Fields of Evergreen

By John D Williams

In "Fields of Evergreen," Isabella Torn is a struggling artist plagued by the relentless voices of an unknown force and haunted by the death of her sister, Penny.

 

Struggling to make sense of her own mind, Isabella is suddenly transported to another world where she finds herself in the midst of a fierce battle between two opposing forces: the Unforgotten and the Serene. Isabella discovers that she is a Creator, a rare individual with the power to create portals between worlds. The Unforgotten want to use her power for their own sinister purposes, while the Serene seek to protect her and embrace her potential. Desperate to return to her own world, Isabella must navigate the strange and magical realm of the Unforgotten and the Serene in Evergreen, as she grapples with her own identity and learns the truth about her sister's death.

 

"Fields of Evergreen" is a breath-taking journey through a world of haunting mystery and dark magic, where the line between reality and imagination is blurred and the fate of humanity hangs in the balance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John D Williams
• Release date: Oct 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223410140

John D Williams

John D Williams a writer of sci-fi and paranormal mysteries - also likes golf

Book preview

Fields of Evergreen

John D Williams

Copyright © 2023 John D Williams

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this eBook may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Cover design by: Creative Life Writing

Editor: Davina McColl

To Sam from the other green place

Prologue

The forgotten dead shouldn't speak to you when you dream. For me they always do. They told me what had happened, why they died forgotten alone in the world of the dead.

When Penny went, she didn't have time. She left this world without saying a word of comfort or solace, and nobody knew why. Not even me, and we remained close in our short time together. My big sister’s gone forever. I've spent my whole life trying to understand why. And now the voices haunt me in my head and the visions I see, offer no explanation. They taunt me. My name’s Isabella Torn and I'm 17 years old, and I live for myself.

My world and focus, Art. The only way I cope to avoid their calling is through my art. They like it. Art's my shield, my weapon my protector against the darkness within me.

Life never felt the same way, before my fascination with creation. I attempted to express myself with my art. My internal world became the catalyst. An external expression I used as my self-therapy. The doctors didn't understand this so-called art. How could they understand the hauntings of the forgotten dead voices?

First, I drew the darkness, the hellish darkness. The doctors said the themes emerged as a result of my troubles. The depictions are part of a tortured outlook on life. Isolation is represented by my choice of colors and themes. For me, these components the colors, and compositions made sense, fitting into what I felt. To picture me as a typical suffering artist well it didn't work, art offered me quietness and a solace of mind. The medical attention to the darkness my artwork created, well extra attention's OK, and I kind of liked it.

One day the doctors said I needed serious treatment. As if playing around in my head could mean anything else, a comical treatment, a day at the circus. I knew what they intended as I had overheard them speaking with my mother. My father had left years before, he couldn't cope and I kind of understood. The doctors offered me endless medications and therapy sessions.

None of it helped. I repeated what they wanted to hear, as I learned to cope with my visitors, to play by their rules. Pretending my only defense, and only a matter of perseverance would I gain acceptance. My life changed and the dead would reign in hell and I would too.

Chapter One

P enny killer! I heard as I walked along a college corridor. Charlotte and her two idiot followers, Beth and Stacey. Bully team united. They stood by the doorway leading into the Emerald College Library. They leaned against the window shelf, Charlotte blowing huge bubbles from bubblegum. I could hear the sound of her chomping from here. Their muddy feet smeared the white-painted walls. They pointed at the other students and laughed, imitating anyone with an unusual gait. Monkey mimicry I thought. I carried on walking towards the trio, I needed the library. The library and my bedroom my only sanctuaries.

There she is Penny Killer, Charlotte shouted at me. Her friends snickering hands covered their mouths as they whispered to each other. I had gotten used to the insults from these bullies and others like them over the years. It didn't make a difference to me although it hurt. Beth and Stacey began play-fighting, punching each other in the arms. I tried to ignore their insults. It never worked, I had to hope. I had to believe one day the bullying would stop. Their treatment of me is a constant reminder of my part in this great thing called life. Other students bustled past me eager for class as I stood still. I watched in disgust as Charlotte spat against the corridor wall. Her friends barked laughter. Typical.

What you up to? Charlotte said to me more of an interrogation than a question of curiosity as if they cared. She chomped away at the bubblegum. The way she dragged out the you so full of bitter contempt for me.

I tried to get past them as they moved to block my way. What did Dr. Joseph say about those looking to hurt, They want to feed from your fear? I can't remember in honesty. The potent medication distorted my memory, fazing my recollection, or I didn't care. I knew a fight would come; Charlotte knew nothing else.

Move it, killer kid, Charlotte sneered.

Move it yourself you hideous philandering philistine, I said I couldn't help it. Charlotte looked shocked as the meaning of the words made no sense to her.

Big mouth for a killer, hey? She said, I could sense the anger rising in her.

Big ass for a drop-out I responded, I knew it would enrage her and so the fight started.

Charlotte grabbed my bag and Beth threw me against the wall. Stacey and Beth hollowed howls of approval and banshee grunts of encouragement. Trying to lash at me with their feet, kicking at any part of my exposed body. I tried to fight back. I couldn't take the injustice, three-on-one though, I had no chance.

Mr. MacGregor stepped out of his biology classroom and shouted at us. They gave a final push and strolled off with an air of confidence. They had won a shallow stupid conflict, they felt bigger. The bullies had taken a little more juice for their ego-fueled self-images. I hated their savagery, their power. The physical pain and suffering I would endure. But the hauntings, the strength of the voice? My head hurt me in other ways I never understood. I sensed the sting of their kicks and punches grow as the bruising swelled. The library door free at last welcomed me. My vision blurred as I sensed the hot heat of my left eye swelling. They had caught me in the eye with a stray punch.

I entered. The vast library, a place of solace for me, protected by the guardians of silence. A safe haven from the noise of the college. Here I could recover as the adrenaline drained away, and the pain of the fight took its place. I noticed blood on my knuckles, its shiny surface glistened from the overhead LED lights.

My artwork gave me time where I could study. I enjoyed traditional classic works of art through analysis and critiques. What amazed me the most the reproductions of the art. A mini-gallery of such wondrous works my heart stopped. Whenever I discovered new patterns I liked I smiled inside. I had art collection books at home and presents from my father, my mother couldn't care less. Nothing could compare with the vast art selections in the College Library. I grabbed a few books and sat in a soft chair designed for my quietness. A borrowed place of security, a womb in the world of pain surrounding me.

I stared out of the window at the rain dribbling down the double-glazed windows. The cold tarmac college grounds with the car park in the distance looked desolate in the dreary light. Empty. Deserted. The rain scattered puddles.

Poor Isabella, look at you, a voice spoke to me. I scanned the library, no one spoke, took a beating did you, how frail and fragile like a spring flower in the fiercest storm. And the laughter rattled, mocking spiteful laughter.

Get away from me, I whispered through clenched teeth.

Mockery, the true vocal instrument the voices of the dead used with total effectiveness. Like the bullies in college, they fed from my fear, and how they dined so well. I couldn’t fight back this time.

I grabbed one of the books, a book on Picasso, and rushed to open a page. To absorb and soak in the colors and vividness of his art.

Oh, sulking snowdrop, come to us Isabella, we welcome you the unseen voice continued.

I ignored it, running my fingers over a work of art titled Guernica. I imagined the horse full of fear, yet strong enough to rebel. And so did I. The lamp in the artwork illuminated its scream, and so I sought light in my mind and banished the voice.

Now I needed this lamp, to shine on Charlotte and her cohorts. I felt the anger leaving me, the voice though the one that spoke, I hadn't heard it before.

I never killed Penny, she committed suicide. We lived together in the house at the time, I didn't know, I couldn't help her at all, I had no chance. She hid her feelings from me. And I blamed her for my pain.

I fell into the creative process of my drawings as they became stronger, scenes expressed how I felt. When my mother saw these images, she had no choice to call the doctors. My mother sought specialists who would walk around my head pointing out such obvious defects. My mind felt it belonged in a zoo of undiscovered oddities. At first, I agreed, hey I got free ice cream what could be so bad? Well, more for sure. I spent time in a hospital for damaged kids at thirteen years of age. The shock hit me hard, a true loony bin of problems. My issues paled in significance to the screams I heard there. Luck took my side I guess, I only had to stay a few nights under observation. Doctors wrote in their clipboards while the nurses in white-suited overalls nodded in agreement. I imagined