Nudged by Fear: Magians' Manuscriptum

By A.A. BAUMGART

When trespassing on what is considered to be a haunted property, four teenage friends stumble upon the skeletal remains of someone truly forgotten--a someone with unfinished business. The woeful spirit and not one but two fallen angels have taken a fancy to the adventurous teens, particularly sixteen-year-old Andie--a fancy favoring unholy reasons. Andie, influenced by the respected power of three and though cautioned by her close friends, unearths an ancient book written in a language as old as its thick pages. Words not understood. Words to change fate. Despite her honorable intentions, good and evil are soon intertwined while she becomes her own worst enemy. Yet in the midst of the strange visions and eerie verses to play over and over in her mind, the forgotten spirit remains near Andie's side (meaning no harm but to protect what is rightfully his, in the wisdom to know even the most virtuous of souls are sometimes lost to evil). Set in his determined ways, the spirit pursues what he believes is a worthy cause, regardless the many dark secrets finally laid to rest, beneficial in the well-being of his own lifeless self if all follows plan.

The controversial question still remains: Can good survive without the existence of things deemed evil? So it goes: to the one who is good, you must pray your soul to keep, and from the ever so cold, heartless demon, it is with one eye open that you should sleep.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9781662401114

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Nudged by Fear

Magians' Manuscriptum

A.A. BAUMGART

Copyright © 2023 A.A. BAUMGART

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2023

ISBN 978-1-6624-0110-7 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-8896-0329-0 (hc)

ISBN 978-1-6624-0111-4 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Truly Paradise?

Chapter 2

Typical Morning

Chapter 3

First Day—Worst Day

Chapter 4

Oh, Brother

Chapter 5

For the Pain

Chapter 6

The Precious Gift?

Chapter 7

An Invite to the Palace Function

Chapter 8

Prophecy

Chapter 9

What's in a Name?

Chapter 10

What's It Worth?

Chapter 11

The Bootleggers' Tunnel

Chapter 12

Sunday's Sermon

Chapter 13

The Facts?

Chapter 14

Chloe, Millie, and Mary

Chapter 15

Paranormal Message

Chapter 16

F

Chapter 17

Consequences

Chapter 18

Did I Really Do That?

Chapter 19

Game On

Chapter 20

Old Acquaintances

Chapter 21

I Can Explain, Kind Of

Chapter 22

Anna and Farren

Chapter 23

Dragon Magick

Chapter 24

Oh, to Be Late

Chapter 25

Cloud Busting

Chapter 26

Magians' Manuscriptum

Book II Intro

To Fess Up

Chapter 1

Truly Paradise?

Small towns oozing with love—the one in the Wisconsin backwoods of no exception. Paradise is that town, yet terribly unappreciated. A farming community right smack-dab in the middle of absolutely nowhere. Not a bad place to live contrary to what anyone under the age of eighteen may believe. A quiet, comfortable sort of town. Truthfully, quiet and comfortable could very well be the problem. Staying put is easier than packing whatever meager belongings one owns onto the back of a beat-up truck, and why most families are forever in Paradise, an inherited curse of sorts, passed down from generation to generation.

A rather ordinary community, dependent on larger neighboring cities for the frivolous items not offered within Paradise. The essentials to provide practical living, in a sense, are almost readily accessible, and therefore, life is made tolerable in favor of those to fly the coop. Until then, the anywhere-else place is but a dream.

Having a rather sparse population, Paradise holds no promise in big businesses or a bustling shopping mall venture (the awful hangout venue to invite trouble). However, the local mom-and-pop burger joint (duly named Burger Joint, not to be mistaken for the more lavish steak house) is a high schooler's delight. To paraphrase, making money is about location. Burger Joint is in walking distance of Paradise High and of a booming business. A popular young-at-heart hangout. Except, oops, it's not a hangout but a cozy niche to congregate while solving life's problems. A classic example of Hey, let's join up to loiter, skulk, and goof off. Look how well Paradise's babies behave! Trouble? Absolutely not! They are merely self-proclaimed superheroes wishing to make a difference, barring the conventional capes and colorful pantyhose generally worn to foil all manner of juvenile mischief.

Modest folks, modest incomes—families struggle to make ends meet and accustomed to slim prospects. Of course, like most towns, big or small, the important higher-ups set the rules (fortunate to have schmoozed their way to the top, rubbing elbows with the more prominent, in the achievement of know-it-all superiority).

And then there's farming—a tough business. Too wet. Too dry. The land workers rely on Mother Nature only to lose their paltry mattress money as torrential rains lay waste upon planted crops. Of a keen sense for sowing seeds and the quality aspects given to successful germination (as riveting as drying paint chips), the sad deed owners continue to farm, praying for perfect weather, if not this year then the next. They are proud and unwilling to acknowledge the faded barns—leaning a tad too far one way or t'other—standing purely by whims and fancies of gentler yesteryears. Everything owned (or borrowed against) tied up in land and livestock. Tough luck is a well-traveled road. They continue on, doing what must be done with so little—unable to make the proverbial silk purse out of a sow's ear.

The business end of town, customarily so, has always been financially stable and far more appealing than the broken barns of the sorry country Paradise. Main Street, consisting of locally owned offices and shops, is rather nicely kept up in a contemporary fashion. A grocery store, a wellness clinic/pharmacy, a gas station/truck stop diner are all spaciously located on either side of a tidy street so as to support adequate parking (inclusive of curbed islands designed specifically to offset the dapperly groomed shrubs and beautiful varieties of potted plants—Wisconsin weather permitting). The diner, although off the beaten path, returns many a trucker and hungry visitor for more of the hearty cooked servings—a crucial plus to the money end.

Lending a modern-day look are the larger homes on the north end of Main. A fine neighborhood of wannabes who are mortgaged to the hilt and no richer than the poorer countryfolk. Farther west on Broadway, the many vacant lots tell the tale of a town soon to tumble into its own vast emptiness: KAPUT…NO MORE…OFF THE MAP…ending Paradise once and for all.

Triviality and unlikely demise aside, Paradise dutifully accommodates the basics: a fire and rescue station (strictly volunteer), an assisted-living and elderly care facility, one standard funeral parlor, a worship-as-you-please church, and the very tranquil cemetery. All of which can be found in the mentioned order, ironically, completing the stay forever package. Those not willing to leave Paradise (despite death) can absently linger—nursing home to grave—whereby raising the question as to whether anyone really does leave Paradise (obstinate souls refusing to move on). Generally speaking, obstinate is not to be confused with the particular spirit who has a bone to pick (pardon the pun) entailing a rather evil being—a spirit remaining behind of good reason and not caring to linger.

Apart from death and lost souls, here's the sorry truth: Paradise is a whole lot of nothing. If not for the few school-sponsored programs and old-people activities (church bingo and slow dancing), there isn't much to do by way of fun. In the everyday grueling agenda of push and shove, most honest folk are beyond exhausted to care of the life rapidly passing them by. They remain fixed in the belief of Paradise as home sweet home. Farm and city folk alike are caught up in the same old humdrum—one step forward, two steps backward—concerned with all the wrong things.

More odd than important is the language barrier affecting northern areas, Paradise as well. A simple question followed by or not can be awfully confusing. Can you go or not? If so, will you be going or not? Are you leaving soon or not? Is this correct or not? A straightforward yes or no to any form of or not only adds uncertainty to the said reply. For example, should the answer be yes, does this mean yes to going or yes to not going? To be OR NOT. Hail Shakespeare!

Idiosyncrasies aside, the locals are beholden to courteous and considerate—assuming reason. Please and thank you are as much a part of the school curriculum as Go Pack Go. Though football is paramount, not everyone opts to wear a cheesehead (noted to explain away one of the many insufferable bad habits to deem liquored up a necessity).

In this Paradise, courteous and considerate aren't always sufficient, ne'er to discount the fascination of muffled talk—a wholesome conversation starter referencing those not present and to flourish thereafter, because to throw an unsuspecting someone in the fire takes but a gratifying minute. Gossip? Of course not. Only idle pleasantries carelessly creating resentment among the best of friends. Supposing the gabfest consists of ample hearsay to make slight falsehoods worth repeating, is it backbiting? Not if done in a dumbstruck slander. Despite any satisfaction accompanying the unintended fabrications (provided, unintended fabrications actually do occur), it would pale in comparison to the way bigger gaiety of accusing-finger-pointing. Ah yes, many a holy book would gather dust if to resurrect the infamous witch hunts—the sheer merriment of it all, and to place blame is a source of relief. In all due respect, Paradise doesn't have a witch problem. Well, not especially; hence bending the rule comes into play. Or, forget the laws of old and never mind writing the new to paper. Whatever works best. Either way, Paradise does have its rules, some existing only in the minds of their creators, etched deep and not to be taken lightly. A broken promise or a misguided act of kindness or simple words out of context give cause for bad blood to those condemned of a crime NOT committed. All in all, it's safe to say this socially complaisant Paradise is no different than any other God-fearing, law-abiding town.

Praise be and amen! A safe and cozy place where even unspoken secrets aren't hushed (loose lips being no one's blame). To stay on top of what's what, whether right or wrong, one must know who is who—those to avoid and those to trust. A Paradise survival basic.

Gabriel, a favorite postman, is a good fellow to know. Folks call him Gabe. Good ole Gabe—fondly appreciated by all—carrying candy in one pocket and dog biscuits in the other. He can tell you almost anything, as long as it doesn't constitute gossip. Because like his name [Gabriel], he's as close to a saint as is possible. Glorious rays of sunshine, in fact. Should Paradise have white doves, they would be circling the air above him, perhaps even roosting on his middle-aged, broad shoulders.

Another nice-to-know someone is Sheriff Robbins (when on his bad side, he's best avoided). First name Richard, but called Sheriff by most. A Walker, Texas Ranger type of guy and accordingly, with his big sheriff's hat and all. Happily married, father of two boys, and everything strictly business. Folks believe him to possess the perceptive sixth sense, finding trouble before it happens—a fine attribute, making him darn good at what he does: sheriff-ing.

Bearing significance to local norm, Paradise is not a big fan of fixer-uppers. If something should require excessive repair, it's forgotten, like the old hotel on the outskirts of town—a once stately establishment, now neglected and purposely bypassed. Out of sight, out of mind. Twice repaired, only to become a partial structure as the third and final fire took all but the outer limestone walls. Each fire was more devasting than the previous, presumed marked by the devil's hand, flames taking hold under a haunting moon in the hotel's iniquitous history.

So it is: Paradise, Wisconsin, a scenic and blissful haven where there are only two seasons: winter and road repair. Winter does have its benefits: (1) no mosquitoes and (2) snow, unlike hurricanes and earthquakes, can be shoveled aside.

Paradise? Perhaps, and maybe an early spring will melt the town's inner beast, along with the damn snow.

Welcome to Paradise. Simple times, simple pleasures, and very, very predictable.

Andie Sorenson, the dull nothing of sixteen years with sophomore, junior, and senior terms to complete, was biding her time on saying goodbye. Andie loved Grams, but she imagined Paradise as a vintage manure pile, deeper at times, depending on the situation.

Andie's grandparents had invested all they owned in farming. Paradise was a dream come true, an honest living, and a nice place to raise a family. Andie understood the reasoning. She also felt it was best to ignore Grams when she occasionally mentioned moving to a somewhere-warm-and-not-so-cold place—to never happen because this was, nonetheless, a Paradise without change. Ever!

A town to call home—if you didn't care to have a life. Andie fell backward to her bed. Morning would bring the beginning of her sophomore year and, hopefully, brighter days.

Considering what was to come, brighter days would be of a snowball's chance in hell, as the devil may sometimes find delight in the making of manure piles.

The sometimes…when bad things happen to good people,

The sometimes…when you do the wrong thing, believing it is for the right reason,

The sometimes…when although you haven't chosen evil, Hell's evil chooses you.

Chapter 2

Typical Morning

Half asleep, Andie padded down the narrow hallway to the bathroom. In her nervous excitement on the morning of this new school year, though not cartwheels excited, she managed a yawning smile. School would always be school, regardless the day, the month, or the year!

A quick shower had her ready in record time, paving the way for happy thoughts to a prelude of what would surely be an amazing sophomore year, which seemed of little importance to the pretty girl with the short loose brown curls who disapprovingly stared back at Andie from behind the steamy mirror.

Pretty wasn't how Andie saw the distressed reflection as troublesome curls twisted cumbrously around the hairbrush. There you have it, she scoffed with a wave of her hand. Exhibit A: unmanageable cropped hair of no complement to your many other drab features! Thank you very much.

The wet towel dabbed on the mirror resulted in a fresh trail of smeared lint. Andie leaned in closer to apply her usual delicate powder pats on the fading freckles of younger years. Ugh, what's the use? she grumbled, snapping the compact shut.

A final glance over her shoulder had Andie wondering if Grams would meet upon the mess left behind. Yes, of course, like all the other times on notice to the slightest out-of-place speck, but oh well.

Breakfast was waiting on the table: warm oatmeal amidst the early rays of sun boasting mild weather and hence Grams's absence.

Upon gulping down what a nervous appetite might permit, Andie then washed the breakfast dishes. In having done a suitable amount to avoid a scolding, she grabbed her sweatshirt off the back-entrance hook and headed out the door in search of Grams.

As expected, Anna was in the garden, a mound of freshly pulled weeds near her feet. At it a bit early, eh, Grams? Andie said, more as a casual observation than a question.

Collecting what vegetables are left…'fore the first frost hits, Grams replied, leaning into her shovel. We ought to move someplace warm.

Ah, there it was—same old, same old. If only leaving Paradise could be so simple. Saying nothing, Andie plunked her butt to the grass, next to the tuft of orange yarn presently visible. Fully aware of the doll's purpose (Grams's peace of mind), Andie gave the yarn a hard tug, of no special reason other than it should be left alone.

The better safe than sorry yarn dolls had been around as long as Andie could remember. Maybe prior to the awful car wreck depriving her of a mother and grandfather (rarely spoken by Grams). On occasion, when the tragic crash should happen to come up, it is in mention of the nicer place. Ah yes. But how nice is nicer?

Andie's father was in a nicer place too (a totally different story). Unfortunately, he was eaten by a clown, or so Grams said—A gentler explanation giving kindness to the useless guy. And truthfully, since she had never received so much as a brief memo from her dad, Andie rather enjoyed clowns, even those with pointy teeth. So anyway, yes, the yarn dolls were just there—always.

Aside of Grams's unconventional beliefs, Andie had grown accustomed to the small dolls—ideal playmates from an early age on. Furthermore, Grams's poppets were durable and helpful, dissimilar to the store-bought fashion kind. Not flaunting the shapely figures of the sissy sort, they served a better safe than sorry purpose. Andie had yet to find a demon moth in her undies/sock drawer or anywhere else. So yes, tucked away in the darndest places, the poppets do what is expected of them. A miniature army duly appointed to ward off evil, if need be.

To neither prove nor disprove Grams's strange beliefs, a high priestess of witchcraft she isn't. Absolutely not. In fact, she's as ordinary as Paradise itself. Perhaps a bit superstitious in her old age (sixtyish), but harmless just the same. There was a time when Andie wondered if such magick wasn't darker than the delightful bippity-boppity-boo stuff. If Grams did have a dark side, Andie hadn't seen it. Then again, Grams was never the frail, gray-haired old lady sort. Au contraire, she has always been extremely capable of opening a can of whoop-ass—farm tough and stubborn.

Andie reasoned the beliefs as quirks worsening with age. Nevertheless, a part of Grams's birthright and earned along the way. Stranger truths be told, this half-buried yarn doll wasn't any different than the many other charms to surface in places warranting protection against bad luck, jinxes, and whatever else the devil might possibly breed. The dolls offered an inviolable home security system, to oppose any and all cultivation of evil. Despite her own nonbelief in such matters, if it made Grams happy, then Andie was happy, or less miserable depending on the time, place, and circumstances.

One of your dolls is stuck here in the grass, Andie casually announced.

Let it be. Better safe than sorry, Grams cautioned, focused on a slithering invader passing through, her shovel raised to a threatening height. I'll be darned, a BIG pine snake on the move!

(Folks referred to the shy reptiles as pine snakes, in truth, it was a fox snake.) Regardless of species, the not-so-timid snake seemed indifferent to the strikingly distinct reddish spots atop its yellowish belly, as if in suicide mode. The sudden aggression to clobber the harmless snake was atypical behavior, concerning Anna's irrational problem-solving fear. The makings of an interesting ordeal on an otherwise uneventful morning. Meaning to spare the creature from certain death, Andie quickly said, It's probably mouse hunting…for a snack.

You're really not seeing him, Andie. He's at least a seven-footer. Mouse hunting? Rubbish to that nonsense! Grams scoffed in disagreement. He's here to squeeze the life out of something bigger, something more appetizing, like me.

Given the opportunity to a long-overdue payback, Andie smugly replied, What if Mr. Snake is like the cannibal clown who eats bad fathers? Talk about funny-tasting appetizers.

Ha ha. Anna chuckled in sarcasm, which brought a strangely rapturous visual to mind—one hell of a headache gone in a single gulp—too bad it wasn't so. Believing it as one of her better fabrications (concerning Andie's father), since the clown story proved far better than what the sorry truth could ever be. Nevertheless, Andie was living proof of a blessing in the worst of times. Reginald, aka Mudd (a deserving pet name), loved no one but himself. Angrier than ever, Anna, again, raised her shovel high into the air.

Exhibiting an uncharacteristic empathy in the scaly reptile's defense, Andie boldly questioned Grams's motive, Live and let live, is what you say. If to satisfy your fear…killing is wrong. Plus, there's chance the town's boredom will prematurely end him, so why waste your energy? Or maybe the poor thing will do its own self in, just to be done with the everyday dullness. Frustrated, Andie forced the loose tufts of orange in the ground.

Oddly enough, Grams lowered her shovel, allowing the snake to live another day. Did you rinse the dishes and make your bed?

Yeah, Andie fibbed. Then out of guilt, she added, Kind of.

Not too keen on meeting up with the snake a second time, Anna took a roundabout way to the garage, hollering over her shoulder as she went, Don't make yourself late to school from the worry of a snake!

Ornery as the dickens on the outside, a heart of gold inside, came to mind as Andie turned her attention to the matted grass where the snake had left something behind. Curious, she reached for the uncommonly large feather. Black as the darkest night and…perfect. A definite keeper, she silently told herself, strumming a slow finger over its soft edges.

The foreday, without so much as a breeze, peculiarly aired a strong but pleasant evergreen scent. Holding the feather to her nose, Andie gave it a sniff. Nothing. It smelled like nothing at all.

Two large pine trees fronted Old Man Ramiel's property, across the way. So yeah, maybe it was pine, she convincingly assumed, with a shrug to the strange feeling at the back of her neck. As earlier, she ruffled the edges of the feather, mesmerized by the softness to so neatly float in place.

Once inside her room, the snake since forgotten, Andie reached under her bed to the brown shoebox of collected keepsakes. While still on her knees she brushed aside the dust in advance to sorting through the trinkets. What others might consider junk, she saved as treasures—best moments memorabilia—the somewhat crappy reminder of a totally boring life. Colored stones, inexpensive jewelry (mostly broken), and a few love notes—all of sentimental value and, for now, worth having. Not yet ready to drop the feather into its new home, she strummed the soft edges one more time.

Unusually cautious and with a low, steady growl, Spooks approached—a larger than average house cat and suitably named to accentuate her rather dark, ghostly coat, excepting a small bib of white. Cowering and drawing only as close as she dared be, the overly temperamental feline took a random swipe at the quilled fluff. Startled by the cat's sudden discontent, Andie dropped the feather. Contrary to a large amount of fuzz spilling on the cardboard's side, Andie snapped the lid in place, sparing the perfectness from certain annihilation. Knock it off! she scolded the troublesome cat, whose hair was poofed every which way in wild abandonment. Sheesh. I've become Grams in my worry of nothing, Andie brooded to herself.

Returning the cardboard box underneath the bed, she drew a calming breath, which tasted of pine? So it began, the strange singsong melody tugging at her mind:

Nudged by fear in the dark of night,

Your curse shall be the gift of sight.

Protected secrets found and told,

Visions revealed, may truths unfold.

Assuming the music to be the forthcoming announcement of Frey's arrival (a friend since forever), Andie gave Spooks a gentle pat on the head. What Andie believed as commendable bravery toward the alleged feather monster had been done solely out of fear, for something in the room was horribly amiss, and the cat sensed it.

Regardless what was or wasn't, the music played on, not louder or quieter but there just the same. Both the tune and the female vocalist were unfamiliar, and not good music. No, it was, to say the least, an annoying tune with eerie lyrics. Nudged by fear? Cursed? Secrets? Truths? What the hell was Frey listening to?

A much louder song with a faster rhythm began to play, pounding the sleepy countryside to full attention. Ah yes, Frey's audio system was, as usual, torqued to a deafening level. Had her best friend's listening pleasures gone to the dark side? Whatever! In giving Frey the benefit of the doubt, as friends should, Andie reassessed the lyrics. Opposed to her first assumption of definitely dark and as the music improved, she considered the lyrics only somewhat shady. Furthermore, her mind tangled in the different tunes, she questioned what may or may not have been heard?

Frey's here. Gotta go, Andie announced, adjusting her backpack while hurrying toward the front door.

I got ears, Anna hollered from the kitchen. Can't help but know when that one's arrived.

Truthfully, Andie couldn't remember a quiet Frey, and theirs was a friendship dating to early daycare years when Grams worked at the local law office so as to pay the bills. The same daycare where nearly every Paradise child, given the likelihood, must eventually serve time.

Though it seemed eons ago, Andie couldn't forget the particular outdoor rumpus of a smaller Frey, sorely bombarded by the spiraling contents thrown from Haley's fruit cup, piece after soggy piece. As fast as the assorted fruit bounced off Frey and into the sand, Andie scooped 'em up. Each gritty morsel (grapes, peaches, pears, and cherries) was then rubbed across a