THE BLOOD AND TEARS PROPHECIES

By ABEL ASHWELL

In the shadowy corridors of a forgotten palace, secrets lie dormant, waiting for the right moment to awaken. A curse weaves its web around the descendants of Nostradamus, the famous seer, a lineage destined to be haunted by wonders and mysteries that transcend time. The tale begins after two century of the death of Michel Nostradamus, shrouding the era in silence, but the age of enigmas is far from over. A stolen grave, an exhumed relic, and an inexplicable hiatus of one hundred and eleven years signal the return of the inexplicable.
Amid the opulence of a palace, a woman bears twins, while forbidden love flourishes in the shadows. As the identical twins grow, their destinies diverge. One becomes a wanderer, the other a soldier in the Great War.
In the tapestry of this novel, intertwining lives paint a vivid portrait. House cleaners, doctors, actors, nuns, children with limited awareness, sailors, and the elusive Leviathan monster, all connected by threads of fate. In a world of mirrors, murder, betrayal, and revelations, love and death dance an eternal waltz.
A journey unfolds, spanning more than a century, from 1896 to 2007, a tapestry woven with threads of mysticism, terror, philosophy, and humor. Complex characters navigate a world that blurs the lines between reality and fiction.
enigmatic realm, where prophecies hide in plain sight and the line between truth and illusion grows thinner by the day. know "The Blood and tears Prophecies" and listen to the "Whispers from Beyond" that will reveal the secrets that have been hidden for far too long.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ABEL ASHWELL
• Release date: Jan 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224985210

Book preview

In the shadowy corridors of a forgotten palace, secrets lie dormant, waiting for the right moment to awaken. A curse weaves its web around the descendants of Nostradamus, the famous seer, a lineage destined to be haunted by wonders and mysteries that transcend time. The tale begins after two century of the death of Michel Nostradamus, shrouding the era in silence, but the age of enigmas is far from over. A stolen grave, an exhumed relic, and an inexplicable hiatus of one hundred and eleven years signal the return of the inexplicable.

Amid the opulence of a palace, a woman bears twins, while forbidden love flourishes in the shadows. As the identical twins grow, their destinies diverge. One becomes a wanderer, the other a soldier in the Great War.

In the tapestry of this novel, intertwining lives paint a vivid portrait. House cleaners, doctors, actors, nuns, children with limited awareness, sailors, and the elusive Leviathan monster, all connected by threads of fate. In a world of mirrors, murder, betrayal, and revelations, love and death dance an eternal waltz.

A journey unfolds, spanning more than a century, from 1896 to 2007, a tapestry woven with threads of mysticism, terror, philosophy, and humor. Complex characters navigate a world that blurs the lines between reality and fiction.

enigmatic realm, where prophecies hide in plain sight and the line between truth and illusion grows thinner by the day. Welcome to The Blood and tears Prophecies and listen to the Whispers from Beyond that will reveal the secrets that have been hidden for far too long.

The Beginning

The age is thirty-seven. The profession is writing. The older detective, who was tall black skinned, white hair, breaks into a fit of laughter, and then says to his partner while he continues to laugh, Writer? Can't we all write? I curse him inside my head for making fun of my job. He coughs from laughter, calms down, and then he continues, Name, (Adam Sam Malik) Status, missing.

At this moment, someone raises his voice from the basement of the palace and saying, We have found the body, sir The detective crosses out the word missing and heads with his partner who was younger, white skinned, black hair, Muscular man, toward the basement. Under the trembling light of the yellow lamp, the younger detective's face shrinks in dissatisfaction at the sight of the decomposing body lying on the ground. He bends down and looks at the face of the corpse, and then looks at my photo on the ID card, from which the older detective was reading my information a minute ago, He let out a long sigh and told the older detective, It’s him.

His hands were shaking from the extreme panic that he had kept inside him for a long time while pretending to be still. The card falls into a pool of blood. Then an iron door opens at the end of the right of the basement, letting the cold air blow at the detectives and the three officers, as if it were the door to a meat refrigerator. Their bodies shiver, and fear overtakes them. Each of them grabs his weapon. The older detective orders one of the officers to examine the narrow hallway, the door of which was opened. Immediately, the officer looks at him with a sympathetic look. The older detective shouts, Move! The officer carries out the order. He enters the hall very slowly. He turns left and continues walking until the shadow of his body disappears. There is no sound of his steps. The older detective calls him after minute. The only answer is silence, endless silence. He calls the other detective behind him, and his call interrupted by the sound of the main door of the basement closing. The door through which they passed had become closed. No, it became a wall! The detective pointed to one of the two officers to go up the short stairs and examine the wall. Perhaps there is a button to press on, and the door will appear out of nowhere. It becomes clear that this basement is a fortified room with advanced technologies designed for emergency matters, such as those in the palaces of the wealthy.

He orders the last officer to turn towards the closed iron door on the far left of the basement. Thus, they camped in front of each of the three doors in the basement.  The two detectives took a few steps towards the door, which the first officer disappeared behind it. The light goes out. Screams emitted from several directions. The light returns. The officer who climbed the stairs became a corpse with his legs cut off, hanging from a rope near the wall that had just been a door. As for his legs, they were fixed in place and bleeding.

The last officer screamed in panic. At the same second, something was thrown under the feet of the older detective. With the body of the officer who entered the hallway a short while ago. He screamed for a moment and looked at the other detective who was pointing his pistol on the dead body. The officer hurries to try to open the closed iron door behind him, but it does not open. The three of them conclude that they have no way out except the lobby door, which turns anyone who enters it into pieces, or they can remain where they stand, waiting for help, until what was done to the rest is done to them. The older detective takes out his radio, and the other takes out his mobile phone. Contrary to what was expected, there was a signal. The first asks for help from the radio and he tells the answerer his location. A deep voice comes up from the radio and says But don’t you like the place? The detective answers, What? The voice responds, Did you think you would get help? You are dead the moment you entered the palace. Then a loud noise filled the place.

The other person calls the police on his mobile phone, with tension evident in his trembling hand. The responder asked, What is the situation? The detective tells him a summary of what is happening, and the responder asks for the name of the detective. He answers him, asks him for the address, and he gives it to him. The answerer says, Well, help is on the way. The answerer became silent for a while, and then adds with a deep voice, Maybe not. The detective shouts at him while he hardly controls himself from crying, Hah? What does that mean, you psycho! The responder says, Didn’t I tell you that you are among the dead?

The call was disconnected, and the three men felt that there is no escape from this absurdity. The light of the lamp in the basement becomes disturbed, and they feared that it will go out and one of them will be killed. So the three of them run to the narrow hallway, and then they walk slowly, very slowly, as their bodies have become too weak to bear all these hideous thoughts, the traces of blood from their shoes gradually diminish with each step, like their hope of getting out. Their noses smell nothing but blood and dirt. They hear a whisper and a voice that is evil itself saying, My anger is overwhelming, and here I am sitting, and this basement is a grave, and my grave is not just for me, you are coming to me, so stay away from the palace if you can listen.

The two detectives and the newly employed officer hear the warning. They start running back into the basement, and they hear the voice again saying, My words were not to you, because you will perish except the weak one. The light in the hallway goes out and comes back on, and the young officer, who was blond, skinny young man, finds the heads of the two detectives hanging from a rope from the ceiling, and their bodies fixed on the ground for a moment, then their headless bodies fell. The officer runs towards the basement again to find its main door open. He continues running until he reaches and sees the exit door, and then he spots security cameras in every corner of the ceiling. He thinks for a second and hesitates, then decides to leave, but he stops and comes back.

He enters the office room, where he finds a computer connected to security cameras. He transfers the files to a flash drive he found on the disk. He finds out it is going to take time, so he nervously grabs the wires, takes the computer case, and flees outside. 

On the side of the road, he sat inside his police car, next to the computer case. He catches his breath from running, and then he started crying, sobbing, and hitting his head. As soon as he regains his composure, he turned the car and headed toward the police station.

He told them what happened, but they did not believe him. He sworn to them repeatedly. They felt pity for him, so the sergeant decided to send a Squad, more numerous and experienced, but the young officer prevented them and told them about the computer case. He handed them the computer case and they connected it to electricity. Most of the video clips shows one young man, the owner of the palace called (Stephen J. Tibbets) and there are several clips of the same young man with another man, who is the owner of the identity card found in the palace (Adam Sam Malik).

Well, I am that Adam. Everything the officer told us we all saw on the computer, except for the moments of killing, as they happened in the dark.

I was on the plane waiting for take-off before the police came to take me to the police station, to show me the last clip that was filmed with surveillance cameras, showing the killing of that group of men in the dark, next to the body of the man who looked like me. I was placed under house arrest, and I was interrogated for days and nights. They asked me about if I had twin brother, I said,

-  Not to my knowledge, besides how can you say that this corpse resembles me, as its face seems almost disfigured?

-  What you were specifically doing in the palace?

-  Vesting Stephen.

-  What was your relationship with Stephen Tibbets?

-  Um, we are... relatives.

-  You have American and French and Egyptian citizenship, correct?

-  "Yeah, but I live in Egypt.

The investigator put his hands on the table and approached, staring into my eyes and said,

-  Why you traveled to Egypt, and then returned with the body of a woman to bury her here in USA. How you killed them in fractions of a second, and if you did not kill them, why did you rush back to Egypt again?

My answer was the same every time, which was to look at the timing of the segment in which I leave the palace. How did I kill those men while I was away from the palace and then go so quickly to the airport! When they asked me about the blood on my shirt when I left the palace last time, I answered, What blood? The recordings are green, so how did you know it was blood?

They put me under a lie detector test and I said the same Answers repeatedly, and the device showed the result that I was completely honest, so the defense lawyer took me out due to insufficient evidence, if I remained a little while in the United States, and for my name to be on the travel ban list. I began to remember how it all began.

I was lying on my worn-out sofa, half-asleep, in a room on the roof of one of the old houses, surrounded by my collection of books and novels on the floor, under the sofa, and everywhere. I had no company other than those books. Family, friends, or children, that's what I prefer from my point of view, but I have a loving wife far away, in a warm marital home, but I left her to enjoy myself a little. At first glance, it seems that I am a breadwinner who does not have a daily bread, but in reality, I am a millionaire who is far from the usual luxurious life. For one reason that some, like my wife, may see as a path of madness, which is that I want to write a script about a tramp, like actors who experience part of their characters' lives, I also live the lives of the characters in my film script before I start writing it.

I was thinking about my past or seeing it in a vivid dream. I realized after several years of practicing the film writing profession that I was a failed scriptwriter, because what I write to be great films, immortalized in its pages by history, always finds its way to the bottom of failure. My films do not generate any revenue. There are no fans of my work. The actors in my films end up in jobs other than acting, after their short career ends once they appear in a film with my name on it, even the critics and young people on social media do not pay attention to me, not even a single insult. I am nobody. A lame rabbit, facing the monsters of cinema in a country that pumps dozens of films into cinemas every year.

I felt like Van Gogh, no one would ever understand my creativity until after my death. After several creative missteps, the first positive comment came to me from an author, a successful novels writer, called Stephen. Not Stephen King, of course, but another Stephen, a young man younger than me, to whom I read one or two novels. His bestselling novels in the United States, and the films based on his novels achieve the highest revenues, because in a way, his novels predict the future or tell about things in the past, and then people discover after a while that they are true. Some people said about him that he was a genius, and others said that he sold his soul to the devil.

Producers are running after Stephen to turn his novels into films, which is what I once tried to do instead of directing to cinema, as I decided to go into literary creativity. Perhaps one of the producers would like my novel and turn it into a film, but it was and still is in a worn-out box, covered by dust. No one read it, not even the owners of the publishing house, I think, so I returned to writing film scripts and producing them with my own money and reluctantly swallowing my loss of it. Therefore, when a famous writer, to the point that he sent me an email, describing his admiration for my creativity, admired my last film I jumped. From the sofa with great pleasure, and if someone saw me, he would say I was drunk, or a snake bit me, or a devil got into my ears!

In my view, this comment was an overwhelming success, close to the success of an Oscar, so I had to take advantage of this opportunity.

Therefore, I began asking for his precious advice in the following days, until he sent me his latest novel, and it had not yet been published, so he printed that copy just for me, telling me to analyze it and learn from it, he asked me to tell him my opinion about it. The smell of new books works like a drug for me. After I finished reading it as well! With all his success, he asked me, the big loser, for my opinion about his novel. I would not be lying if I said it made me a little cocky.

I opened the package with the eagerness of a child, took out the novel, and it was entitled (The story of the conscious palace). The palace on the cover of the novel was old-fashioned palace and at the end a small tower containing a giant clock. I looked through the novel, and it was empty, completely empty, without a single ink stain. Was he kidding me all this time? Was he making fun of me? On the other hand, is there something wrong with it? I opened my phone to find a message from my wife saying, Adam, are you going to be messing around for a long time? I ignored her and sent a message to the writer in which I said, Mr. Stephen, I don’t know what exactly the matter is, but the novel is empty of words. Is this a misprint, or did you forget to write the novel in the first place? Attached to a photo of the pages of the novel, Stephen saw the message at the same second as if he were in the chat room, which surprised me, but I explained that he was about to send me a message at the same time, it was just a coincidence.

I received his vague response, My dear friend, I am pleased that the novel has reached you. Read it carefully, focusing on each letter, until you feel the heat of its words. I said to him, But Mr. Stephen, I showed you that it is empty. He replied, Stop joking, and go ahead and read it. The important thing is To read it while the weather is hot, do not turn on the air conditioner." Then he left the conversation, and my messages no longer reached him. I read his messages several times, and I noticed that the words (HEAT and HOT) were wider than the rest of the words, as if he was indicating that I should burn the novel? I tore out the first page of the novel, grabbed my lighter, lit a roll of tobacco, and then lit the paper. The smell of burning paper made me cough until the paper fell, burning the tablecloth, so I slapped the paper on the table until it went out.

At first, it burned like any normal paper, but when the fire reached the middle of the page, I thought I saw something, a word. It was the word (Help). I entered the Internet and got up. Searching for (heat, blank paper, fire, invisible ink). Finally, a topic appeared to me talking about the pink-colored aqueous cobalt chloride substance, which does not appear when writing, and about how it