majesty’s armies. A power he wielded with misleading frailness and unbridled cruelty.

A dejected grimace twisted Ghalore’s face as his silver eyes found Dagon. My dearest boy. Your cowardice breaks my heart.

Dagon never fully trusted Ghalore, but he was his superior. Raised a soldier, he followed orders without question, whether he liked them or not. Whether they made sense or not. Holding his breath, Dagon watched as his commander joined his father, the fine silk of his clothes shining under the fading daylight and the burning torches. Dagon studied him, trying to understand the reasons behind his deceit. This was not a mistake, Ghalore was deliberately lying.

He clicked his tongue. What a shame. It’s never a pleasurable day when you must execute a traitor. Ghalore’s honeyed voice made his skin crawl. And you showed so much promise, Gunthersson. I simply cannot understand your motives. How unfortunate for your family, to have their line end in such a disgraceful manner.

His meaning dripped venom through the doleful words, and the occasional glint of amusement slipped behind his carefully practiced mask. In a blink, the pity disappeared, as if it was never there. I will take him now, Gunther. There’s no need for you to suffer his presence any further. We will execute him and toss his body into the Eternal Fire.

Why did you lie to me, Ghalore? Why did my soldiers have to die? Was it you who betrayed us to the angels? Dagon yelled, struggling with the guard’s grip.

Ghalore frowned and tilted his head. Angels, Dagon? I can’t believe your father raised you so ignorant. He crossed his hands over his chest, a condescending smile grazing his lips. There have been no angel invasions for hundreds of years, dear child. Please spare your father the shame and stop lying.

Dagon thrashed against his captors and his ribs protested at the effort. If you wanted me dead, traitor, you should have taken only my life! My battalion deserved better!

A dangerous look crossed Ghalore’s face before he shrugged off the accusation. Ghalore had fed Gunther with lies and held control over Dagon's fate. Already a failure in his father’s eyes, Dagon expected no help from him, so Ghalore had but to tighten the noose. Don’t test my patience, boy. Your execution will be swift only in deference to your father, but if I hear one more word from you—

No... Gunther had remained silent since Ghalore’s arrival, but he now spoke in a low, pained voice. You will not kill him.

A speck of hope found its way into Dagon, watching the impassible face of the man he had failed to make proud his entire life. His father turned to his guard, taking a blade from him, before facing his only son. His face looked carved into stone. I will deliver this punishment. It’s my responsibility.

Paralyzed with fear, Dagon’s eyes jumped from the soldiers parting before him to the sinister smile on Ghalore’s face, only to end on the blade glistening under the sun. The guards pushed him to his knees.

There was no reason to fight anymore. Gunther had broken Dagon’s hardened heart since he was a child, and one more disfavor from his father wouldn’t kill him. Dagon almost chuckled. I guess it will.

No way to cheat death twice in one day. He closed his eyes, yearning for the final rest. He had nothing. No love or righteous pursuit filled his heart, and Dagon thought perhaps it was better this way.

A reverent silence fell on the courtyard when Gunther raised his sword to cut off his head. Dagon bowed, the will to fight gone. And as the sword fell, he felt it.

For the second time that day.

The crushing pull of a foreign force tugged at his chest and took him away with astounding speed. Within two blinks Dagon saw his father fall on his back, and startled soldiers scrambling out of the way before he lost all sense of space and time.

He traveled far—a lot farther than he had ever been before—and the world blurred around him. His body shook and twirled by the force of the wind that hit him like a wall. Dagon broke through dirt and rocks, and the sharp edges lacerated his skin. When the stinging pain of broken ribs made him scream, his mouth filled with dirt, suffocating him.

After what felt like an eternity, he fell once more against a sturdy floor. Only this time, a dusty rug covered it.

Dagon gasped, battling for breath against the sapping pressure pinning him down. He lay immobile to avoid further damage. As far as he could tell, he was alone, and there was nothing familiar about the dark and grimy corridor. Dagon coughed, flinching at the pulsing wounds. It would take weeks to recover, but he first needed to make sure he was somewhere safe.

A frightened voice interrupted his schemes. I-I’m so... so sorry, my lord!

Dagon looked around, failing to see anyone. Show yourself, he said, his voice rough. He was not in the mood for more menaces.

From the shadows of the corridor, a small, bony creature emerged. A gargoyle. Deep wrinkles covered every inch of his dark gray skin, and the tip of his left ear was missing. Dressed in rags and barefoot, he took a few hesitant steps into the room, staring at him in utter terror. I d-do... do not mean any... disrespect, my lord. He shivered under Dagon’s severe stare. I brought you here because I sensed you needed help. I didn’t know who you were.

Dagon sat, grunting and aching everywhere. Seeing his discomfort, the gargoyle reached out to steady him, but as soon as Dagon sent him a warning glance, he recoiled.

I'm sorry! I-I can help you, even if I'm not worthy of being close to you. You need to heal, and I can... help you, my lord.

Little by little, Dagon's senses came back to him. They were in an old, abandoned house, and the presence of hundreds of demons hiding in the dark nagged at his acute senses. He turned to the one closest to him. You brought me here? How?

The creature bowed and smiled. It's my power, sir. The only magic I'm good at. I sense when demons are about to be unjustly executed, and I extract them. Proud of his ability, his voice raised into a cheerful squeal.

Remarkably, a sickly-looking gargoyle bore the same power his father did, although this fellow looked about to collapse from exhaustion. His words made Dagon squint. Extract them?

Yes! I bring them here, to our sanctuary. We’re safe here. Hidden and protected. Humans don’t come close anymore.

A sanctuary? How fortunate. Dagon couldn’t believe his luck. So at least this creature believes I’m worth saving. He thought, while the rest of the gargoyle’s words filtered in his mind. Wait... what do you mean... humans don’t come?

The little demon shrank, avoiding his gaze. Well... you see, in Hell... they could easily find us... so...

Dagon’s patience wavered. So?

He flinched. Ah! Well... I bring you here. Where we are safe and far away.

Dagon almost dreaded his next words.

The... human world.

Chapter 2

Shameful daughter

Josephine grimaced at the dampness on her hands when she knocked on the ornate mahogany doors. Who the hell has mahogany doors? She glared at the beautiful wood. Every time she crossed that threshold, she hated them more.

Come on in. The familiar voice sent a chill down her spine. Her dad’s voice shouldn’t make her skin crawl, but that was the feeling he stirred in Josephine. She fixed her suit, opened the door, and stepped into the wolf’s den.

Edward Gardiner stood in front of his desk, one hand resting on the lavish furniture while the other held a case file. It didn’t surprise her to find the deep frown on his face; an expression usually reserved for her.

What caught Josephine off guard was the elegant woman, poised and ready to strike, sitting in the armchair next to her father. Despite her age, she was a stunning beauty, but her lovely features stretched on a deprecatory scowl.

Josephine had the confidence to face him, but the combined team of disappointed parents remained, to this day, undefeated. Her legs turned wobbly as she crossed the room to stand before him and realized she wouldn’t win today.

Care to explain this? Her father’s tone let his anger slip while holding the folder right under her nose.

Dad—

‘Mr. Gardiner’, if you don’t mind, he said. More of her father’s rubbish. While at work, she should address him as ‘Mr. Gardiner.’ He wasn’t her father. He was her boss.

The words slipped through her tight lips. Mr. Gardiner, if I’m not mistaken, that’s the Morgan VS. Legacy case file, which I closed yesterday.

Closed. He spat out the word. Care to elaborate?

Josephine reminded herself she was speaking with her boss and bit her lip to stop her from talking back. She was twenty-seven now, no longer a nervous teenager eager to make her parents proud. It took many painful years and most of her self-esteem, but she had learned she would never live up to their expectations. No previous confrontation ended well for her.

Mrs. Morgan sued her former employer, Legacy Inc. when they illegally fired her because of her medical condition. She suffered from anxiety, depression, and panic attacks caused by stress, triggered by the long working hours and sexual harassment from her supervisor, who she reported to Human Resources but—

That’s enough. I’m not asking you about the woman’s tale of woe. Tell me about the resolution.

Josephine’s throat tightened. She had won her third lawsuit while working under Gardiner, Beck, and Warner, but Daddy hadn’t called to congratulate her. We presented the evidence and many witnesses. It was a straightforward case. Legacy is to pay Mrs. Morgan five hundred thousand dollars and issue a public apology since the case reached social media.

Wonderful. Mr. Gardiner sneered, unimpressed by his daughter’s success. And would you care to explain why you did exactly the opposite of what I instructed? I told you to convince your client to accept the settlement. To spare Legacy from public shaming.

Of course. As soon as Mrs. Morgan used her last savings to hire legal counsel, Legacy went to Josephine’s father, asking for intervention. Not for free. Mr. Gardiner must have requested an obscenely large amount, but the bastards were more than capable of paying, while Mrs. Morgan was about to lose her house.

Josephine never wanted to be a lawyer. She hated offices and most—if not all—lawyers she knew were pompous assholes. But she was a descendant of a long line of successful jurists, founders of one of the largest law firms in the country, as her father constantly reminded her.

Studying any other career was out of the question. Groomed to follow in their footsteps from kindergarten, Josephine had no other choice but to become a dedicated student who passed her tests with outstanding scores. Anything other than perfection was unacceptable.

If not for her parents’ absurd demands, Josephine would have enjoyed her work. Law could be exciting and challenging, and she had a talent for it. However, her romantic heart had always been set on music. A demeaning occupation, in her parents’ eyes.

One of the few pleasures they allowed her was to learn to play the piano. To reinforce constancy and discipline, they said. For Josephine, it opened a window to a world of beauty and peace; the only moment in her day in which she wasn't under the pressure to succeed. As soon as she escaped the office, she would go home to play for a few peaceful hours.

You were supposed to follow orders! Mr. Gardiner’s shouting pulled her back to the present. You blatantly ignored all we had agreed and brought shame to our firm! How can you be so incompetent?

Her anger flared at the unfairness of his words. Josephine had done an impeccable job to help her client. Her father was being a tyrant.

You’re so irresponsible, Josie. Mrs. Gardiner joined the reprimanding party. Why would you embarrass us like this?

I did my job. Josephine tried to sound defiant, but her voice quivered. After all these years, she should have known better than to fight back.

Her father took two steps and loomed over her. You don’t get to decide what your job is. You do as I say, and what I say is what’s best for the firm! He slammed the folder on her face, making her falter.

Josephine was speechless. He must have lost a considerable sum if he had turned to violence.

I’m suspending you for a month. Get out of here before I decide to add a cut in your salary. Mr. Gardiner dismissed her with a wave, turning back to his desk.

This is for the best, dear, her mother said, removing an imaginary fluff from her impeccable dress. Now you will find the time to meet with Charles. He’s so eager to go out with you.

Leave it to Mrs. Gardiner to make a bad situation far worse. For the past ten years, Josephine had been presented with suitor after suitor from renowned families. They had thrown Josephine into the world of husband-hunting before adulthood, and she hated every second.

It was irrelevant to her mother if all the men she met were arrogant, shallow-minded, cruel, or plain stupid. It was always Josephine’s fault for not accepting any of them.

You can cancel it, Josephine said, her tone curt.

Josie, that’s enough. You’re a mature woman and can’t expect to attract men when age gets the best of you. You were never a beauty, to begin with.

Mr. Gardiner scoffed from his desk. I bet she’s still daydreaming about that punk... what was his name? Robin?

Josephine couldn’t help the tears that filled her eyes.

She had been in love once, a year ago, with the only human being she found working for her parents’ firm. He was a young lawyer—a goody-two-shoes surrounded by sharks. She immediately liked him. They started dating in secret, and when they made plans to move in together, Mr. Gardiner called him to his office. He sent him away and crushed any chance of finding reasonable work in the city.

Josephine never saw him again, and the heartbreak and loneliness even stopped her from playing the piano for a while.

His name was Robert. Her body trembled, and for the first time, she allowed all the pain and resentment to reach her eyes. The intensity of her glare made her heartless father swallow his words.

She’d had enough. This load of daily crap would not be her life. She looked at her parents, the only family she had. The ones supposed to make her feel safe and support her, but had destroyed everything she ever wanted for herself.

Mom, tell Charles he can go fuck someone else at his club tonight, as he usually does. I won’t meet him for dinner.

Her mother gasped, but Josephine wasn’t over. Dad, take your suspension and find a way to shove it up your ass.

She kept her eyes fixed on him while his face darkened. Josephine always lost her nerve when her father’s anger threatened to reach the surface, but she held the bitter man’s gaze. I quit.

It took two glasses of chardonnay and a beer for her breathing to slow to a healthy pace. There was no way to stop her hands from shaking.

After leaving her father’s office, Josephine jumped through the doors of the first hairstylist she came across and begged to be released of her long brunette locks. Her mother always insisted long hair was a trait every woman should be proud of, and she couldn’t wait to be free of it.

After staring at her reflection for a minute, Josephine gasped, appalled at the enormity of her crime.

What had she done?

Not only had she scorned her mother, but insulted her father as well. The memory of quitting her job out loud made bile climb up her throat.

Now, sitting in a pub and a little tipsy, she stared at her reflection in the spotted mirror behind the bar, swinging her chin-length hair and falling down a spiral of despair.

They’re going to kill me, Josephine whispered. She let out a breath, weighing her options. She could always come back and beg for forgiveness, hoping Daddy would be gracious enough to ignore her impulsive resignation. They would never forget this transgression, though, and it would be used against her every time they pushed her toward something she didn’t want.

Are you okay, love? A tattooed woman stood in front of her, leaning forward with a concerned look. Too many of those for you?

Josephine gaped at the barkeep, who pointed at her glass and studied her with a raised eyebrow. N-No. I just... I’ve never had short hair before. I’m still getting used to it. Josephine smiled, gaining a friendly chuckle. I’m a grown-ass woman, and I’m still nervous when talking to strangers.

Before walking away, the barkeep winked. You look great, love. Call me if you need a refill.

Once again alone with her thoughts, Josephine’s apprehension resumed. There was another option, and this one scared her even more.

No home, no family, no friends.

She could leave them. For good. It would be a daunting change, considering her modest savings, her soulless career, and no experience running a house. The idea of looking for a job at another law firm made her blood run cold. Her career was too intertwined with her parents’ legacy, and Josephine doubted they would simply let her be.

Where to begin? The possibilities were there, and all she needed was the courage to take the first step. Courage Josephine knew was faint.

With a bitter laugh, she gulped down the rest of her beer. I should have planned this better. She flagged the barkeep, determined to drown the pulsing headache with alcohol when her phone rang. The unknown caller’s ID gave her pause.

Her mother had been calling all day and only a handful of acquaintances had her number, so this was unexpected. This whole day is unexpected. Josephine thought for a second to ignore it, but she shrugged and took the call. Hello?

Good evening! Am I speaking with Miss Josephine Gardiner? It was a man. Someone she didn’t recognize.

Yes, may I ask who’s calling?

Miss Gardiner, my name is Albert Collins and I’m the mayor of the town of Alexander. I trust you’ve heard about us?

He sounded gentle, and she imagined a smile on his face while he spoke, which was why she felt kind of bad to admit she didn’t know a thing about the place. I believe I did, but I’m afraid I’ve never visited.

Oh, it’s quite all right. Alexander is a small, lovely town. Our piece of heaven, he said. I... I was calling because there’s a real estate issue I’d like to discuss with you.

Real estate? Her parents owned no property in a small town. What could this be about?

You see, the town holds the ownership of a Victorian manor in one of our historic neighborhoods. It’s a beautiful house with a gorgeous garden, right at the edge of the forest. A monument to our history and a piece of architecture we hope to preserve.

He sounded eager to tell his story, so Josephine remained silent.

As of late, our neighborhood has been threatened by an insistent man—no need to name him. He owns a real estate company, and they hope to demolish this beautiful part of town to build one of those nasty suburbs.

So once again, the story of the little fighting the powerful. They probably wanted to ask for legal help, but she doubted her father would be interested in taking the case. Do you need my services as a lawyer, Mr. Collins?

Oh, no. No, miss. I’m calling you for something a lot more exciting.

That got her attention.

Every neighbor is opposed to this crime, and we are a unified front against this company, but... there is the issue of the house.

The house?

It has been empty for decades. It’s in decent shape but some tiles need repairing, and perhaps a few nails and painting here and there. Some other issues need to be addressed, but we hope to maintain this property out of ‘dangerous’ labeling. The town hall doesn’t have the funds to make these repairs, so we have decided to turn to the descendants of the original owner, the heirs of this property, and offer them the chance of moving into our lovely town.

By the end of his enthusiastic speech, Josephine was at a loss. So... you need my help to track the owners? she ventured.

We have been busy, you know. The man chuckled. We did some research. The only heirs to this property are your mother, Mrs. Gardiner, or, if the conditions are not met, you, Miss Gardiner.

Only when Josephine heard him calling her name a couple of times did she realize she had frozen, staring at her empty glass.

Are you still with me, Miss Gardiner?

Yes! I’m sorry, you said conditions?

That’s correct. The town will transfer ownership to the descendant only if they sign a contract that binds them not to sell the house for two decades. And to make the necessary improvements to make it safe to be inhabited.

Two decades is a long time.

I understand, and your mother stated she wasn’t interested in this crusade, which is why I turned to you. I would like to offer you the chance to live in a beautiful Victorian house, surrounded by luscious forests, in a lovely neighborhood, in the most welcoming town you will ever find.

This was madness! Why would she ever move to such a place? It was most likely falling to pieces, and Collins’ enthusiasm was—for saying the least—suspicious. Who gives away free houses?

Admittedly, ‘free’ wasn’t the most accurate description. She would have to pay for repairs. To rebuild an entire house and garden to its former glory was a project that might take her years to complete. But it offered a chance at a new, completely exotic life, and Josephine’s heart swelled with the possibility of adventure.

Mr. Collins? she said.

Yes, Miss Gardiner?

Could you please send me the details and the address?

Chapter 3

Troubled neighbors

Albert Collins—mayor of the town of Alexander—ended the call after writing down Josephine Gardiner’s email address. He put away the small piece of paper, letting out a shaky breath and forcing himself to relax into the armchair. Not even the deep feeling of relief softened his muscles after months of endless anxiety.

He raised his eyes to the motionless group gathered around him, waiting for the news.

Albert smiled. She’s interested.

The whole room burst into cheers and thunderous applause. The girls jumped to their feet and bounced, flaunting colorful scarves, and annoying Roman with their ‘hippism,’ as he called it.

Roman’s wife, Maxine, made sure he too enjoyed their victory, taking his hands and smiling at him. Roman! She’s coming, we might get to save the neighborhood.

You’re all too optimistic! One look at that dump, and she’ll be running for the hills, I’m telling you. Roman acted as bitter as usual, but even he had a little, almost indiscernible smile on his face.

Oh, Roman... Let us have at least a moment of peace. Juno stood and joined the improvised victory dance. After living the most stressful months of his life, Albert strove to embrace every glimmer of hope. Miss Gardiner might leave as soon as she laid eyes on the mess they were merrily handing her over, or she would stay for a few days before realizing what a terrible mistake this was.

They could only hope, it would be the latter.

Did she say when she will arrive? Juno Brooks was his life-long neighbor and dear friend. Unlike him—born and raised in Alexander—Juno and her late husband had moved fifty years ago, buying the elegant manor across the street.

Theirs was an unusual part of town. Alexander was founded in the early eighteen hundreds. While most neighborhoods had been rebuilt and modernized, the manors' area remained mostly untouched, surrounded by lavish gardens and hidden from sight.

They planted large trees back in the day, which now stood like sentinels of this beautiful neighborhood. Everyone in Alexander loved their little piece of history, but the owners of the manors were committed to preserving their legacy.

Six houses survived the passage of time and the