Updat August 8, 2022:

My father is having a huge fight in the other room. I don't know if he's actually fighting with someone or if he's just yelling at nothing like usual. He's saying:

"I didn't do all that other stuff to her car. I just put a potato in the tailpipe like usual."

This is interesting because someone DID in fact put a potato in the tailpipe of my Volvo, November 21, 2021, the same day someone cut all the cable and electric wires off the house, the first day the Tod Murphy shithead gang arrived in my driveway chanting "TOD MURPHY TOD MURPHY TOD MURPHY TOD MURPHY TOD MURPHY TOD MURPHY TOD MURPHY TOD MURPHY TOD MURPHY TOD MURPHY TOD MURPHY TOD MURPHY TOD MURPHY TOD MURPHY TOD MURPHY TOD MURPHY TOD MURPHY TOD MURPHY" while accusing my car of being "demon possessed" by what they called a "suicide demon". My 1st husband, was shot by that same group, later that same day, while they were accusing of being a suicide demon.

March 2022, this same event happened again, again chanting "TOD MURPHY TOD MURPHY TOD MURPHY TOD MURPHY TOD MURPHY TOD MURPHY TOD MURPHY TOD MURPHY TOD MURPHY TOD MURPHY TOD MURPHY TOD MURPHY TOD MURPHY TOD MURPHY TOD MURPHY TOD MURPHY TOD MURPHY TOD MURPHY" , again cut all the cable and electric wires off the house, and this time several dozen McDonald's ketchup packets were stuffed up the tailpipe of my Volvo.

Between November 21, 2021 and May 17, 2022, they repeated this wire cutting and tailpipe stuffing event 5 times.

There were several other events in between…including setting fire to my fuel line, using an ice pick to decimate the gas tank, slashing the tires… all done in the driveway, 50 feet off the road, while the Volvo was parked between my dad's car and my gay couple neighbors white car.

The fact remains I don't know who Tod Murphy, who these shit head fans of his are who are vandalizing my car and apartment building in his name, honor, and glory, I haven't got a clue what any of these thugs are talking about…

…and it's starting to look like my father is involved.

Note, my father Kenneth Ricker Allen and my mother Jeannie Colleen Atwater Allen Whitten are not allowed near either my car or my land.

In April 2022, they made an attempt to sell my land, to use as a down payment for a $3million mansion in Kennebunk.

This is not the first time those criminal parents of mine have done something like this.

And keep in mind it IS MY PARENTS AND 2 of my mother's brothers and one of her sisters who are the FBIs primary suspects in BOTH the November 14, 2013 murder of my baby and the April 10, 2015 murder of the rest of my family.

The FBI has already found documents proving my father and my mother were the ones who hired the backhoe driver to drive over my house August 8, 2013. They paid him $600 and forged building permits, and deeds to make it look like they owned my land.

I inherited 146 Portland Ave, Old Orchard Beach, from my grandmother Helen Ricker when she died in 1983, and NO ONE besides me has owned it since then.

But my parents did a damned good job convincing half this town they owned my land, and they went so far to get their Saco Ward Mormon Church buddies Joel Bailey, Kathy Smith, and town manager Jim Thomas to illegal put their names on the deed.

And THAT is why I want nothing to do with my jackals shit faces mother and her fucking scam artist drug dealing Atwater clan.

My mother is the one who took a sledge hammer to my 1974 AMC Gremlin, and a chainsaw to my 1964 Dodge.

If you see either of them or any of the Atwaters or any of the Saco Ward Mormons near my land or my cars, call the police immediately.

The Old Orchard Beach Police and the Biddeford police and the Portland FBI are all aware my parents and their friends are not allowed near my land.

The FBI believes the Claire Cyr woman who was wielding the golf club that murdered my baby and left me crippled for the rest of my life, is a friend of my father and mother. According to the FBI my parents know a woman by that name, and have been fighting with her for decades, further back since before I was born, because my father was running around with her.

I don't know anyone named Claire and the only Cyr I know was the drug dealers Brian and Anne that my parents hung around with in the 1970s. I saw them once when I was 8 years old. I wouldn't recognize Brian or Anne today, but I would recognize the golf club wielding Claire Cyr if I ever saw her again.

But the FBI found more information about the events in 2013… my father was actively attempting to sell my land in July 2013 to a woman named Claire Cyr. I didn't know that until a few weeks ago. He was planning to give the money to my mother to buy that same $3million mansion in Kennebunk. THAT he why my parents hired the backhoe driver to drive over my house at 146 Portland Ave on August 8, 2013. That's information the FBI has uncovered.

My parents are nothing but pieces of shit. And the more I find out about them the more vile they are and more disgusted I am with both of them.

I was 8 months pregnant when that Claire Cyr bitch attacked me with a golf club, murdering my baby and leaving me crippled for the rest of my life.

And the FBI believes my father hired her to do it. They said a week before it happened he got a $26k loan from a loan shark on St John's Street in Portland, and the FBI can't find any trace of what he did with that money.

And only 3 people knew I was going to be at the Phi Theta Kappa Award Ceremony November 14, 2013… my 2nd husband Benjamin Kitchel Wildes, my father, and my mother.

No one else knew I was going to it.

I had not planned on going.

I decided to go, a half hour before I left. And I told only 3 people.

The FBI crossed Ben off the list of suspects because he was at the Boston Temple.

But someone hired that Claire Cyr woman to attack. And the FBI believes it was my father, doing it because my mother was angry that I wouldn't sell my land (which at the time still had a house I was living in on it) and give her the money so she could buy a house in Kennebunk.

And now with these Tod Murphy attacks, the FBI says it looks more than ever, like it's my mother behind all of it, everything for the past nearly 20 years, and my father acting out on her orders.

And if that's true, it means my mother and father, murdered their own grandson, because their greedy asses were lusting after some mansion in Kennebunk.

I am so damn sick of my parents.

You remember the 4 door white truck?

Kathy Smith, of the Old Orchard Beach Town Hall business permit department and dispatcher of the Old Orchard Beach Police Department is the owner of the 4 door white truck who was slamming into my car and did all the vandalism in 2013 to 2017. Her son is the bald man who was driving it. The FBI arrested them both in 2017, after I forwarded all the video footage of the truck's attacks. It's why she lost her job at the town hall and Police Department and why he went to prison and why he was excommunicated from the Mormon church.

Do you know who Kathy Smith Is? She's my mother's Visiting Teacher from the Saco Ward of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. She's been my mother's best friend for close to 60 years.

It always goes back to my mother.

Every single attack.

Every single harassment.

Every single vandalism.

Even the shit heads who cyber bully me on Reddit. Did you know the FBI traced their ISPNs and those Reddit bullies all live within 5 blocks of the Biddeford Library, one of them lives in the same building with me, 409 Main Street.

You remember all the weird house inspections we were having Every week the past 6 months…that was the FBI, tapping the family upstairs to see if they were in fact the ones posting the harassment on Reddit and they were. And again they are friends of my mothers.

They also moved into this building 6 months after I did and are NOW (because of their Reddit posts made between November 21, 2021 and May 17, 2022) suspected of being involved in the April 10, 2015 attack in Old Orchard and the November 14, 2013 attack at Southern Maine Community College. (They were NOT suspects BEFORE they made those Reddit posts. In fact, they had no connection to any of this at all, until 7 months ago, when they made those Reddit posts, and had they not made those Reddit posts, particularly the ones they made in December 2021, they NEVER would have been suspected of being involved with the murders at all, because there was no reason to suspect them prior to their making those Reddit posts.)

The REASON the FBI is trying to find out who is posting those Reddit posts, is because MOST of the details of what happened November 14, 2013 and April 10, 2015, and May 15, 2015 were withheld from the public. One detail in particular is a thing the FBI is actively watching for because, according to the FBI it’s UNIQUE to a pattern of ten previous families who where murdered prior to my family, murders which have occurred in almost every state on the East coast, from Florida to Maine, and are connected to a heroine chemist from Connecticut.

That one particular detail has shown up in the Reddit posts of 33 different Reddit accounts, all of them created between November 19, 2021 and May 17, 2022, and all of them posting on r/writing , r/writers, r/eroticauthors , and other similar Reddit subs.

This is why starting in December 2021, you saw me suddenly start posting daily, (something I had never done before on Reddit, I normally rare use Reddit, often going weeks between a single post) sometimes hourly on these Reddits, on the FBI’s instructions, to see WHICH Reddit accounts would say what, in response to what I wrote -with me posting exactly what the FBI told me to post, to see if I could lead them on and get them to respond even more by my dropping specific hints to trigger them into revealing just exactly how much info about the murder of my family, do the people in the apartment upstairs actually know - and these 33 accounts took the bait and divulged more and more and more and more information they had about the murder of my family, posting often in the form of poetry, as they bragged more and more unreleased to the public details of what happened- … of particular note is a thread about Stephen King on r/writingcirclejerk , which one of these 33 accounts started - this thread is of particular note, because it includes VERY DETAILED and VERY SPECIFIC information how the EXACT MURDER WEAPON used to behead my children on May 15, 2015. The details of HOW they were beheaded, what specifically was done to them, and with what VERY UNIQUE ONE OF A KIND CUSTOM MADE weapon they were killed with, was never released to the public…

…meaning whoever started that “More Famous Then Stephen King” thread either IS the murderer, or HELPED the murderer with the dissecting… NO ONE but the murderer, would know those details.

With the source of the Reddit accounts now identified, the question remains now WHICH of the 5+ people who live there is the one making the Reddit posts and WHERE SPECIFICALLY are they sourcing their information… ARE they the ACTUAL murder themselves, or are they just someone who personally knows the murderer one and one and has the information from talking to the murderer… that is the question now.

Does the murderer actually live in my apartment building or is the murderer just feeding info to someone in my apartment building to taunt the FBI, is now the question trying to be solved. Either way, someone in that apartment is now verified to be personally one on one connected to the murderer, thanks to their taking the bait from my Reddit posts and bragging the info they knew in their Reddit posts, throughout Novemver 2021 to May 2022.

It is of note, that ALL posts from these 33 accounts stopped completely on May 17, 2022, and there have been no log ins since, and the FBI suspects, they may be dead, given how much they were posting, how often they were posting, and how many ALARMINGLY SPECIFIC details they were posting.

If you reading this now, know the identity of the peron(s) who made those Reddit posts and they are in fact dead, especially is they “aparently” died by suicide, you are urged by the FBI to come forward with that info, give it to the FBI, because, since 2001, there have been 120+ “apparent” suicides of witnesses and (yes, 2001 - like I said, FBI says my family was the 10th family this has happened to - I don’t know who the 10 previous families are, FBI, does nt give out info - the info I know, is “need to know” because of the recent increase in vandalism to my car and apartment building in Biddeford, as well as to my land in Old Orchard). In any case, the FBI is concerned with the fact that all 33 Reddit accounts went total silent May 17, 2022, and state that this has happened before, “apparent suicide” being one of the paterns of the drug gang the FBI is trying to track down.

This is why, since January 2022, the apartment building at 409 Main Street has 3 white vans parked on the side streets recording every conversation of every apartment in the building, and why since January 2022 we at 409 Main Street, Biddeford, Maine have had WEEKLY house inspections, from large groups of inspectors with military spit polished shoes and marine haircuts, and not from the house inspector from Augusta… home inspections take place once a year, not weekly, which has caused 3 apartments in our building to lock their doors and not allow the inspectors in, which raised suspicion with them… it also cause one apartment to as you saw on the livestream in March, through more than 300 “weeds” plants out the window and into the dumpster-the legal limit of weed plants in Maine is 3 plants per person with a photocopy of your driver’s license attached to the plant, and only specifies species of plants are legal. These were not the legal plants and there were way more than the limit… the following day a white mini van from Connecticut arrived to scoop up the 300 plants and drive off with them-again, as you saw on the livestream of the day it happened. My livestream camera never shuts off, it runs 24 hours a day and it sees everything.

The arrival of the Connecticut cars, is when you also saw the arrival of the Dodge Winnebago, that drives along 2 miles an hour beside me every time I walk my dog - that FBI RV.

Interestingly, Joel Bailey also showed up the past few weeks and daily walks back and forth in front of my driveway, so apparently he’s now out of prison and wants to go back there.

Joel Bailey, in case you forgot, worked for the Old Orchard Beach town hall in 2010, and embezzled $30million, from tax money causing several thousand families in Old Orchard Beach to lose their homes and businesses to town foreclosure, even though they had in fact paid their taxes. I found out this happened when the FBI showed up at my tent, with documents that had my name on them. Joel Bailey and Kathy Smith had forged my name onto the bank accounts of the Old Orchard Beach Town Hall. That FBI agent by the way, Laura, the blond girl you used to see in my yard talking to me all the time, was murdered February 2021, in Florida, by people connected to all of this. She and 2 other FBI agents was murdered during a raid.

That is why since February 2021, you have seen a huge increase of FBI activity here in Old Orchard Beach and Biddeford Maine, because again, it’s all one case, spanning multiple states, and now 3 FBI agents, including the original one leading the Old Orchard Beach Murder Investigations, has now herself been murdered by the same people who killed my family.

Thus why the weekly home inspections here at 409 Main Street, because of the 33 Reddit accounts, all owned by the family upstairs in our building, which have been posting on writing forums on Reddit, very specific and exact and not released to the public details about, not only the murder of my family, but also the murder of Laura, the murdered FBI agent who was the original agent in charge of the murder investigation.

As for Kathy Smith and her son and their 4 door white truck… that truck was at Southern Maine Community College at 10PM November 14, 2013 and was the get away car of the golf club attackers who murdered my baby and left me crippled for the rest of my life.

They did not act alone however. They had with them a blonde woman whom the bald man called Claire and a redhead woman whom called herself Kendra Silvermander. The FBI believes them to be both related to a drug dealer named Brian Cyr.

The identity of Claire and Kendra is what the FBI is seeking information on.

The blonde woman named Claire is the one wanted for murdering my baby and leaving me crippled for the rest of my life. She is the one who was wielding the golf club and screaming "Eelkat tried to kill my husband, kill or be killed, that is Ken's son, kill all the transvestites before they kill us all, too gay for the family friendly town of old Orchard Beach"... I was 8 months pregnant when she was accusing me of being a man to woman transgender. She murdered my baby, broke my spine, left me paralyzed for 5 months, it took me 18 months to relearn to walk, and I'm still 9 years later barely able to stand on my own. SHE is the one the FBI wants information about. This Claire Cyr woman is looking at 25+ years in federal prison for murder, attempted murder, aggravated assault, harassment, discrimination, hate crimes, slander, defamation of character, and child endangerment.

It's now been 4 months since that shithead Tod Murphy sent his fucktards Tod Murphy fan boys over to vandalize my car. It's still being repaired and the cost of repairs is now in excess of $10k. If you know who this fucktard Tod Murphy or his gang of hoodlum vandals are, the Biddeford police, the York County Sheriff, and the Biddeford District Court are all looking for information so we can slap the Tod Murphy gang with both the repair bill and jail time. Yes I am still without my car because of this Tod Murphy bastard sending his gang of croony thugs to my apartment, every day from November 21, 2021 to May 17, 2022. If you know who Tod Murphy or these 4 shitty ass females he keeps sending over here are, please contact the Biddeford Police Department. I don't know who these people are, I have never seen them before or since the daily attacks on my car. The police think the attacks were actually intended to be done on my mother and the vandals got the wrong house. Police say she's been fighting on Facebook with 3 people, 1 claiming to be Tod Murphy's mother, one claiming to be his ex wife, and one claiming to be his 15 year old son. All 3 of them have been posting death threats on my mothers Facebook page. I have had my mother blocked everywhere on social media since 2010 and so I've not seen what she is doing online. I want nothing to do with her or the Atwater drug gang thugs she hangs around with. It is also suspected that the Murphy crew may be connected to the April 10, 2015 murder of my family.

If you have any information on the murder of my baby, the identity of Claire Cyr, or the people connected to her, or the Tod Murphy gang, or any of the other events please call FBI agent Andy Drewer at 207-774-9322

And no, I have no issues at all with putting either of my parents in prison if it turns out they are involved with the murder of my baby.

Those bastards kept me locked in that "room" for 27 years, and I'll never forget that. I got away from them for a reason. They are both violent abusive pieces of shit.

I will stop at nothing to hunt down and find out who murdered my baby and left me crippled for the rest of my life.

There is nothing more important to me then my baby, and I want to know who murdered him and why. And I want to see them sent to prison and put on an electric chair.


Today is August 8, 2022: the 9 year anniversary of this backhoe driving over my house, btw:


UPDATE: July 17, 2022 (responding to DMs)


No, you got your facts waaaay wrong. Kathy Smith, of the Old Orchard Beach Town Hall business permit department and dispatcher of the Old Orchard Beach Police Department is the owner of the 4 door white truck who was slamming into my car and did all the vandalism in 2013 to 2017. Her son is the bald man who was driving it. The FBI arrested them both in 2017, after I forwarded all the video footage of the truck's attacks. It's why she lost her job at the town hall and Police Department and why he went to prison and why he was excommunicated from the Mormon church.

They did not act alone however. They had with them a blonde woman whom the bald man called Claire and a redhead woman whom called herself Kendra Silvermander. The FBI believes them to be both related to a drug dealer named Brian Cyr.

The identity of Claire and Kendra is what the FBI is seeking information on.

The blonde woman named Claire is the one wanted for murdering my baby and leaving me crippled for the rest of my life. She is the one who was wielding the golf club and screaming "Eelkat tried to kill my husband, kill or be killed, that is Ken's son, kill all the transvestites before they kill us all, too gay for the family friendly town of old Orchard Beach"... I was 8 months pregnant when she was accusing me of being a man to woman transgender. She murdered my baby, broke my spine, left me paralyzed for 5 months, it took me 18 months to relearn to walk, and I'm still 9 years later barely able to stand on my own. SHE is the one the FBI wants information about. This Claire Cyr woman is looking at 25+ years in federal prison for murder, attempted murder, aggravated assault, harassment, discrimination, hate crimes, slander, defamation of character, and child endangerment.

If you have any information on the murder of my baby, the identity of Claire Cyr, or the people connected to her please call FBI agent Andy Drewer at 207-774-9322



Update: April 16, 2022

Tomorrow is Easter.

Easter, like Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Mother's day is one of the worst days of the year. A day that celebrates children and motherhood. On November 14, 2013, while I was 8 month pregnant, and putting bags on the back seat of my car, three still unidentified attackers, brought golf clubs down on my back, breaking my spine and murdering my baby. I am legally blind and almost deaf, so I neither heard nor saw them coming. I read lips, so you must be facing me for me to hear you. Bring legally blind, you also must be less than 3 feet in front of me for me to see your lips, to know you are talking. Because of this it was very easy for them to sneak up behind me while I leaned into my car, putting bags on the seat.

They broke 3 vertebrae in my spine, the shattered bones severing my spinal column, permanently damaging many nerves. Because of this nerve damage I have limited use of my left arm and hand, difficulty breathing, my bladder and intestines no longer function properly requiring adult diapers, massive tremors in both hands prevent me from being able to do basic things like brush my hair or hold a spoon to eat. These are just things from the nerve damage. 

Additionally they broke my pelvis, my hips, and my knees.

I was paralyzed for 5 months. It took me 18 months to relearn to walk. Today I can walk on a very limited basis, aided by a cane, but every step is seeking pain, like lightning bolts going through my leg, across my pelvis and up my spine.

Because of this I was bedridden from 2013 to 2015. And all of that time I had no use of my hands, so I was not online either. And thus was unaware that during that time, a group of locals set to social media to build up massive slanderous rumors about me. They created a huge fairy tale meme of me being an Erotica author, a porn star, a transvestite, a male to female transgender, gay, and an alien abductee. I am none of those things but they spent 3 years, on hundreds of accounts on Facebook and Twitter, many of them fake "Eelkat" accounts where they were pretending to be me, building up this massive slanderous web of lies about me, and I had no idea they were doing it, until October 2021, 9 years after they started doing it.

April 10, 2015 a group of 74 locals, many of them wearing ku klux klan white hooded robes, arrived at my farm. 14 of them held me, Ben, my mother, and one of my 3 younger brothers down on the ice and snow while holding guns to our heads, while the others used cinder block bricks and a metal pole device with wire loops on the end, to beat and behead, 10 of my 12 foster children, then nail their heads to my door. The youngest was 4 years old. The oldest was 16 years old. They chanted "too gay for the family friendly town of old Orchard Beach" while accusing me, my pink Volvo, my pink motor home, and Ben of being gay, transgender, transvestite, and citing that guys were not allowed in Maine.

THIS is what gay haters in Maine do to people they THINK, might maybe, be gay, even though they are not.

No man, woman or child is safe in Maine, so long as these murders walk free. They will kill anything they determine to be gay, even if it is not, as can be seen my the murder of my children.

They also had hundreds of paperback copies of my books, burning them in a huge bonfire on my lawn while calling them gay Erotica and calling mean Erotica author and porn star. (I'm an author, I write a travel blog style series about a homeless man who backpacks his way across Maine, there is no sex in the series. I'm a Mormon, I've never written a sex scene.)

My family was murdered and I am crippled for the rest of my life, because of this group who has been slandering me on social media. But, at the time of these two attacks (November 14, 2013 and April 10,2015) me and my family were unaware of these slanderous rumors the locals of Old Orchard Beach and Biddeford, Maine were spreading not only on Facebook and Twitter, but by word of mouth around town as well.

May 2021, I started walking around town again, for the first time since being paralyzed 9 years ago on November 14, 2013, and it quickly became apparent something was seriously wrong with the locals.

I was unable to walk my dog on Main Street, Bradbury Street, Harvey Street, or Cutts Street Biddeford, where I have lived since becoming paralyzed, but not before gone outside, because of being paralyzed and bedridden and unable to walk until now…

I was unable to walk my dog on Main Street, Bradbury Street, Harvey Street, or Cutts Street Biddeford without being attacked, pushed off the sidewalk by random strangers running up to me and grabbing my cane and using it to push me in the road in front of cars while accusing me of being gay, transgender, or transvestite. Screaming "transvestite freak" while throwing rocks at me. Group of women joggers stopping to surround me and harass me while saying guys aren't allowed on their street. 

October 2021, my Volvo returned to my driveway after 3 years of being completely rebuilt, after the February 2019 attack on it with baseball bats completely destroyed it. Within 5 minutes of starting to repaint it, 2 men showed up in my driveway yelling about aliens and demons and Etoile and because of this I stopped painting fish on the door, painted over the fish and painted a portrait of Etiole instead. 

November 19, 2021 the red haired American woman from the 2016 High Street attack on my navy blue pick up truck, showed up on the porch here on Main Street. 

The location is 409 Main Street, the big white farmhouse Victorian on the 3way corner of Harvey Lane and Cutts street, right at the train tracks. It has 2 driveways one on Main Street and one on Harvey. There are multiple porches. It's the porch on the Main street side, that goes up the driveway alongside the abortive cedar tree hedge, where I park my painted Volvo. That porch is the one this woman shows up on. 

It's an elderly couple and mother in law who live there at that porch.  When they leave for work, this woman shows up when they are not home and stands on the porch bellowing like a fog horn screaming death threats at me, yelling crazy demon and alien slander about Etiole, making the claim of putting a bomb in the tail pipe of my car, screaming about suicide demons and evil eye curses, and yelling about someone named Todd Murphy (I don't know who that is, I get the impression he's a relative or boyfriend or ex of hers or something, but I don't any one by that name, so I don't know who he is. I don't know who she is either.) She looks to be maybe 30s to 40s aged. 

She was here again yesterday. She was bragging that she got a fight started with my mother and the Atwaters on Facebook, laughing about how easy it is to get my mother and her ex fighting and the old woman was giving her hell and telling her to get off the Atwaters Facebook and leave them alone. 

This happened less then an hour after my mother made the claim that a woman of the same short haired blond description, assaulted her and my father at an ATM machine, the blond woman claiming to my mother to be my father's girlfriend, my father claiming he never saw her before. 

All this happened on April 10, 2022, the 7 year anniversary of the murder of my foster children, and the blond woman who was here in my driveway after the ATM attack was bragging the anniversary is why she is instigating the fighting between my parents. 

I did not see the ATM attack, so, I do not know what happened other then what my mother and father are saying. 

I did however see her here in my driveway.

She does not live here. She's shows up in a silver pick-up truck driven by a small skinny blonde man. No one here at this building knows who she is.

There is another blonde woman, older sometimes with her. I do recognize the older woman. She's one of the November 14, 2013 golf club attackers. The one the others who were with her called "Claire". She looks to be in her 60s. Usually wears a blue denim button down man's worksheet as a coat. She sometimes drives a gold Volvo suv around 2004vintage, sometimes a silver Subaru suv, sometimes a mega sized white Nissan 4 door white pick-up truck, and sometimes a pine dark green pick up truck. She frequently has another older woman with her, who calls herself "Kendra" and has very, very long natural red curly hair, sometimes she wears big Janis Joplin glasses and sometimes cyberpunk cyclops lime green glasses, she frequently carries a small white poodle dog. The dog is often wearing either a purple dragon or a black skeleton costume. These 2 older women and a younger bald man are the 2013 golf club attackers who murdered my baby. This new younger blond woman and the 5 who are often with her, appear to be their relatives. The FBI believes they are part of a drug gang from Connecticut that call themselves "The Cyr Clan". According to the FBI the Cyr Clan was a gang that my uncle Bruce was involved with back in the 1960s in Boston before I was born. The FBI believes Bruce pissed them off in the early 2000s and that's what brought them up here to Maine.

The FBI believes they were after either one of Bruce's daughters or one of Bruce's sisters with both the November 2013 and April 2015 attacks.

One of Bruce's daughters also lives on Portland Ave in Old Orchard Beach and she also has a pink motor home. So there are TWO pink motor homes on the same street. This particular daughter of Bruce IS in fact a porn star. She's a pole dancer for a top less bar.

In 2016, there was another large scale attack, near duplicate to the April 10, 2015 attack. I never talk about it because it didn't happen to me. It happened to Bruce's daughter across the street from me. The attack on her family was bigger, bolder, and bloodier, than the attack on my family the previous year.

In 2017, a third similar attack happened in Biddeford to one of Bruce's sisters. Again I don't talk about it because it didn't happen to me.

Like I've said before there is A LOT MORE going on, then what you hear me talking about. I don't talk about what has happened to several of my cousins and their families both the Atwater cousins and the Murphey cousins- because it is not my place to do so. That's why you ONLY hear me talking about what directly happened to me personally and never mentioning the rest.

And I've not said everything that happened to me. A lot more has happened to me then you hear about because the FBI has specifically requested I don't talk about specific aspects of what happened to me and my children, because a lot was never released to the public, because they want to see who knows what. Certain things no one in the public should know about and knowing those things marks you as involved. This new young blonde woman KNOWS several of those things that were not released to the public and yells those things. Which means she is VERY INVOLVED with the murder of my children. 

Like I said until summer and fall of 2021 when started walking again for the first time in 9 years, I was unaware of the local gossip that was falsely accusing me of being gay, falsely accusing me of being transgender, falsely accusing me of being transvestite, falsely accusing me of being a porn star, falsely accusing me of being an Erotica author, or falsely accusing me of being an alien abduttee. 

I have lived here since 1975. You people know me. You people knew my murdered children. You people know I'm a cis female. You people know I'm not gay. I have published 138 novels and more then 2,000 short stories since 1978, and I  have sold 27k copies of every one of them to you people who come to my house and buy them in person, so you've read my books and know they are not Erotica. You people know I've been a devoted orthodox LDS Mormon my whole life, and that I've been with Ben for 37 years, so you know I'm not a porn star. 

What is wrong with you people? My family was murdered and I have spent 9 years recovering from medical hell, and I go outside for the first time in 9 years and find you people who know me have all devolved into gay hating, sex spewing, gibberish slandering gossips spreading vile, evil, malicious rumors and lies that you yourselves know to be untrue?

No wonder not a single one of you have helped my family through any of this. No wonder not a one of you ever once visited me at the hospital or my home after I got out of the hospital and couldn't go outside because I couldn't walk. 

You don't see me for 9 years because I'm bedridden and you're all to cold hearted to stop by and check in on me, and you spend that 9 years spinning wild, crazy transphobic, gay hating, sex filled lies about me?

What is wrong with you people?

You all let some stranger, who very likely IS the murderer, convince you of crazy ass slandering lies, that you people know to be untrue. 

You all ought to be ashamed of yourselves. 

Every resident of Old Orchard Beach and Biddeford, Maine,  you all ought to be ashamed of what you have spent the last 9 years doing.

This new younger blonde woman, she's the one who keeps saying my car has a suicide demon in it and yelling about Todd, saying my car caused him to die.

I don't know who she is, but she's the same one who used to show up at 27 High st, also Biddeford and scream "nasty bitch" at me and acuse me of being an Erotica author and porn star. (Which she did during several Witcher 3 livestreams on Twitch, you can see her doing it if you go back and watch my VOD). I am neither an Erotica author or a Porn star, and she had throughout 2016 to 2019 arrived at High st with 5 others, one a blond man with a silver pick-up truck, one a black man with a yellow Mitsubishi with new York plates, one a very obese woman with blond Shirley Temple sausage curls, and the other two hooded men with a navy blue Buick sedan. If you remember the Christmas Eve 2016 livestream when the gang attacked my high st apartment and screaming "transvestite freak" that's them. This that same woman who also slanders me by calling me transvestite and transgender, which I am neither. I am a cis female, I've had 7 miscarriages, and the 1 baby that made it full term was murdered November 14, 2013 by 3 people with golf clubs, who are suspected to be, these same people. 

One day when I went downstairs to get the mail on high st, a mailbox that was in the lobby and you had to go through 2 sets of doors and foyers to get to, she had her hand in the mailbox and when I came out the door she yelled "I wasn't stealing your mail" threw our mail on the ground and ran off.

She knows the Martals, (Aunt Barbara ex, uncle Paul Martal,  the one in prison for building the Boston Marathon bomb in 2013, Mike's father, those Martals) she was staying with them for a few months in 2016. Is somehow connected to Barbara (the one who wrote all those emails in 1997 pretending to be me, when I did not yet have email or internet or a computer at the time, and I had not yet heard of email and didn't even know what email was, back when Barbara wrote all those alien abduction emails about Etiole and pretending I wrote them.)

She has short straight blond hair and sometimes dyes it dark red or purple. I know she follows both me and my mom and most of the Atwaters and my 3 younger brothers (though not my 2 older brothers as the oldest is in prison and the 2nd oldest is dead) on Facebook because she keeps saying that "I read on Facebook…" when she's in my driveway.

She shows up at Walmart to yell at me sometimes, and sometimes shows up while I'm walking Mickey. She talks about Etiole and White Monkey a lot when yelling, which is strange because that's stuff Brucie and Daddy used to write in their letters to Bishop Morgan back in Cape Elizabeth in 1990s. 

I'm not the one who calls him Etiole that's always been Bruce and Barbara who did that. I know his real name and use his real name.. They don't know his real name. And my father is only one who uses the term White Monkey. The white monkey was Helen Pearlys pet back in 1970s, it had nothing to do with Etoile, I don't know why he keeps saying it does.. My father is the only one who ever makes that connection. I've never called Etiole a demon or alien, again that has always been my father, Barbara and Brucie who said the alien and demon stuff. I don't believe in aliens or demons, but they do. (Etiole if you don't know is a local elderly homeless man who has backpacked around New England since 1953, and since 1978 I let him camp on my farm in Old Orchard Beach when he's in the area. He's covered with scars from WW2 and they call him an alien and demon because of his scars. They refuse to believe he is a human, which just goes to show how absolutely stupid they are.)

In November an elderly man came over and started asking me why I was emailing him about Etiole and I'm not, I don't use email. He said he was getting over 300 emails a day about Etiole all claiming to be from me. He said there are hundreds of email addresses getting copies of this email. You remember when Barbara and Brucie used to send emails back in 1997 claiming they were from me but we didn't have computer or internet back then? I think it might be Barbara sending those emails again like she did back then. I can't think of who else could be doing it.

This sometimes blond, sometimes red hair, sometimes purple hair woman, also mentions these emails when she is in my driveway yelling at my Volvo at 409 Main street. 

FBI agent Andy Drewer has found and shut down, so far 27 Facebook accounts, all pretending to be me. He said all of them were owed by Brucie. These fake "Eelkat" accounts appear to be the source of a lot of what this blond woman says and is suspected that she may be one of the people behind writing them.

Keep in mind, Brucie is dead. He may have started those Facebook accounts, but he ain't the one writing them. He died 3years ago.

Mervin Bruce Atwater died from Covid19 on November 24, 2019.

The fact remains you ARE impeding an FBI investigation into the murder of my family, and only someone involved would have any reason to do that. ONLY someone connected to the murderer would have a motive to try to stop the FBIs investigation. That makes you an accessory to murder. You make yourself look VERY GUILTY of being involved every time you spread slanders about me, my car, or Etiole. 

Do consider that the source of your slander in all likelihood is the murderer, please tell FBI Agent Andy Drewer at 207-774-9322 at the Portland FBI office on Middle street, the name of the person who is telling you to slander me.

And now tomorrow is Easter. 

A day when mothers take their children on Easter egg hunts.

My children are dead.

My children were murdered. 

And you people have spent the last 9 years making fun of that.

Think about THAT tomorrow when you are out on Easter egg hunts with your babies.

Think about how YOU would feel if it was YOU. How would YOU feel if it had been your baby who was murdered and this entire town was spreading bullying slanderous lies about YOU.

If you know who this blond woman is, please tell FBI Agent Andy Drewer at 207-774-9322 at the Portland FBI office on Middle street. She is wanted for questioning about her connection to the November 14, 2013 murder of my baby and attempted murder of me, and the April 10, 2015 murder of my foster children and the September 26, 2016 hit and run attack on my car and the February 2019 vandalism to 27 High st apartment building, and the November 2021 attack on my Volvo and the March 10, 2022 attack on my Volvo and the April 10, 2022 ATM attack on my parents. 




Update April 11, 2022: Do you know who this woman is?

This woman that my mother is talking about, have any of you ever seen her? Does anyone know who she is?

It isn't that woman who keeps coming on the porch and yelling at my car is it? Do any of you know who the woman attacking my car is?

The location is 409 Main Street, the big white farmhouse Victorian on the 3way corner of Harvey Lane and Cutts street, right at the train tracks. It has 2 driveways one on Main Street and one on Harvey. There are multiple porches. It's the porch on the Main street side, that goes up the driveway alongside the abortive cedar tree hedge, where I park my painted Volvo. That porch is the one this woman shows up on. 

It's an elderly couple and mother in law who live there at that porch.  When they leave for work, this woman shows up when they are not home and stands on the porch bellowing like a fog horn screaming death threats at me, yelling crazy demon and alien slander about Etiole, making the claim of putting a bomb in the tail pipe of my car, screaming about suicide demons and evil eye curses, and yelling about someone named Todd Murphy (I don't know who that is, I get the impression he's a relative or boyfriend or ex of hers or something, but I don't any one by that name, so I don't know who he is. I don't know who she is either.) She looks to be maybe 30s to 40s aged. 

She was here again yesterday. She was bragging that she got a fight started with my mother and the Atwaters on Facebook, laughing about how easy it is to get my mother and her ex fighting and the old woman was giving her hell and telling her to get off the Atwaters Facebook and leave them alone. 

This happened less then an hour after my mother made the claim that a woman of the same short haired blond description, assaulted her and my father at an ATM machine, the blond woman claiming to my mother to be my father's girlfriend, my father claiming he never saw her before. 

All this happened on April 10, 2022, the 7 year anniversary of the murder of my foster children, and the blond woman who was here in my driveway after the ATM attack was bragging the anniversary is why she is instigating the fighting between my parents. 

I did not see the ATM attack, so, I do not know what happened other then what my mother and father are saying. 

I did however see her here in my driveway.

She's the one who keeps saying my car has a suicide demon in it and yelling about Todd, saying my car caused him to die.

I don't know who she is, but she's the same one who used to show up at 27 High st, also Biddeford and scream "nasty bitch" at me and accuses me of being an Erotica author and porn star. (Which she did during several Witcher 3 livestreams on Twitch, you can see her doing it if you go back and watch my VOD). I am neither an Erotica author or a Porn star, and she had throughout 2016 to 2019 arrived at High st with 5 others, one a blond man with a silver pick-up truck, one a black man with a yellow Mitsubishi with new York plates, one a very obese woman with blond Shirley Temple sausage curls, and the other two hooded men with a navy blue Buick sedan. If you remember the Christmas Eve 2016 livestream when the gang attacked my high st apartment and screaming "transvestite freak" that's them. This that same woman who also slanders me by calling me transvestite and transgender, which I am neither. I am a cis female, I've had 7 miscarriages, and the 1 baby that made it full term was murdered November 14, 2013 by 3 people with golf clubs, who are suspected to be, these same people. 

One day when I went downstairs to get the mail on high st, a mailbox that was in the lobby and you had to go through 2 sets of doors and foyers to get to, she had her hand in the mailbox and when I came out the door she yelled "I wasn't stealing your mail" threw our mail on the ground and ran off.

She knows the Martals, (Barbara ex, uncle Paul Martal,  the one in prison for building the Boston Marathon bomb in 2013, Mike's father, those Martals) she was staying with them for a few months in 2016. Is somehow connected to Barbara (the one who wrote all those emails in 1997 pretending to be me, when I did not yet have email or internet or a computer at the time, and I had not yet heard of email and didn't even know what email was, back when Barbara wrote all those alien abduction emails about Etiole and pretending I wrote them.)

She has short straight blond hair and sometimes dyes it dark red or purple. I know she follows both me and my mom and most of the Atwaters and my 3 younger brothers (though not my 2 older brothers as the oldest is in prison and the 2nd oldest is dead) on Facebook because she keeps saying that "I read on Facebook…" when she's in my driveway.

She shows up at Walmart to yell at me sometimes, and sometimes shows up while I'm walking Mickey. She talks about Etiole and White Monkey a lot when yelling, which is strange because that's stuff Brucie and Daddy used to write in their letters to Bishop Morgan back in Cape Elizabeth in 1990s. 

I'm not the one who calls him Etiole that's always been Bruce and Barbara who did that. I know his real name and use his real name.. They don't know his real name. And my father is only one who uses the term White Monkey. The white monkey was Helen Pearlys pet back in 1970s, it had nothing to do with Etoile, I don't know why he keeps saying it does.. My father is the only one who ever makes that connection. I've never called Etiole a demon or alien, again that has always been my father, Barbara and Brucie who said the alien and demon stuff. I don't believe in aliens or demons, but they do.

(Etiole if you don't know is a local elderly homeless man who has backpacked around New England since 1953, and since 1978 I let him camp on my farm in Old Orchard Beach when he's in the area. He's covered with scars from WW2 and they call him an alien and demon because of his scars. They refuse to believe he is a human, which just goes to show how absolutely stupid they are.)

In November an elderly man came over and started asking me why I was emailing him about Etiole and I'm not, I don't use email. He said he was getting over 300 emails a day about Etiole all claiming to be from me. He said there are hundreds of email addresses getting copies of this email. You remember when Barbara and Brucie used to send emails back in 1997 claiming they were from me but we didn't have computer or internet back then? I think it might be Barbara sending those emails again like she did back then. I can't think of who else could be doing it.

This sometimes blond, sometimes red hair, sometimes purple hair woman, also mentions these emails when she is in my driveway yelling at my Volvo at 409 Main street. 

FBI agent Andy Drewer has found and shut down, so far 27 Facebook accounts, all pretending to be me. He said all of them were owed by Brucie. These fake "Eelkat" accounts appear to be the source of a lot of what this blond woman says and is suspected that she may be one of the people behind writing them.

Due to the incident yesterday it is now also believed that she is the mystery blond woman who pretends to be my father's girlfriend and harassed my mother for no reason other then to get a laugh on watching my mother fight with my father (something they do quite violently in public places, in stores, just everywhere.)

If you know who this blond woman is, please tell FBI Agent Andy Drewer at 207-774-9322 at the Portland FBI office on Middle street. She is wanted for questioning about her connection to the November 14, 2013 murder of my baby and attempted murder of me, and the April 10, 2015 murder of my foster children and the September 26, 2016 hit and run attack on my car and the February 2019 vandalism to 27 High st apartment building, and the November 2021 attack on my Volvo and the March 10, 2022 attack on my Volvo and the April 10, 2022 ATM attack on my parents. 



Update: April 10, 2022, big violent attack, as police and FBI expected.

Today is the 7th anniversary of the murder of my family. Remember I said to watch who does what today?... My father just beat the hell out of my mother, tried to kill her. She is right now refusing to call the police. My mother claims she caught my father with a girlfriend he's had for several years now. But near as I can tell, all he did was stop to tell some random stranger how to use the ATM machine. Note, they got divorced in 1994, my mother left my father for another man, left the other man for another man after that, and left the next man for Wayne. She's been with 2 other men (possibly more) since Wayne. She has not been a part of my father's life for 30 years, but feels the need to control his life and harass him on extreme violent levels. If he does have a girlfriend, so what? She left him 30 years ago.

Wayne died during the cat court case, the 2nd one, when he sued my mother for stealing his cats and putting them in my motorhome. Wayne's father, 8 of his cats, and then Wayne himself each died a few weeks apart all from rat poison. Wayne's daughter sued my mother claiming my mother put rat poison in their food.

The fbi believes my mother did kill Wayne and his cats and believes that's why she put his cats in my motorhome. Fbi believes my mother was one who called police April 10, 2015, expecting them to arrest me, take the motorhome, and return the cats to her. She did not expect police to take cats. All the harassment and vandalism of my mom's cars is believed by fbi to be Wayne's daughter friends and relatives and family.

My family, my children were murdered in 2 attacks, one on November 14, 2013 and one on April 10, 2015, both attacks are believed by the FBI to have been attacks that were intended on my mother and the people hired mixed me and her up.

April 10, is my mother's father's birthday by the way, David Henry Atwater, it's WHY she does everything she does, all her wild crazy vandalisms to people on April 10 every year since the 1950s.


April 6, 2022 update, as the attacks on my family and property continue and now more people are in the hospital

Daddy has sepsis and they keeping him in hospital for a few days.

Sepsis is very bad.

That's what I had.

You can die a few hours after it sets in if not treated.

When I was in the hospital in 2014.

That's why I was in the hospital.

I had surgery for it in march 2015.

That was the surgery on my arm.

Sepsis was in a major artery in left arm to heart. 

Side effect from when I was in hospital November 2013 when I was in wheelchair and February 2014 when I was on crutches relearning how to walk. Doctors was focused on my hip and not my spine. They didn't find the source of infection until until the mri in June 2016. 

Sepsis is why I can't walk without cane and why my lungs are messed up and why I have tremors and can't use my hands good anymore. Sepsis infection was so back it damaged my nerves. I was scheduled for spinal column surgery September 2016, they sent me to a neurosurgeon who was supposed to be top brain surgeon in New England and he did more mri and then canceled surgery because damage to my vertebrae (from golf club attack November 2013, which is what caused all of this, including the Sepsis and is the attack that brought the fbi here they think Mark wife did it but college had no security cameras at the bug light parking lot, they investigating Mark family, Barbara family,  and Brucie family. Charges of murdering my baby and attempted murder of me) is so bad. Shattered vertebrae bone fragments are severed into my spinal column nerve bundle at the sacroiliac joint where the hip and pelvis connect to spine. Neurosurgeon said he can't operate because of how nerve damage is, said if he removed bone fragments I would be paralyzed from neck down. But that is also when the source of Sepsis infection was found to be in my spine and not my hip, and that is when it finally went away because they were able to target the correct place to fix the infection.

Mark’s wife is the #1 suspect the FBI is watching, because, according to the FBI, this mysterious Mark guy, whom I have never met, never heard of prior to this, have never talked to, and have never seen, so I have no clue who he or his wife are… according to the FBI, he is friends with my mother, but only via her FaceBook account, where she hired him to put in a septic system, then gave him MY address in Old Orchard, while making the claim that SHE owned both MY land and MY motorhome, and when he asked for a picture of her so he would know who she was, she gave him a picture of ME, not herself.

According to FBI agent Andy Drewer THIS is the reason why the backhoe was driven over my house August 8, 2013 and why the golf club attackers attacked me on November 14, 2013.

According to the FBI, my mother was trying to get my land so she could sell it to use the money for a down payment on a house in Kennebunk and she used this Mark guy as her pawn to do it, by fighting with him on social media using “fake EelKat” accounts to convince him that he was dealing with me, even though I had never heard of him before.

According to the FBI, my mother started sending his family death threats, in the same way she is currently sending Todd Murphey’s family death threats, and that this is why Mark’s wife attacked with the golf clubs, murdering my baby and crippling my spine. According to the FBI, Mark’s wife thought she was attacking my mother and was unaware that both my mother, her sister Barbara, and her brother Bruce’s wife Doris were all impersonating me, using 27 different “fake EelKat” FaceBook accounts to scam Mark’s family about a septic system.

This was confirmed by the Old Orchard Beach police in October 2016, when Mark attacked my mother in person and was arrested by OOB police, that day. He made the claim, that she, my mother, was me, but the officers in question, Robin and Will, both know me and my mother and informed Mark that this was not me that he was fighting with, it was my mother, to which he said this was the woman he had been dealing with since June 2001 who had called herself EelKat in every correspondence. The police showed Mark pictures of me and he said he had never seen me before and had no clue who I was.

This event October 2016, is when both the police and FBI started expanding their investigation, now looking for people who were friends of my mother, her sister Barbara, and her brother Bruce, and that is when they found the identity of long time stalker and bomb builder Kendra Silvermander who turned out to be a FaceBook friend of all 3 of them.

After Mark’s gang found out October 2016 that I was NOT the person they had been fighting with online, but rather it had been my mother impersonating me, the attacks on my family stopped but the attacks on my mother’s family started February 2017 when a road grader drove 75 feet up her driveway and flattened her car. Since then this event was repeated with 3 more cars.

In August 2021, My mother and her sister began impersonating me on FaceBook and with emails, yet again, and as they had done in the past, used my friend Etiole to do it. Once again, calling him a demon and an alien and a cryptid, and once again pretending to be me, they wrote a lot of emails and started mass spam sending them to every Maine email address they could find, at a rate of sending them to several thousand people a day.

I found out about this in November 2021, after Etiole was shot, gunned down by 6 people at Rotary Park in Biddeford, Maine on November 21, 2021, by people who claimed to be from Scarborough, Maine and claimed to be the mother and in laws of some guy named Todd Murphey.

I still have no clue who Todd Murphey is, but apparently he used to work with my mother and commit suicide recently and my mother and her sister took advantage of his suicide to yet again pretend to be me, and this time, calling Etiole a suicide demon, started harassing this Todd guy’s ex wife, son, and mother on FaceBook and via emails while pretending to be me. Which caused these people to show up at my 409 Main Street/Harvey/Cutts street Biddeford apartment to vandalize my car and cut all the wires off the apartment building, not once, but twice: on Thanksgiving day 2021 and again on March 10, 2022, because these friends and family of this Todd guy are 100% convinced the nut they are dealing with on FaceBook is me, when in fact, the one they are dealing with is no me, but rather my mother yet again pretending to be me.

This is also what led to the December 2021 and January 2022 FBI raids in the Cutts Street are of Biddeford, just a few weeks ago, which led to the arrests of 8 people.

Back to sepsis…

On December 24, 2021, my mother arrived here at 409 Main street and stole my father’s 14 medications that he takes for his triple by pass, his kidney dialysis, his diabetes… and then, she took him in her car, drove to his doctor, and told his doctor, he’s not allowed to have medicine, because he has to do what she says.

He has not taken his medicine since December 24, 2021, it is today April 6, 2022, and he is struggling to stay alive.

All of this is because she is hell bent on a house in Kennebunk and doesn’t give a shit that she has caused my baby to be murdered November 14, 2013, my foster children to be murdered April 10, 2015, me to be going through a decade long medical nightmare after being crippled November 14, 2013, 5 of my cars to be destroyed including The real Cristine The World’s Most Haunted Car that Stephen King based his Cristine off of, my house -the one that was in the Thinner movie- to be driven over by a back hoe, and now my father dying in the hospital.

Death and destruction at every turn, and she doesn’t give a shit because, as she puts it: “What are we going to do about Wendy? She can’t keep that land, I need a house in Kennebunk!”

Her obsession with getting a house is utter ludicrous insanity, that needs to be stopped before anyone else dies at the hands of her fucking retarded FaceBook friends who blinding attack, vandalize, and beat up anyone and everyone on her command.

I am so fed up with her blind devotion to a fairy tale house she thinks she has to have, at the expense of the lives of everyone around her.



March 30, 2022, update on yet another attack on my family and land

Police take notice. 


Scam artists have been bringing real estate agents onto my property in attempt to illegally sell my land. They have no right or permission to be here. My land is NOT for sale. If you see them doing it, please arrest them.

These are the Scottish Travellers. They arrive here every summer, harassing my family for four decades now. They are the same ones who drove a backhoe over my house August 8, 2013. The same ones who crippled me and murdered my baby November 14, 2013 with golf clubs, leaveing me paralized with a broken spine ever since. I am cripled with a shattered spinal column since the golf club attack and am bedridden weeks to a time unable to sit up or get out of bed. I have rebuilt my house 5 times in the past 9 years, and their attempts to steal my land and sell it have been barbaric and violent, and icluded a bomb that blew up my house October 18, 2006, and most of my family is now dead, murdered at their hands. These are the same people who cut my 1964 Dodge 330 in half May 10, 2010. They arrived back here September 19, 2020 and illegally cut down most of the trees across my lawn, and arrived again November 19, 2021 and for the last 20 years they arrive every summer with a green dump truck and dump garbage on my lawn. In 2014 they left a pile of garbage 175 feet long, 30 feet wide and 12 feet tall and it cost me $12,000 to have it removed. I am crippled and elderly and there is no one to help me against their harassment.

There should NEVER be anyone other than me EelKat Wendy C Allen (with the painted Volvo) or my partner Benjamin Wildes (with the blue Honda) in my yard at 146 Portland Ave, Old Orchard Beach, Maine, where the ink motorhome is parked. If you see ANYONE ELSE or any other car in my yard, please call the police immediately. There is no one else who has permission to be on my land.

My land is NOT for sale, if you see real estate agents, please inform them they are being scammed and the people trying to sell my land are NOT the legal land owners.

The FBI are on the look out for them as are the local police. If you see them in my yard, please notify both the Old Orchard Beach Police Department at 207-934-4911 and FBI Agent Andy Drewer at 207-774-9322 at the Portland FBI office on Middle street.





March 10, 2022 update on the most recent vandalism of my car

This is a copy of the letter that has been forwarded to the police departments involved. For this online edition some parts have been removed (so if you get to a place that seems like the topic changed abruptly, that is why) and the names are removed from the online version, but the version the police have, includes all the full names and contact info of all the people in question. And for those who have asked: yes, the police and FBI have talked to Etiole, they are fully aware of him, his health, his homelessness, etc.

Dear Sirs,

I feel I need to tell you what has been happening as it has gotten very much out of control the past few weeks. It's been slowly escalating for a few years and, if you look at my police record for both Old Orchard Beach and Biddeford, you will see dozens of reports for vandalism of my 1992 Volvo 240 (the painted one) at now 3 apartments in Biddeford, and vandalism of my land in Old Orchard Beach. In the past 6 months, a hyper escalation started with has become very out of control the past couple of weeks.

Last night, my car was vandalized again.  

As these events are taking place in both Old Orchard Beach and Biddeford, I'm giving this same letter to both departments, so events from both towns are listed.

I am Wendy Christine Allen of 146 Portland Ave Old Orchard Beach, Maine and 409 Main Street apartment 101 Biddeford, Maine.

There appears to be someone fairly local impersonating me online, and is raising hell with a lot of local people, inciting them to do very violent physical attacks on me, my Biddeford apartment, my Old Orchard land, and my car.

It's reached the point where I can not go to the store without having my car towed home, because it gets vandalized so bad while I'm n the store shopping. EVERY TIME I go to the store. I've been at a loss to understand why this is happening. I don't know who these people are or why they are attacking. On Thanksgiving day they cut all the wires off the Biddeford apartment building so we had no internet or heat or anything for a while. There is a "redhaired" woman who shows up on the front porch to cream at my car, every time the family who lives in that apartment goes to work. She stopped a few weeks ago, because the man who lives there fell on the ice, broke his shoulder and has not gone to work since. It appears she knows that family who lives there and does not want them knowing she does this while they are not home.

A few weeks ago an old man walked up to me, asked if I was EelKat and then asked me why I kept emailing him, and I said I don't email anyone cause I don't use email. He said some days he gets over 300 emails a day from someone claiming to be EelKat.

 

We are Gypsies, and though I've lived in America my whole life, I know very little of American habits and laws or what specifically to do in this situation. We are the Gypsies who were in Stephen King's Thinner movie and my 146 Portland Ave land was one of the filming locations of the movie and, the cars in the opening scenes were our cars, one of which I still have. I mention this, because, there are two Gypsy clans, The Atwaters (Scottish Travellers) and the Cyrs (Irish Travellers) fighting over my land and the fight centres largely around the fact that it was the filming location of Stephen King's the Thinner movie.

I own the land. From the 1940s it was owned by my grandmother Helen Ricker Allen. She left it to me in her will in 1983. Unknown to me, at some point after 1983, the Atwaters had the land illegally transferred into their names -they steal land this way as a full time career and many of them have illegally deed swapped land in all 50 states in America.

In 2014, I found out they are done an illegal deed swap, when an auction group showed up on my land to sell it. Upon discovery I had been living on the land since 1975 and paying taxes on it since 1983, but my name was not on the deed, the auctioneer (and member of the OOB town hall) cancelled the auction and ordered a town hall meeting to review the situation. Upon investigation it was discovered that when the land went from my grandmother to me, my father signed as "joint witness" and then a year later, went back to the town hall to have my name removed from the deed and his put on it, even though he had no legal write to do so. After that, the record shows that every 3 to 5 years, he and my mother swapped names on the deed, sometimes his name, sometimes her name. The land changed ownership names more then 30 times between 1983 and 2013. 

Because I have severe agoraphobia, I had not set foot off of my land since the 1970s. When it came time to pay the taxes, I gave my father the money and he delivered it to the town hall, or so I thought. In 2014, I learned that in spite of my paying my taxes like clockwork, since 2006, the town hall had no record of receiving any money. It is unclear where the money went. On one hand it looks like my father spent the money and never paid the taxes. On the other hand it looks like he sometimes did pay the taxes but instead of going to the tax office he gave the money to Kathy BR in the permits office and she gave the money to a guy called JB who went to prison for embezzling $3million in OOB tax money from the town hall. JB did not work for the town hall, he was a software designers who built the online banking security for the town hall to direct deposit money to the bank, and according to the FBI the money was going to his bank account not the town hall bank account, but he was only found with $30k not $3million. I don't know the full details, I only know this part, because when we tried to find out why my land was being auctioned this is the info we were given.

In any case, at some point my dad stole my land via just walking into the town hall and asking the desk clerk to remove my name from the deed and put his name on it instead. The whole thing was done illegally and without my knowledge or permission.

There were 3 lands originally. 144, 146, and 146a. My father stole all 3 of them. 144 was auctioned off to the Collard family in 2007, even though I was still living there until 2015 without any knowledge of the auction happening. No one informed me. I've since spoken with the Collards and they were unaware of the situation. They actually bought the land legally even though it was stolen land they had bought, they were unaware the land had been stolen. Everything has been straightened out between me and the Collards, they are not part of the current problem.

My mother owns 146a, but she owns it illegally. She claims it's rightfully hers because my father gave it to her, but, he stole it from me via illegally rewriting the deed, so he had no right to give it to her.

In 2014 and 2015, all the court and legal work was done to restore 146 back to me.

The current situation is my parents are in an active attempt to remove my name off the deed again, like they had done back in 1983.

On a daily basis my mother shows up and first words out of her mouth every day is: "What are we going to do about Wendy? She can't keep that land. I need a house in Kennebunk." to my father.  She started doing this in August, originally bragging that she was going to take my land out of retaliation for my refusal to cast death curses on Chris at work. I don't know who "Chris at work" is. It was one of the names on her list of people she wants me to kill via death spell curses. I was live streaming on Twitch the day she came in yelling about "Chris at work" and my need to kill him for her, so a lot of people online heard her saying these things. I'm a YouTube gamer, I have a livestream going almost daily for 12+ hours a day, so when she comes in, #1 it's breaking and entering because I didn't let her in, and #2 she is interrupting my live streams quite regular so I have hundreds of video footage clips of her saying these things and making these threats. The day she and my father cut the cable/internet wires off my apartment building - I have that on livestream footage as well. My father cut the wires off the house while my mother was ordering him to do it. In November 2021 and again 2 days ago March 9, 2022.

They both make the claim I don't need internet, because I am as they put it "being a bad daughter" because I "won't sell your land and give me the money for a down payment, I need a down payment, you are supposed to give me the down payment money for a house, I'm your mother!"'

As for what happened to my car March 9, 2022 - my father, my father vandalized my car and tried to make it look like my brother  did it. My father stuffed the tailpipe full of McDonald's ketchup packets that he stole from the Biddeford McDonald's where my brother works, which is what caused the fuel line to blow up. I could have died. My car is now being repaired again, for the exact same thing I had to have it repaired for in November 2021. My father tried to kill me and make it look like my brother who works at McDonald's did it so my brother would be blamed. Twice. Once in November 2021 and again 2 days ago.

My father did the same thing in November, because of some guy named Todd who I supposedly convinced to kill himself via may painting a "suicide demon" on my car. There is a picture of Etiole on my car, that is what they are calling "a suicide demon"

I don't know who Todd is, but I assume the Biddeford police know as they did spend a week scrapping the thousands of exploded parts of him off all the houses around Cutts st and South st, after he jumped in front of a train November 19, 2021 at 6:27PM. I was walking my dog and saw him, he was gibbering a lot of wild nonsense stuff like: "fibbery-gibbit-beebydi-booop-bop-boop-bop-booop-beeeeeeeep!" I amused he was either very drunk or very high on drugs or both and was attempting to make train sounds while he ran up and down the train tracks. I thought nothing of it, as he did this on a daily basis all summer long, he was a homeless man who lived in the ravine by the train tressal bridge over the river, the one the police kept chasing out of the black grain building turned storage units. There were 4 people on bicycles, driving circles around him bullying him, teasing him, taunting him daily around 3AM every morning. I saw them while I was walking my dog. It appeared to be his girlfriend and her friends based on the stuff she was yelling at him. Stuff like "You run off with that whore will you! WW I showed you! I killed your dog! Hahahahahaha! I killed your cat! Hahahahaha! And you ain't never gonna see your baby again! Hahahahaha!" I know every one says he commit suicide, but I think he was just running to get away from the harassers on the bikes and was too drunk to see the train. That's certainly what it looked like to me.

THAT was not a suicide, not what I saw happen. That was a man being bullied and chased down by four harassers riding bicycles up the tracks, driving him head on into a train on purpose to try to kill him so they could laugh about it. I wouldn't call THAT a suicide.

Anyways, I didn't know his name or that my mother was best friends with him. Though I had told her about the homeless man being bullied and her response was "Why should I care? It's just a homeless man!" She changed her tune quite a lot after he got hit by the train, and found out his name. The police contacted her or something, when they were trying to find his family. I guess she knew his family on FaceBook or something.

Since his death, me, my car, and my apartment have been attacked on a near daily basis from people who are making the claim that I am online spreading rumours and lies about Todd. I kept asking them who Todd was (because at that point I did not yet know they were talking about the homeless man hit by the train - though I saw him daily for about 4 months, ever since the police kicked him out of the storage until he'd been living in and he lived under the train bridge and in Rotary Park instead - he only ever spoke to me a few times - once to pet my dog and say "they took my dog" and saying "hi" as we passed on the sidewalk. So I never knew his name. He lived in a yellow pup-tent beside the tracks for a while, but one day it was laying out there cut to ribbons by a knife or scissors.)

Even though I only knew him from saying "hi" each night as we passed each other on the sidewalk and I never knew his name until after his death, more then a dozen people have arrived in my driveway (both the Biddeford and Old Orchard addresses) to accuse me and my friend Etiole and the words painted on my Volvo of being the cause of this Todd guy's train death.

They are focusing heavily on the words on my car, which say: "Have information about the murder of my family? Call FBI @ 207-774-9322"

There is a sign in my Old Orchard driveway which says: "Have information about the murder of my children? Call FBI @ 207-774-9322"

On November 14, 2013, at Southern Maine Community College, while I was 8 months pregnant, I was attacked by 3 people with golf clubs. A man and 2 women.

There is no reason for anyone who is NOT involved in the murder of my baby, to be upset about either the sign in my yard or the sign on my car, both of which are nothing more then the FBI phone number with the request for anyone who has information to call.

I don't understand why me asking for people to help find my baby's killer, is seen by my parents as such a huge threat. The only person who who feel threatened by that would be the person who hired the golf club people - Claire, Kendra, and the bald man - who have still not yet been found/caught/identified to this day 9 years later.

Both my mother and my father keep saying and I quote "take that shit off your car, you are only trying to start trouble!" and "get that sign out of your yard, you are only trying to stir stuff up". I'm trying to find the people who murdered my baby and left me crippled for the rest of my life. I'm not doing anything wrong. I'm not trying to cause trouble. How is me asking people to help identify the murderer, me trying to start trouble?

I was paralyzed for 5 months. I had to relearn to walk. I crippled the rest of my life, and my baby is dead. No one should have to live through this type of agony. And no one who commits crimes like this should be allowed to walk free. Would you stand back and do nothing, say nothing, while a criminal like that walked free? How is my asking people to come forward with any information they know, me trying to start trouble? You tell me that!

I'm not allowed to ask for help in finding the psychopath who murdered my baby and left me crippled for the rest of my life? What kind of logic is that?

Someone out there knows the names of these people. The older blond woman they called Claire, the younger blond woman with the Shirley Temple sausage curls, the red haired woman they call Kendra, the white haired man with the green pick up truck, the bald man with the 4door white pickup truck, the new redhaired women who screams on the front porch. These people, this group, they are the ones who were wielding golf clubs and murdered my baby. They are being allowed to get away wit murder and I'll spend the rest of my life demanding justice if I have to. You tell me, how is my asking if you know who they are, don't let them kill again, tell the FBI everything you know, by painting that request on my car and a sign in my yard, me looking to start trouble? My mother's priorities are fucked up. All she cares about is money, money, money, money, money, money, money, money! 

I'm the bed ridden, crippled by multiple attacks. The November 14, 2013 golf club attack, I was almost healed from, but the June 2016 shopping cart attack at my workplace at Scarborough WalMart re opened the 2013 injury and doctors can't operate this time because of the bone shards severing my spinal column. I'm crippled for the rest of my life and no one in this family ever cared. 

Both attacks the FBI wanted to talk to my parents and they refused to talk to him both times. My baby was murdered in the first attack. I was 8 months pregnant and all any of them would do was gibberish about "rosemary baby" and say there was no baby because it was a demon because it was Etiole's. My parents and the Atwaters hate Etiole that much, that they shun the existence of my baby and act like it was never there. That's how much they hate me. That's how cruel and hate filled they are towards me. They spent the last 50 years calling me demon possessed and them saying that is WHY local people attack me and killed my baby and left me crippled for the rest of my life. 

I am in bed 15 or more hours a day, I can barely sit up, I can barely stand up long enough to cook, I have to wear adult diapers since 2013 because half my organs don't work any more because the nerves from those organs to my spine are cut off. My hands shake so bad that it takes me hours to eat a single meal. I can't go back to college, I can't go back to work. But do they care? No. Not my mother. Not my father. Neither of them give a shit. They are both too damned selfish thinking about their own greed to ever once lift a finger to help me. Daddy treats me like a fucking slave and my mother is so far out of my life shunning me because bishop kenning in Saco ward told her too that she hasn't got a clue how bad things are.

I'm not doing a damned thing to any of them. I mind my own business. I write my novels. I don't contact them. I don't talk to them. I don't talk about them.  Someone is clearly pretending to be me online and is slandering me and getting sick of it. My mother flips out about everything thing under the sun and I never have a clue what she's talking about, because I never did or said any of the things she accuses me of. And my father and the Atwaters do the same thing. Some one is out there pretending to be me to get them worked into a frenzy just to sit back and laugh while watching my mother, my father, and the Atwaters be too damned stupid to think. My mother and my father and the Atwaters are all filled with so much pure hatred for me that it takes nothing to convince them to attack me. And whoever it is posting online pretending to be me, knows that and is taking advantage of it. 

They are obsessed with my land, because my mother's father used to tell people there was $7million in gold buried on my land. Several times over the years the Atwaters have invaded bringing with them shovels, pickaxes, and construction equipment, to illegally dig up my land. They've ripped up flowers, dug up bushes, cut down trees... usually they do it while I'm gone to the store, so I come back to find my property ripped to shreds. They've been doing this on an almost yearly basis since Grammy Helen died in 1983. According to what David Henry Atwater claimed, pirates buried treasure on my land in the 1500s. There is ZERO evidence that pirates ever buried anything on my land. Later he changed the story and said that the gold plates of the Book of Mormon Part 2 were buried on my land, this time he claimed an angel from god told him. So the Atwaters have multiple excuses for why they arrive to dig everything up, but it's always that they are gold crazy and have gold fever and are convinced if they dig long enough they'll find gold on my land.

The other obsession they have with my land is a homeless man they call "Etiole". They sometimes claim he is a demon, they other times claim he is an alien, for a few years they called him a cryptid, they often say he's the Mememegwasi spirit of the Saco River Curse, a few of them say he's a watcher/fallen angel, some say he's a ghost of an Indian chief, some say he's the ghost of a French solider, some have called him a Faerie/Leprechaun/FarDarrig ... and a whole slew of other claims. Regardless of what they call him, they all adimintly refuse to believe that he is just an ordinary human, an elderly homeless man who keeps to himself and desperately wants them to leave him alone. That's all he is. He's just a homeless man who lives in the woods and wants them to leave him alone.

The Atwaters are obsessed with Etiole on severe levels and have gone to alarming levels of monstrous harassment of him through the past 50 years. Part of their obsession with him, is caused by their previously mentioned gold fever. You see, Etiole travels all over Maine, I never know where he is at any given time, but when he's in the local area, I let him camp out on my land. I've let him stay with me like this for over 40 years. In the 1980s, one of the times they arrived to dig up my land, Etiole was sleeping in my 1964 Dodge 330, and according to them, he jumped out of the car and "threw blue lighten bolts" at them causing a tornado to destroy their construction equipment. They claimed he turned into a black serpent with red eyes and 6 blue wings that was hundreds of feet long, surrounded them and killed several of them by summoning lightning bolts. . . . uhm . . . yeah. I wasn't home so I didn't see this event, of Etiole supposedly attacking them. But it's pretty clear they had some sort of massive LSD hallucination, given many of them heavily used LSD back in the 1970s and 1980s when this event happened. According to Etiole, he just jumped out of the car and ran into the swamp to hide, he didn't see any of the stuff they described.

After that they got it into their heads that I had summoned a demon (and that Etiole was said demon) to protect my secret cache of pirate gold, and their battle cry of "kill the demon" is what caused them to blow up my house with a bomb October 18, 2006, drive over my house with a backhoe August 8, 2013, beat me up with golf clubs and murder my baby November 14, 2013, cut my 1964 Dodge 330 in half May 10, 2010. All those things you have all those police reports about.

They are convinced Etiole is in my yard to keep them from my gold. The only problem is, there is no gold on my land. Etiole is not a demon, and their extreme levels of harassment are utterly insane! 

But then, when they get caught on my camera, because I'm a daily vlogger, so the camera is running all the time, them they accuse me of harassing them, because their faces showed up on my livestream. Uhm... I'm on y own land, in my own bedroom, usually a few hours into my daily livestream when they get caught in the background trespassing. That's NOT me harassing them. That's them trespassing and vandalizing, and breaking and entering while not realizing I was home and them getting caught in the act of vandalizing and trespassing.

Then they run to FaceBook and make all kinds of wild claims about me stalking them. I'm crippled. I can't even get out of bed. Every time I have them on camera, it's because they were trespassing and breaking and entering. I'm in my bedroom livestream a game on my computer and they'll be smashing out windows and get mad that it happened to be the window in line with my livestream webcam on my computer. That's NOT be stalking them. That's me laying in bed playing Witcher 3 and them breaking in.

I'm too damned sick and crippled to even attempt to do half the crazy shit my mother and my father are accusing me of. And what's worse, my father is right here in the same apartment with me. He sees me every day, he knows how bad off my health is. 

Look how much I'm bleeding all over the house every day. Massive nose bleeds that last for hours to a time, not bleeding from my nose. Just coming out of my nose. I'm so dizzy I can't sit up for weeks to a time. I faint and blackout when I try to get up to go to the bathroom. The pain in my hip and pelvis and knee and spine is so bad I can't even move my fingers to type my novels. 

And look at what they do. Do they really think I'm physically capable of doing the things they accuse me of? They are so damned self centred and paranoid. It's all I can do just to sit up and eat something, how the hell do they think I can do the stuff they accuse me of? My day is spent focusing on trying to get my leg to move so I can make a meal, I don't even have time to think about them. 

It looks more and like my mother and my father are doing this stuff on purpose to try to kill me. My father knows how bad off my heart and lungs are and how difficult it is for me to breath after just a couple of steps. His mother left that land to me in her will in 1983. He stole it, had it put into his name illegally. He's been pissed ever since her death, because she gave everything to me not him. That's been a big problem for him for the last 40 years. He raves about it alongside his ravings about going to Utah taking him off the fire department. He hates my mother because of Utah, blames her every day for losing his fire department pension. He raves about it all night long every single night. He blames me for his mother disinheriting him. He raves about that all the time too. I was only grandchild That's why she left everything to me. Including the land that he stole and put in his name. That land is rightfully mine, his mother gave it to me, and he can't stand it. He's needling my mother about the land just to spite his mother.

He's only trying to get the land away from me because he is mad that the town didn't take it. His mother wanted it to stay in the family. It had been in her family since 1530. Her family was the original settlement family of Old Orchard and my land is that spot that the first house in Old Orchard was built.  My father stopped paying taxes to spite his mother and lose the land. He said so many times. He was angry when I bought the land back from the town. He still is. He wants it out of the family because his mother wanted it in the family. That's why he's trying to turn my mother against me over the land. Because he gates his own mother that much.

Keep in mind the 4 door white truck showed up at my workplace daily. Even though I never knew ahead of time what store I would be working at. I was a retail merchandiser and stocked shelves at dozens of stores all over the state. Walmart's every where, CVS, khols, sometimes local, sometimes as far as Freeport and once in Vermont and once in Massachusetts.  I got the notice of which store to be at 15 minutes before I left. So the only person who ever knew where I was going was my father. 

And yet the 4 door white truck would also arrive ahead of me and be waiting. They didn't follow me, they got their first.

And the police caught the truck and the driver in 2017. Kathy BR owned the truck. Her son was the driver.

The smith's are my parents friends. My mother's visiting and home teachers for years.

Kathy was the district emergency dispatch for all the towns in the area, not just old Orchard. That's why none of the 911 calls went through during the attacks by the 4 door white truck. He only attacked while she was on duty. She never forwarded any of the calls so officers never were told to come help me.

That includes the November 14, 2013 golf club attack in South Portland. But the college security officer made a report even though the police never arrived. That big black officer who was head of security was on duty and him and 2 student officers from the police academy made the report.

And FBI found the data from the calls, that never got forwarded to police, that's why Kathy BR lost her job. Because she's the one who tampered with the 911 call files.

Tim and Kathy BR both, not together, individually, arriving separately, both arrived at my tent multiple times throughout the entire year of 2013, saying they were coming to speak to me on behalf of someone who wanted to remain anonymous. So I never knew who sent them. Each time they arrived all they would say was that I had to tear down "the little yellow house" as they called the shop. 

August 8, 2013 the backhoe drove over the shop while I was at work on the food truck down by the pier.

I never saw Tim or Kathy again after that. Not once. And these were people who stopped by to visit my parents daily for over 40 years. Since August 8, 2013 and the backhoe attack on my house, Kathy and Tim have gone to alarming extreme levels to avoid running into me. They just down the street, on one of the private drives, so it's difficult to avoid running into me, and we used to see them a few times a week at local grocery stores. They both, if they see me in a store, literally throw whatever they are carrying across the store and run out of the store like they have a pack of rabid wolves on their heels. It's pretty fascinating thing to see.

My cousin and next door neighbour Tim Murphy was murdered that same week, a few days before the backhoe. His body was left at the cascade Ross road crossroad. 14 days later his head was left at the Portland Ave Ross road crossroad road. His mother put up the big white cross a month later. 

Note that there were THREE 4-door white trucks, a smaller one, a larger one, and a mega-sized giant one -like a Dodge Power Wagon type only it was not a Dodge Power Wagon it was one of the look alike brands, possibly a Nissan. The owner and driver of the big-big-super sized one is still unidentified. The other 2 were both caught in 2017, Kathy BR's truck being the larger of the 2. The 3 trucks often showed up together and drive circles around me, on Rout 1/Portland Rd, while I was driving. They would slam my car from back and sides and push me off the road. Several times they did damage to the frame of my car with had to be repaired multiple times. They've done several tens of thousands in damages to my Volvo over the years. You already have a lot of the smashed up car photos on file, at both Biddeford and Old Orchard police departments, you each have more then a dozen reports for attacks on my car -though the FBI has said someone attempted to destroy several of the records with my name, at the Old Orchard police department. FBI said they arrested the officers who did that. I don't know which files were damaged or how. 

For several years/decades now, I have had multiple people trying to buy my land. The same people over and over again. Only buying my land is not what they are asking for. Rather, they claim my land is cursed and I have to sell it to break the curse. Crazy, I know, but that's what they say. The crazier part is they say that after I sell my land I have to hand the money over to them so they can use it as a down payment on a house they want to buy in Kennebunk. The people in question are my parents and they've been doing this for well over 20 years now. I've always said "no, I'm not selling my land" and left it at that.

My mother (she changes her last name often, I'm not sure which she currently uses) and my father my father both have become extreme hostile and violent the past 2 weeks, and I'm not sure what set them off, but they are hyper infuriated on my refusal to sell my land and give them the money for a down payment of a house in Kennebunk. 

I did not suspect them, all these years, because always been other people showing up and say they were contacting me on behalf of someone who wanted to remain anonymous, but now they are directly doing it themselves.

Starting in June 2001, lots of harassment started and at first, I did not suspect them, or think there was a connection. But now they are outright bragging to my face, that they are the ones behind the vandalism. Like I said, check the police records for 144, 146, 148 Portland Ave from June 2001 til current date. There have been dozens of attacks, including drive by shootings, the bombing of my house, the backhoe driving over my next house, me being beat up with golf clubs which is why I am crippled now for the rest of my life and how my baby died.

The FBI is involved. If you need more information beyond what I've written here,  FBI Agent Andy Drewer can be reached at 207-774-9322 he is at the Portland Office on Middle Street, he is in charge of the investigation, of several events, namely the 2013 Boston Marathon bombing, which my uncle Paul Martel went to prison for building the bomb and selling it to ISIS. The 2006 bombing of the house at 144 Portland Ave Old Orchard Beach, Maine. My baby was murdered November 14, 2013, a backhoe drove over my house at 146 Portland August 8, 2013 that's why I'm at the Biddeford apartment right now, because we can't get Kathy BR at the town hall to get a building permit, even though she's not the one in charge of that, she takes over our application and won't let it be approved, because she claims I shouldn't be allowed to live in Old Orchard, due to my having left the Mormon church to become a Voodoo Priestess, she says that makes me a witch and I'm not allowed to apply for a house building permit on those grounds, so, it's been 9 years and I'm still without a house on my land in Old Orchard and still stuck in a Biddeford apartment.

It is a long list of a lot of things happening. I'll try to organize it all in order:

At it's start, the whole thing goes back to a homeless man who wishes to remain anonymous, so I'm not using his real name here, nor have I ever used his real name anywhere online or offline or with any conversation with any one.

He, didn't do anything wrong. Quite the contrary, all he's ever done is live in the Ross Forest and surrounding swamps and marshes along the Saco River in Pine Point, OOB, Saco, Biddeford, and probably other areas, he moves around a lot rotating where he sets up camp, something he's done since 1953. I know quite a few people have seen him and talked to him, I don't know if any police officers have ever encountered him or not. Because he is elderly and in frail health, I often let him stay on my land. He's the ONLY person who has permission to be there. Herein lays the problem: he's deformed from acid burn scars covering most of his body. Churches around the area have spent decades accusing him of being a cryptid, alien, demon, watcher, fallen angel, you name it, someone has called him some weird conspiracy. According to him, himself, he was a Jewish WW2 concentration camp survivor, who arrived in OOB with a bunch of other refugees in 1953. Because he's so deformed by his scars, he was bullied by the locals who refused to believe him a human, and that's why he fled into the forest and never set foot in society again. The problem is, the people harassing me have made up this wild conspiracy that he's a demon and I'm protecting him, and they claim they need to get me off my land in order to get to him.

This all started in 1978.

My parents (my father and my mother), uncles (12), aunts (12+), and cousins (64 at the 1970s/1980s time - more then 400 today), teased and bullied me throughout my childhood about him, but they teased and bullied everyone about everything, so I didn't think that much of their bullying back in the 1970s and 1980s when it first started happening. It was just them being the toxic bullies that they are to everyone.

It wasn't until the 1990s and 2000s that it started to become a problem. And 207 is when I first realized how big of a problem it really was.

In 1996 and 1997 Aunt aunt B sent out lots of emails to the family claiming the emails had been written by me. I did not have email, internet, or even a computer yet. She got Dickie (Richard Merlin Atwater) and David (Atwater) and Joey (Atwater -the one who lives in Australia and is wanted by the FBI for kidnapping and selling babies back in the 1980s- FBI can't arrest him until he leaves Australia -I'm not sure why- so he became a citizen. I don't know the details of what he's wanted for.) in raving warpath over it. All three of them showed up in OOB -even Joey from Australia-though I didn't know he was wanted by the FBI back than. But they arrived here in OOB to yell at me in person, because aunt B made the claim that the emails were from me, so they were all mad at me for having written them, but I never did know the contents of the emails because I didn't write them.

I did not see the emails. I didn't have access to a computer back then ad I didn't have internet until 2007 a full 11 years later. Dickie had several of them printed out and waving them around, but I never got a chance to read what they said. One of the emails was 64 pages long, and according to Dickie was all about aliens. I know nothing about aliens, so most of what he said was just gibberish nonsense to me. This was in 1996, shortly before Heaven's Gate killed 39 people in California and at the time, all 3 of those uncles, plus a few other uncles were members of Heaven's Gate, and one uncle -Mervin Bruce Atwater-made the claim to be "the leader of the Maine division of Heaven's Gate"- I don't know if he actually was a Heaven's Gate leader or not, but he maintained that he was right up until 2019, and in April 2019 he was making the claim to be following Comet Wormwood because HaleBop was the wrong one. Like I said, they were coming up with some pretty wild alien and UFO claims and I'm not sure how much of what they claimed was true.

Well, this was the first time I heard the word "Etiole" which was the nickname they had given to the homeless man who sometimes camped out on my yard. Etiole is not his name, it's always been just the word the Atwaters call him (they say it means man from the stars or alien and that it's a French word. I don't know French, aunt B is the one who knows French, so I never would have given him a French name.) Somewhere in the emails, aunt B had called the homeless man "Etiole" and "amphibious alien" and made the claim that he was an "alien grey" who had abducted me to some mother-ship.  

I have never been abducted by aliens and never made such a claim. I never heard such foolishness. But, that this point, I wasn't fully aware of what they were talking about, so I didn't yet realize they were saying that I was making the claim to have been abducted by aliens.

That's the summer they all showed up talking about Etiole and amphibious aliens and alien abduction. aunt B was the one who started all of that stuff about Etiole, who I never called Etiole. But that was how it got started...all this stuff that is happening now with the vandalism and threats going on this week March 2022.

Bruce and Dickie went to a bunch on MUFON forums from 1996 to 2007 spreading lies about me and Etiole calling him a demon and alien and claiming I was an alien abducted. I found out about what they were doing in 2007 after they'd already been doing it for 11 years. 

I don't think aunt B has ever stopped sending out emails about Etiole while pretended to be me, I think she is still doing it. I think this, because in December 2021, I was at the Biddeford library when an elderly man came over to me, asked if I was EelKat and asked me why I was sending him hundreds of emails about Etiole, and who was Etiole? I told the man I don't use email, I've never emailed anyone, I don't know what he's talking about. He says he gets over 300 emails a day about Etiole from someone claiming to be EelKat. But here's the thing: EelKat is not something I call myself. I'll explain that in a bit.

First, let's go back to 1994. Before aunt B started sending the emails out, while claiming they were written by me. My father (my father) was the one who told the Atwaters about Etiole. My father and Dickie both called him "the white monkey". 

In 1994 and 1996 Bishop Paul Morgan asked me to his office and showed me a bunch of letters, all of them signed "The White Monkey, OST". He said the letters were written to sound like I had written them but he said he'd seen my handwriting before and knew I hadn't written these. The Bishop wanted to know if I recognized the handwriting. Some had been written by my father. Others had been written by Dickie. One was written by my mom's father David Henry Atwater who died several years ago now. This was the Mormon bishop in Cape Elizabeth. This bishop had more then one hundred letters laying on his desk, and he had several boxes more around his desk. He said he received no fewer then 5 letter every day for several months, and was quite concerned for my safety as he felt the letter writers may be "mentally unhinged" and "highly dangerous" based on what he called "several homicidal rants" contained in the letters. He said he was giving the letters to Paul Peterson, at Pine Land Centre Mental Health Institute in New Gloucester, because he felt my father and my uncle Dickie should be committed due to the contents of the letters.

The letters looked physically bizarre. Each one started like a normal letter, straight across sentences, line by line, but upon reaching the end of the page, the words spiralled around the outer edge and into a circle around the page, then upside down bottom to top between the first rows.

Each letter contained codes and cryptographers, and large portions of the letters were unreadable unless you cracked the "secret code" that was included with them.

Both my father and my uncle Dickie frequently wrote in that weird spiral and zigzag of lines fashion. My father's letters were the ones that included the cryptography and hidden codes. Dickies letters were just weird spiralling but no codes to solve.

I did not read any of the letters, but the Bishop was deeply upset by them, and stated that he used to be Catholic before becoming Mormon and said that if he was still Catholic he'd recommend my father had an excorsim down, because as the Bishop put it "the white monkey letters are the closet thing I've ever seen to demon possession".

Later that same year Paul Peterson from Pine Land Centre arrived at church and asked to talk to me. He had with him, some of the White Monkey letters and like the Bishop asked me to id the handwriting.

Stake President Earnshaw (of the same church) later called me in to his office for similar letters he had also received and again the white monkey letters were written by mostly daddy and some Dickie all pretending to be me, trying to make it look like I was pretending to be Etiole. 

In total 16 Bishops and 2 stake presidents had contacted me over the years about white monkey letters, all citing they were receiving them daily. Some said members were receiving them. When I stopped attending the Mormon church, my mother's minister's at the 15 churches she was attending at the time, all started getting the letters. (At the time my mom had a belief that she had to be in church as close to 24 hours a day as possible, so she was attending week day church services at every church that had them, even though she was not a member of most of those churches. She became an atheist last I had heard and attends no churches at all anymore as far as I know.) 

My father was in and out of the hospital a lot during this time period (1991 to 1996-ish), due to the violent fights between him and my mother which included him twice being hospitalized due to blood gushing head injuries from a brick, which also included OOB police arresting my mother for beating him said brick. The psychiatrist from Pine Land Centre felt that my dad suffered serious brain damage from one of the brick beating attacks, and wanted him to press charges against my mother, but he refused. The psychiatrist said he felt that my dad's White Monkey letters was a side effect of the multiple head injuries he was hospitalized for. 

The white monkey letters stopped in 2007 when the psychiatrist at Biddeford hospital diagnosed my father as having schizophrenia and put him on psychiatric medicine. The Biddeford police have this arrest on record. We were living at Water st at the time and my father had tried to kill me and my brother Joshua and also himself. The police arrested him. He was in the psych ward for around a week, and released because of the drastic change in his personality that was caused by the medication. He was only released on the condition that he maintained the meds.

Since 2007 no one has mentioned Etiole or the white monkey, until November 19, 2021, when things (the vandalism and harassment and threats) started escalating, the week Todd Murphy died when people started showing up in Biddeford driveway yelling about Etiole and calling him a suicide demon, claiming my Volvo was demon possessed, and accusing me of driving my car around town to drive people to suicide. I don't know who these people were. The one doing most of the yelling has very unique and very identifiable hair: it's a "high fashion" stick straight bob, like what you see in Italy Runways, super stiff as a board, stick straight, like she uses a few jars of jell to get it so straight. And a weird dark-purple tinted red. Very anime cartoon looking hair. You can't mistake it. She always wears big dark glasses, and usually has a little skinny blond man with her, who appears to be her husband or boyfriend. She frequently is beating him over the head with a baby car seat, while yelling at me and my car, while standing on the front porch of our building. They don't live here, I don't know who they re or where they come from. She did it almost every day of December, and most of the last week of November 2021.

This is the first time anyone has mentioned Etiole in years.

They call him Etiole sometimes, White Monkey other times. 

I should tell you where the term "white monkey" come from.

There was a white monkey, in OOB in the 1970s. It belonged to Helen Pearly of Pine Point and was part of her "White Animal Farm" zoo that she ran, which was a little petting zoo of all albino animals. I think it shut down in the early 1980s. Most older folks of the area remember Helen Pearly and her albino zoo animals - which included an elephant, and other such animals. Well, one day the white monkey escaped and Helen Pearly was a friend of my grandmother's (Helen Ricker Allen) and Helen Pearly showed up at 146 Portland Ave (than 862 because the road was renumbers in 1982) to tell my Grammy Helen the monkey had been seen nearby and to let her know if we saw it. Well, after that me and the other neighbour kids started going out into the swamps looking for the white monkey because Helen Pearly was offering a reward for it being returned. And one day we saw it, and tried to catch it and we followed it into the swamps and we found a homeless man out there. He was sick and starving to death. 

The white monkey belonged to Helen Pearly and has nothing to do with Etiole at all. In 1978 Helen Pearly had a pet white monkey that got lost. Me and Atwater cousin Micheal and my Murphy cousin Timmy (the one whose white cross is on the Ross rd he died in 2013) saw it in the woods out back and tried to catch it. We found Etiole the same day. Etiole is a homeless man who lives behind my land in the woods. Me and Micheal and Timmy took him food. And to this day, we still do, except Michael moved away and Timmy died in 2013 so that left just me taking care of Etiole today. Etiole is very old, probably 80s or 90s today. He's very small, not much bigger than a child, maybe around 5'1"-ish. He's covered with acid burns, scars, and tattoos. He has extreme PTSD and is terrified of the sight of people. He's very skittish, almost mute, speaks mostly with his hands, and run terrified from any people who try to get near him. The only reason he didn't run the day we found him, was because he was very sick, probably pneumonia or something like that. Had we children not found him and taken him food for the next several weeks, he probably would have died that same summer. He must have been in his 50s or 60s back then in 1978.

We told the adults about him, and they went to find him, but, they found some plants instead out there in the swamp, and my mom called the police, and the OOB police called the state police, and the state police called the FBI and the entire rest of the week was lots of police digging up lots of plants. Adam and the Babe, were 2 police officers who were left to stand watch over us children while every one else hauled out the plants. News reporters showed up and the news stations called it "Maine's largest drug raid". I don't know what drug plants look like so I don't know what kind of drugs they were. According the the FBI agents who talked to use kids (we were all 5 to 10 years old at the time) a "bad name named Bryan Cyr put those bad plants in the swamp". The FBI agents said they had been looking for Bryan Cyr and his Cyr Clan from Connecticut for several years and wanted to know had we seen him.  We had not, though we did see him about a year later when the big shoot out happened at 142 Portland Ave in front of the Dome house - the day the dome house blue up because Anne Cyr set fire to the meth lab inside- I saw her poured 3 gas cans on the house then throw several matches. Bryan fled in a robin egg blue micro-mini pick up truck, screaming that the meth lab was gonna blow. The whole house went up like a mushroom cloud. It's the only time I ever saw the Cyr Clan.) 

Adam and the Babe went with us kids to look for the sick homeless man/Etiole as he's now called by locals, but he was gone by then, because it had been 5 or 6 or more hours since the adults found the plants. The 2 police officers looked all over the forest for him, and stopped when they found a human leg bone in the Bachelder Brooke and took that with them and left to join the other officers. (144, 146, and 148 Portland Ave and the swamps and forest behind it is a massive Native American grave - there are at least 500 graves, that back in the 1970s all still had markers, most of the dates are 1400s to 1500, but in the mid 1980s someone stole most all of the slate grave markers, so they are unmarked today. I assume the leg bone was from one of those graves - human bones wash up out of the ground all the time on these sections of land because there are just so many Native American graves all over the place here, on my land and the lands abutting me. It's why the Powder Horn campground can't expand any closer to my land - they hit Native American graves last time they expanded the campground.)

So, because they got sidetracked by all the drug plants and all the police everywhere for the rest of the week, the adults never saw the homeless man or the white monkey as both had been scared off by the huge crowd of drug raid crews.

For some reason because we found him while looking for Helen Pearly white monkey my father and the Atwaters got it in their heads that Etiole was a demon alien shape shifter who turned into a white monkey to lure me and Micheal into the woods. And that's how their stupid ass alien and demon rumours got started.

I should point out, her family, The Atwaters, are the Scottish Traveller Gypsies, aka as The Scottish Mafia by several white Americans, her brothers Bruce and David and several of Davids adult children, grandchildren, and great grand children call themselves Scottish Mafia  and act every bit fitting on that title, which is both why the FBI is investigating and why I have nothing to do with them.

Right after the June attack on her car, a large group of Irish Travellers showed up from the Carilinas and Tennessee and were setting up squatting camps all around the area, The had set up a large camp on BB street behind my Main st/Cutts St apartment in Biddeford, setting up in the big chain link fenced yard on the corner (which is why the owners have since roped the land off.) I didn't think anything of it at first, because the Irish Travellers show up in Southern Maine every year for decades now, so there's nothing unusual about seeing them setting up camps on any space they can find, you see it every year. Usually they camp on the cow farms in Dayton/Buxton/North Saco area, so seeing them in Biddeford was a bit strange.

I point this out because the week they arrived on BB, my mother and her Atwater siblings and their families flipped out big time. They put heavy focus on "the brown house on the corner and the chain link fence yard across the street" and laid out to harassing the landlords of those two locations. They had a list of around 100 addresses in Biddeford, Cape Elizabeth, and many other places included Rhode Island and Connecticut. I saw the list because my mother showed up at my yard waving it around and demanding I help her and the Atwaters stage an attack on the Irish Travellers, whom she claimed was family of the man in the green truck with the 2x4 attack on her car.

A war between the Scottish Travellers/Scottish Mafia/The Atwaters and the Irish Travellers -which include The Cry Clan drug gang from Connecticut - the one the FBI is here looking for-, is the last thing I want to get involved in. Those same two clans are the ones who did the 4-5-8 shoot out back in the 1970s/1980s, when they blew up the dome house at 142 Portland Ave. They were armed to the teeth with truck loads and school bus loads of illegal military guns back in the 4-5-8 shoot out and I don't want to see what kind of weaponry that same group lugs around now 40 years later.

I am a Voodoo Priestess. Voodoo is also known as Folk Catholicism. It is a branch of the Catholic Church. Voodoo is a Christian religion, that focuses on reverence the ancestors. Hollywood Horror movies have slandered our religion to such an extent that the average person thinks Voodoo is dark magic, death spells, curses, and voodoo dolls. Those are all things that exist only in Hollywood and do not exist in real world Voodoo. The problem is made worse, when teens and young adults, not knowing the actual religion, call themselves Voodoo while practising things they see in movies.  While the older generations of Gypsies and Travellers know the difference, younger generation have fallen far from the old traditions, especially the old religion, and sadly, even among Gypsies and Travellers today, many in the age group of 60 years old and younger, only know Voodoo from Horror movies and not from their grandmother's actual practice.

I say this because my mother and her Atwaters wanted me to join then as a "figure head" for their cause. They specifically demanding I summon demons, make voodoo dolls, cast curses, and use magic to kill the list of people living at the addresses on the list they had. In short they attempted to hire me to be a quasi-hit-man for them.

When I explained to them that this is not what Voodoo is about, Voodoo is peaceful, non-violent, we shun weapons and hurtful acts of all types, they lashed out at Etiole -who was not here, it was just me they were yelling at, yelling about him. My mother called Etiole a demon, said he was my familiar, said "I know you work with demons, you can't lie to me" and "you cast death curses on people all the time you lying little bitch, you just won't do it for me because you want to spite your mother, after all I do for you!

I made a Twitch livestream video that same day, telling what was going on and what I feared was about to happen, because I have seen these same two Gypsy clans go to war with each other before.

Well, I have too much to deal with with my health. I'm bedridden 15+ hours a day, so I do nothing but play video games and write novels and edit novels, ALL of which I do on livestream - yes, I livestream for 12 to 15, sometimes 19 hours each and every single day, and I have 92TB of hard drive full of that video footage all the way back to 2015 - I have every minute of every day of my life not only live streamed on Twitch, but I have ALL the video footage files, which mean I have footage of all the attacks, all the yelling at my car, all the demanding I cast death spells, all the trying to hire me as a hit man - all of it. I have over 15k hours of video footage. And because most of the attacks happened during a livestream, there are also hundreds of witness online who saw and heard the attacks and threats already, seeing and hearing them as they were happening.

Going back to the suspecting someone is impersonating me... My mother makes the claim that it is her right to cut the wires off my Biddeford apartment building, because she claims I've put her name, address, and where she goes online. I've never put her address or name or where she goes on the internet. Don't know what she's talking about. I gave her the FBI contact info and told her that if she actually is seeing "me" posting this stuff she claims I'm posting online, then she needs to forward that stuff to the FBI because it's someone impersonating me, and that was one of the things the FBI has suspected was happening so they are actively looking for that kind of stuff. They are trying to get to the bottom of who it is spreading these wild, crazy ass rumours and lies, both doing it in my name and doing it about me.

They've already located a shut down a few dozen impersonation of me, social network accounts, and so far, to date, all of them have belonged to just one person: my mother's brother Mervin Bruce Atwater. Well, it makes sense that HE would know her home address and where she goes, seeing how, for the past decade they were kind of joined at the hip and did everything together. Yeah, of course he knows where she lives and what car she drives and where she goes. 

Also, I never went to school, she did not allow it, There were several legal/court battles between my mom and the OOB school and the state of Maine ad the department of education throughout the 1980s, over the fact that she was actively refusing to allow me to attend school. So I never learned to do math or numbers. I don't know how to count or do money or any stuff like that. And numbers don't register in my head for some reason. People will tell me a phone number or home address and 5 seconds later my mind is blank on the numbers. I can't remember them. That's why when something like an attack happens I write down the tie and date immediately and keep it on a chart - I have a list, day by day, all times and dates of every attack since June 2001. I wouldn't be able to remember what happened when if I didn't keep a list like that.

Well, my mother knows all of this, so she knows even if she had told me her address, which she didn't, I wouldn't have remembered it long enough to even write it down.

In June 2021, I found out she moved, because I was walking my dog -we walk 3 to 4 miles a day, all over Biddeford, Old Orchard, and Scarborough, because I am trying to rebuild my leg muscles after having been bedridden since 2013, with only minimal movement- Doctors said I would never walk again and I aim to prove them wrong and well I have, because I am at least walking enough to walk my dog each day, but it is very difficult, and every step I take feels like a sword stabbing up my right leg and into my spine, because of the nerve damage. It is why I walk so slow and limp so bad, because it hurts terrible to step down.

Well, one day I was walking my dog and all of a sudden, there's my mother, telling me that I'm standing in front of her house and I was surprised, because last I knew she lived several miles away. I had no clue she lived 2 streets over from me and that she had done so for 3 years!

I don't know how she expects me to even know where she goes considering I've had no contact with her in almost a decade now, not since the stunt she pulled April 10, 2015 when she broke into my motorhome, filled it with feces, and then locked her 13 cats in it to frame me for animal abuse. She did not expect the Old Orchard Beach police to arrive and confiscate her cats and then not give them back to her and she has been in a social media battle with several animal shelters, veterinarians, animal control officers, and police officers ever since. Most of her harassment of these people has been targeted at former OOB town hall worker DF  and OOB police officer WW , both of whom she has been harassing on FaceBook for the past 7 years. You can ask DF  and WW  and their family and friends on FaceBook, how bad it has gotten. In recent months she added a new person to her FaceBook harassment, I don't know their name, just that it's the ex-wife and 15 year old son of someone named Todd Murphy who recently died from being hit by a train in front of my Biddeford apartment on Nov 19, 2021. Sometimes she says his death was a suicide, other times she says he was murdered and thrown in front of the train. I don't know which it is, I didn't know him, and only have her word for any of it.

In her mind, the way the whole thing was supposed to happen was: you police were supposed to confiscate my motorhome and she would take her cats and go home. 

What actually happened was: you police confiscated her cats, and I kept my motorhome.

She has spent the last 7 years harassing every pet shelter and rescue in New England, trying to find the cats.

In answer to questions about the cats from April 2015—those were cats belonging to Wayne Whitten of Biddeford, Maine. I was never able to talk about it because of the court case going on between Wayne's family and the Atwaters.

To make matters even worse, the cats were not hers, either. Rather, they belonged to Wayne Whitten and his daughter. My mother had stolen the cats from Wayne, in an act of retaliation, after Wayne refused to hand over to her, his father, William's land.

If you do not know, there are several polygamists in my family, all on the Atwater side. My mother is one of them. Wayne Whitten is one of her many Husbands, and therefore Wayne Whitten is also my stepfather.

In May 2010, my mother took a chainsaw to my 1964 Dodge 330. But it was not the ONLY car she attacked that week. Two days earlier, she took a chainsaw to Wayne's black 1970s vintage Dodge. AFTER, she locked her Old English sheepdog in the trunk and left it there for 6 months, and then tried to say that Wayne killed her dog, when in fact, she had.

Many people in Biddeford, Maine knew Wayne Whitten and his father William Whitten, and both men were known for the wild tales of Wayne's 5th wife, Jeannie, who daily beat him, gathered her older brothers to beat him, and hospitalized him several times, multiple times nearly killing him. That wife is also my mother.

Unfortunately for Wayne Whitten, no one would believe him about how violent and psychotically deranged his wife was and in the space of only a few weeks, his father, then his cats, and then Wayne himself all died. Because of the violent nature of Wayne's death, details were withheld from the public.

Three cats—the white cat Old Lady, and the 2 tabby's Trouble and Sassy, were already dead before the police arrived, and all three were diagnosed as having been force-fed rat poison. This is why, even though my mother put 13 cats in my motorhome, the police only took 10 cats.

Wayne's father, William, owned the cape house next door to Ben's Flooring in Biddeford, behind Walmart. In his 90s, with his health failing, my mother arrived demanding William sell his house and give her the money for a down payment on a mansion in Kennebunk. The exact same demands she is now making at me, these 7 years later. She did this to William Whitten in 2015, and Wayne's daughter to this day maintains that my mother's threats, demands, and harassment were the major contributing factors of William's death.

My mother took the Whitten cats, intending to hold them hostage, until William sold his house and gave her the money. This was why she hid the cats in my motorhome. This is also why when the police showed up asking about the cats, I had no clue what they were talking about and let them search the motorhome telling them there were no cats in it. My mother broke into my motorhome and hid the cats in there, apparently 3 days earlier, and I was unaware she had done this so was unaware the cats were there.

This is also why, when police officer Will Watson asked how many cats there were and what their names were, why I did not know how many cats there were and only knew the names of a couple of the cats that I had heard Wayne talk about.

William Whitten died while the cat fiasco was going on.

Wayne, realizing what my mother had done to his cats, tried to get them back, but he died a few weeks later.

Wayne, his father, and his cats all died a few weeks apart from each other.

My mother went around triumphantly bragging that she had gotten Wayne's father's land, via being Wayne's wife, and set about to the process of buying the house in Kennebunk. And got slapped with a reality check when the two wills got read and both William and Wayne had left everything they had to Wayne's daughter.

In raging inferno, my mom lashed out at Wayne's daughter, and a lawsuit happened, with Wayne's daughter charging my mother with kidnapping the cats, and using rat poison to slowly poison Wayne. A massive Facebook war happened between the Whittens and the Atwaters as my mother got her Atwater thugs involved, and the Whitten's fled in terror once they realized the rumours that my mother was part of the Scottish Mafia, was in fact, very, very, very true.

To this day, the remains of Wayne Whitten's surviving family live in mortal terror, daily vandalism, and barbaric levels of harassment at the hands of my mother, and her brothers Bruce and David and David's sons and grandsons.

More details of what happened can be found here: Amphibious Aliens: https://www.eelkat.com/AmphibiousAliens.html

And no, for the people who are confused, Amphibious Aliens has nothing to do with aliens. It is about a homeless man whom my mother and her brother Bruce, over hyper focused on, and together my mother and Bruce created an elaborate alien abduction and demon possession hoax, so they could try to scam several dozen locals out of their houses.

This cat stealing, house stealing scam is something they have been doing to people all over Southern Maine since BEFORE I was even born. The earliest known attempt at this house stealing scam dates back to their father David Henry Atwater and a house he stole in the 1930s in Rumford Maine. At the time, my grandfather used the hoax of an angel from heaven coming down and telling him to take the Rumford farm. And at the time, my grandfather was a transport driver for Honey Fizt's ACTUAL Boston Mafia, which is WHY, the Atwaters make the claim to be the Scottish Mafia. Their claim is that because they are Scottish, and their father worked for Honey Fitz that they are Mafia. But the Atwaters are neither Scottish nor Mafia, both claims are outright lies that are nothing more than part of the scam they run.

As can be seen with BOTH what she has spent the past 5 decades doing to Etiole and what she is currently doing to Todd Murphy's family on and off FaceBook, you can see how much my mother hyper focuses on homeless people and abusing their friends and relatives and using the homeless person's homelessness as excuses for the scams she runs.

That she spent decades running a land stealing scam in Etiole's name, and now is running another land stealing scam in Todd Murphey's name is utterly deplorable.

And you people who wonder WHY I've not had contact with my mother in 30 years, WHY I shun her. WHY I hate her and her Atwater thugs so much... you are right now witnessing it live as they do it all over again, this time taking advantage of the pain and suffering of Todd Murphy's family to try to steal land from people in the name of a homeless man who was killed by a train.

I am thoroughly and utterly disgusted with my mother's vile abuse of the Murphy family and what she is doing in the name of a dead man.

I've said it thousands of times before and I'll say it again: The Atwaters are scum.

The Atwaters devote their lives to abusing homeless people and the families of those homeless people, just so they can run their filthy scams, and I’m fucking sick of the Atwaters and their filth.


She has had several retaliation attacks happen to her, done by family and friends of the people she's harassing on FaceBook. the retaliation attacks included a Biddeford Public Works road grader being driven into her yard and over her car in 2017. Two additional attacks on her next car, the following year. And in June 2021 a man driving a green pick up truck drove into her yard and beat her car with a 2by4. (Note, I did not witness any of these attacks on her cars and only have her word on what happened.)

All of these people she is fighting with on FaceBook, I don't know, they are people she knows and they are not on my FaceBook and I blocked her and all the Atwaters from my FaceBook back in May 2015, when her and her nieces and nephews and siblings were posting death threats on my FB profile. One cousin cousin name, posted pictures of herself carrying a machine gun (not automatic rifle - but a machine gun - the big type you put on a tripod and have a belt full of hundreds of bullets slung over your shoulder- similar to a gatland gun but not as big, though she had pictures of her gatland gun too that she was also posting on my FB) She'd write under the pictures "This is the gun I'm going to shoot you with"... her husband was one of the guys arrested after the Jan 6 attack, by the way - the guy in Florida with the Nancy something's ( forget her last name, I think it began with a P? I don't know American politics, I find it all confusing so I'm not sure who the Nancy woman was). He stole her pulpit and  he was posting pictures of him stealing on FB. Her mom is aunt L, and she and he were among the 23 cousins that the FBI has been trying to find because they supplied a lot of the guns for the Jan 6th attack, according to posts they made on FB. I don't know, I never saw any such posts because I have them all blocked n FB since 2015. Her brother cousin name was also posting pictures of him carrying guns and writing death threats underneath on my FB wall. His messages said: "I'm an ordained Aaronic Priest and god has given me permission to blow your brains out with this gun". cousin name and cousin name are 2 of David and aunt L's 15 adult kids -all are 40 to 60+ years old. David is my mom's oldest brother, he's in his 80s. He is very violent, there has never been an occasion of him arriving on my land in Old Orchard, that did not involve his trying to kill me, usually by strangling me. He is the most violent of all the uncles. Several times while he's been here he beat up his adult kids by hitting them in the face with weights off of dumbells. 

Most of the Atwater men are retired Marines, and all of them are over 6'2" the tallest, is 7'3". These guys are HUGE and are all weightlifters. You don't want to cross one of the Atwater uncles, they are former Marines trained in weaponless combat. David runs a compound in Palmyra.. . and you might have just seen his crew in the news - they were doing a squatter's rights takeover of that big mansion next door to Stephen King in Bangor and somehow the place caught fire. The news reports didn't mention Stephen King and went out of their way to get camera angles that kept King's house out of the news, but I'm as familiar with Bangor streets as I am Old Orchard and Biddeford streets, so I recognized which house it was on the news, that got attacked by the squatters doing a take over war. 

My uncle and his kids are trying to confiscate the land all around Stephen King - they say they have the right to because no one was ever paid any money for being in The Thinner movie. That happened about 2 weeks ago, the news did not list the squatters name, but like I said, it's my uncle and his crew, they been focusing on the 20 or so houses around King's big red Victorian, for over a decade now. They tried to get me to help them do it, that's how I found out. They made the claim that because I'm an author I should be able to reason with Stephen King and convince him to hand over his red Victorian house in exchange for his never paying them for being in The Thinner. I told them to get lost and burn in hell. Just because I'm an author and King's film crew filmed a part of Thinner on my land in Old Orchard doesn't mean I know King himself, I never even met him, and them being obsessed with stealing land from people is just out of control. 

The whole Atwater clan does this. They don't see anything wrong with moving in, setting up camp, and driving the rightful land owners off their land at gunpoint.

They act like it's a family tradition to steal land from people, via squatting, harassment, corrosion, death threats, and outright just forging deeds and switching the files, like they did with my land.

And that's the issue we have going on right now. My mother has gone on a psych crazed warpath vendetta of taking my land or else, and or else so far has included her twice now having my father shove things up the tailpipe of my car, both times doing lots of damage t the car when I started the engine and everything inside blew up because of the fuel line blocked. And twice now - each time the same day as attacking my Volvo cutting the wires off the Biddeford apartment as well, in the same driveway where the car was parked.

Both times they admitted to doing it and both times used the justification that I deserved it because I was refusing to sell my land and give my mother the money to buy a house in Kennebunk. She says she has to move to Kennebunk to "get away from the niggars invading Maine, Kennebunk is all white they don't allow no niggars". She's very crude and vulgar and has an extreme hatred for black people and hangs around online with some group that calls itself "the workers of iniquity" which claims to be "a branch of the Ku Klux Klan because the original Ku Klux Klan is not strict enough".

Throughout 2016 people wearing KKK-like white robes and hood showed up in Old Orchard to make threats about my land. Back then I was unaware that my mother was friends with such a group. The robes are NOT KKK robes, the KKK robes are very distinctive, covered with fancy bead work and embroidery, and are not white, but are usually green or red or blue or yellow. It's a Hollywood myth that the KKK wears white, and that's how you can tell REAL KKK from fake wannabe's pretending to be KKK. Real KKK is not wearing white sheets and white pillowcases. The real KKK is a church that is organized similar to Catholic church and all their robes mean specific ranks, also they don't wear hood, they wear mitre hats like the pope does, and have a veil mask over their eyes. So its pretty easy to identify real KKK from fakers in white sheets, and the people showing up in my yard were not real KKK, they were fakers literally wrapped in white bed sheets with pillow cases over their heads. 

Well, various white-power groups show up in the area, that's nothing unusual. Neo-Nazi, Sovereign Citizens, ect. They've always been around Maine, so much so that there are KKK and white power history museums in Maine -one is in Saco. So, I didn't think much of the white hood idiots in my yard. We are Gypsies, white hooded idiots are a part of our non-white life.

Well, here's the thing: we are not white. My mother's mother was not a Gypsy. Eva Viola Little John Dyer Atwater was half Kickapoo Native American and half black. He mother was 100% Native America. Her father 100% black. My mom is 1/4 black, 1/4 Native American, and 1/2 Gypsy of Roumania/Arabian/Middle Eastern descent. There is not one drop of white blood in her. Which is why I was surprised to hear her say: "I gotta move to Kennebunk to get away from the niggars invading Maine, Kennebunk is all white they don't allow no niggars". Yes, Kennebunk is all white, and look at the news, the black school teach who lives in Old Orchard Beach and worked at Kennebunk schools is daily bombarded with swastika painted on her car while she's teaching class. I can't drive my Volvo down main street Kennebunk with out getting pelted with rocks and crowds running off the sidewalks screaming "death to Gypsy scum!" It's dangerous t drive through Kennebunk and not be white -they pull us coloured folks out of cars if we get stopped at a red light. Kennebunk is legendary for being the most white power town in the state of Maine.

One has only to look up the international news reports of the 10 year old school children dragging their black teacher into the streets and almost beating her to death -in 2020. That happened barely a year ago. Kennebunk is the most hostile anti-black town in America and they are proud of it, brag about it, and since the BLM stuff of 2020, Kennebunk has gotten ten times worse. And, she's been seeing all that in the news and wants to live there, and I'm not sure why, because like I said,  my mom is 1/4 black, 1/4 Native American, and 1/2 Gypsy of Roumania/Arabian/Middle Eastern descent and if she tries to buy a house there, and they find out she has black blood, they'll kill her. But she's all hyped up on a white power kick and wants to join Kennebunk's anti-black movement, and... I... I just don't understand it and I'm sure if that's actual why she wants to go thee or not.

There was a court case about the cats (3 different ones because the town hall dropped the case after evidence proved the cats were not mine and my mother had snuck them in my motorhome a few days earlier to try to frame me and then some MB guy crawled out of the woodwork to reopen the case a month later), which, for some reason was in my name, not her name, because the motorhome was mine, even though the cats were hers. Weirdly, half way through the court case the town hall dropped the case and some guy named MB Bureau took over it instead. Thing is, I don't know who this MB guy is. He's not anyone I have ever even met before and he was not at the court so I didn't meet him there either. He came in with lots of wild accusations about me harassing him, even though I had no clue who he was and had never heard of him before. MB's lawyer took photo copies of a conversation on Twitter between me and JB (the guy the FBI arrested for embezzling $30k out of the OOB town hall bank account - $3million in OOB tax money went missing, the rest was never found as far as I know. The Twitter conversation was this JB sending me death threats because he had just been released from prison, and he was claiming I had put him there, even though I didn't know him or that he'd been in prison or that he had stolen money from OOB town hall. According to FBI, JB was a church friend of my mother's and he and town manager Jim Thomas, had been Bishopric counsellors to Mormon Church Bishop DK and the 3 of them and several others from the Saco LDS church had taken over the OOB town hall in around 2010 and embezzled $3million in town taxes. Apparently my Uncle Mervin Bruce Atwater, Richard Merlin Atwater, and aunt B had been involved, been involved and they had used fake social media accounts in my name to contact JB so he thought I knew him, that's why he contacted me on my real account after getting out of prison. I don't know the details I only know the small bit of info the FBI told me to let me know why this JB guy was contacting me.) For some reason, this MB guy, said the Twitter conversation with this Joel guy was about him. 

And apparently according to the FBI, this MB guy owns the old abandoned logging road across the street from me, which is numbered as 139 Portland Ave. I don't know, that road has been abandoned at least since the 1970s, I had no idea any one lived down there, but FBI says this MB guy does. I've been at 146 since 1975, and I've never see any one live there. FBI says there is another driveway on a different side that they probably use. Any ways, for some odd reason this MB guy took over the court case with the cats, only he suddenly said it was about me being transgender (but I'm not transgender, so I don't know why he said I was) His lawyer came into court saying I was a man pretending to be a woman, and here's where it got really weird, the lawyer copied what he SAID was an "About Me" page off of my website (eelkat.com) only what he copied was the about page for the main character of the novel series I write (I'm the author of 138 published novels). The series is about a male Elf who is possessed by a female parasitic alien jellyfish. So it's a female jellyfish wearing the body of a dead male Elf like a coat and passing herself off as him.

Well, this lawyer (Gene Libby) for this MB guy is waving THAT fictional character profile around in court, saying it was my personal about me page, and making the claim that I was a male to female transvestite who believed I was an Elf... and here's the kicker... his whole spiel was trying to convince the judge that I was insane so this MB guy could confiscate my land at 146 Portland Ave! It was the most bizarre thing, and the judge thought so too, because the judge tossed the whole thing out of court because the charges this MB guy had against me were so oddball off the wall nut job ridiculous. But the thing was, again, it was someone making wild claims that I had to hand them over my land, which is what keeps happening with every one of these weird attacks. And always, like both these 2 guys: JB and MB Bureau they are creepy ass strangers who crawl out of the woodwork, people I've never heard of before, making claims to being my friend (JB made the claim he was my best friend and said we talked all the time on FaceBook, but he wasn't on my FB and I'd never heard of him before. While MB Bureau in his court papers made the claim to be one of my uncles -he is not-and)

aunt B and aunt L of Bangor used to be putting stuff online about me and my brothers and JB would get it from aunt B and aunt L and forward it every where. This was in 2010 era, but I did not see the posts, because none of them is a FaceBook friend of me. The FBI however said they saw a lot of the posts, these people made, including several death threats. Seems likely something like that is happening again given the way people keep showing up here at the Biddeford apartment when no one even knew I was here.

I met aunt L about 3 times during my childhood, it's been 30+ years since I last saw her, and I've never spoken with her online or offline not once in my entire life.

aunt B I meet 10 or 12 times during my childhood, and likewise it's been 30+ years since I last saw her, except for 2 times. One in 2013 she showed up at my Biddeford apartment on Water St, with some medical scam idea she had that she wanted me to help her with. She said she was working at Blue Cross/Blue Shield and had found a way to get people's insurance money because a lot of people didn't file claims; she said she was also an EMT, and she could take the records from one job to cross with the other job, to have people's insurance money forwarded to a POBox she owned. I told her I wanted nothing to do with it and to get lost. I don't know how true any of the stuff she said was. I don't know if she worked at those places or could do the scam she was claiming or not.

aunt B showed up again in 2016, at the Gazebo Park (might be named Mechanic's Park?) on the Saco River by the water treatment plant. I was there walking my dog, and my mother showed up with an uncle Peter (now deceased) who was visiting from Utah. They were having a picnic. aunt B and Bruce showed up to trash everything, steal the food, and then leave. They were yelling and screaming the whole time. They acted drunk, except I didn't think they drank. I don't know. Mormons don't drink, not usually.

So I don't know aunt B and aunt L otherwise. I know nothing about them. Have never had contact with them, have never spoken with them online or offline. So, I'm puzzled as to why they were posting things online about me in 2010, or why they were acting like they knew me, when neither of them has ever been a part of my life or know anything about me.

But, they make claims that I say and do various things that I don't say or do. The list of things they've accused me of is massive and kind of crazy and include the claims that I am a prostitute, and that I am a Mafia gang leader ... like I said, it's just wild and also very slanderous and I'm sick of it.

Back in 2019 when my mother got her car, she had it over a month before I even knew she had gotten a car. I found out she had it when she flipped out saying I was online telling people she bought a car. And it turned out is was aunt B and Brucie online telling everyone she got a car, but I had told them,  even thought I had never talked to either of them since 2013 when FBI told me cut off all contact with them

aunt B and Bruce and aunt L all 3 are constantly telling people I said things, that I never said. 

I told you people been showing up talking about Todd and claiming I said things online about him, but I don't even know who he is or what they are talking about. It almost looks like someone is online impersonating me.

A few weeks ago an old man walked up to me, asked if I was EelKat and then asked me why I kept emailing him, and I said I don't email anyone cause I don't use email. He said some days he gets over 300 emails a day from someone claiming to be EelKat 

Last time my car had this problem was same day my father cut the internet on my mom's orders. Suspicious my car has same problem again, same day internet goes off again. It went off while my mother was here

aunt B showed up at water st day after golf club attack, but I never knew how she found out , I never told anyone online about it . Her and Bruce knew about it some how before any one else.  They wanted me to use my injury to help them run a medical scam and they were pissed when I refused to. They started spreading lies about me online because of that. That was Nov 2013

aunt B and Bruce knew about the cats and DAY BEFORE it happened. aunt B posted on my FaceBook wall "the next head nailed to the door will be yours" the day before any heads were nailed to door

I think it's aunt B online saying stuff about me and my mom, because she did it before and because FBI was here asking about her going down to Washington Jan 6 attack, but I didn't yet know the Jan 6 attack had even happened. They said aunt B aunt L and 23 cousins had been down there and they FBI was trying to find them. 

Old Orchard police and Biddeford police and a detective have all shown up asking about aunt B and aunt L and 23 cousins as well. But again I don't know anything because I not had contact with them. But FBI, 2 police departments and a detective are all saying aunt B and aunt L and 23 cousins are making claims about me, in connection to bombs and ISIS .

That's how I found out Paul Martel was in prison. According to FBI agents, Paul Martel built the bombs for the 2013 Boston marathon and the 2013 bomb at South Maine Community College and put the college bomb in my class to make it look like I made the Boston bomb. That's why the FBI showed up to begin with. They were at the college investigating both bombs that happened the same day

FBI said they believed the whole thing was aunt B and Bruce idea, but Paul martial was the one who actually built the bomb and sold it to ISIS, and put the second bomb in my class at college so Paul Martel was the only one they could arrest. FBI is trying to arrest aunt B because they think she's the one behind it. They said the whole thing seems to have started because Scott went to prison for selling drugs at Scarborough downs and for some reason aunt B thinks I'm the one who turned him in, even though I've not seen or heard from Scott since he was 8 years old

FBI thinks the attack on the cats was aunt B retaliating because Paul Martel got arrested. 

When Dickie died also in 2013, after the bomb in Boston but before the golf club attackers aunt B was with him taking charge of his medicine and his official cause of death was an overdose of his medicine, with a not saying unable to determine if accident or suicide. I found out this 2 days after he died when Jacksonville County state police from Florida showed up here in Maine to interview me about where I was the day Dickie died  because when he died aunt B called 911 and told the police I had killed him. 

The FBI thinks the golf club attack was aunt B retaliating because police didn't arrest me for murdering Dickie like she had demanded they do

FBI is full focused on arresting aunt B and Bruce. There's no evidence Bruce is dead. All evidence points to him being in New Zealand. 

FBI believes Bruce faked death because FBI was moving in to close and he didn't want to take the fall for what aunt B is doing 

In 1996 and 1997 aunt B sent out lots of emails to the family claiming the emails had been written by me. I did not have email, internet, or even a computer yet. She got Dickie and David and Joey in raving warpath over it. That's the summer they all showed up talking about Etiole and amphibious aliens and alien abduction. aunt B was the one who started all of that stuff about Etiole, who I never called Etiole. Etiole is not his name, it's always been the word the Atwaters used to describe him (it means man from the stars or alien it's a French word. I don't know French, aunt B is the one who knows French, so I never would have given him a French name) Bruce and Dickie went to a bunch on MUFON forums from 1996 to 2007 spreading lies about me and Etiole calling him a demon and alien and claiming I was an alien abducted. I found out about it in 2007 after they'd already been doing it for 11 years. I don't think aunt B has ever stopped sending out emails about Etiole while pretended to be me, I think she is still doing it.

My father was the one who told the Atwaters about Etiole. My father and Dickie both called him the white monkey. In 1994 and 1996 Bishop Morgan asked me to his office and showed me a bunch of letters, all of them signed "The White Monkey, OST". He said the letters were written to sound like I had written them but he said he'd seen my handwriting before and knew I hadn't written these. He wanted to know if I recognized the handwriting. Some had been written by daddy. Others had been written by Dickie. President Earnshaw later called me in for similar letters he had received and again the white monkey letters were written by mostly daddy and some Dickie all pretending to be me, trying to make it look like I was pretending to be Etiole. In total 16 Bishops and 2 stake presidents had contacted me over the years about white monkey letters

The white monkey letters stopped in 2007 when the psychiatrist at Biddeford hospital diagnosed daddy as having schizophrenia and put him on psychiatric medicine. Since 2007 no one has mentioned Etiole or white monkey, until the week Todd died when people started showing up in Biddeford driveway yelling about Etiole and calling him a suicide demon

The white monkey belonged to Helen pearly and has nothing to do with Etiole at all. In 1978 Helen pearly had a pet white monkey that got lost. Me and cousin Micheal saw it in the woods out back and tried to catch it. We found Etiole the same day. Etiole is a homeless man who lives behind my land in the woods. Me and Micheal took him food. For some reason because we found him while looking for Helen pearly white monkey my father and the Atwaters got it in their heads that Etiole was a demon alien shape shifter who turned into a white monkey to lure me and Micheal into the woods. And that's how their stupid ass alien and demon rumours got started.

I used to let him sleep in the Dodge at night, that's why people started saying the car was haunted. They said Etiole was a demon and the car was demon possessed. My father and Bruce used to stay up all night debating what kind of demon Etiole must be and kept calling me a demon child and a witch and saying I was demon possessed and they called Etiole my familiar and said I summoned him to cast curses and death spells. Bruce believed all that stuff as actual fact and after Bruce left for the night my dad would joke about how gullible Bruce was and how easy it was to convince him demons lived in my car. From there the rumours ended up on the internet through the Heaven's Gate group, that Bruce was a member of at the time. They were a group of around 200 people who went from one UFO forum to the next spreading rumours about me and Etiole. They did that for 11 years before I found out Bruce and his UFO friends were doing it. 

I found out when people started showing up in Old Orchard with beeping equipment claiming they were here the capture Etiole while calling him an amphibious alien and EBE and calling me "EelKat Etiole's friend" I did not use the username EelKat online and none of my books about EelKat (the black bobcat) had ever been published so there was no reason for internet people to know either the name EelKat or Etiole.  I was using the username xavychup online not EelKat, that's why my email address is xavychup not EelKat. EelKat is something Grammy called me back in the 1970s because she said eels and cats were my spirit animals. I never called myself EelKat online or offline so only the Atwaters had ever heard that word before and yet in 2007, I spent the entire summer with endless people showing up in my yard at my tent and all calling me EelKat and all looking for Etiole. 

Because I was living under the tarp I had no access to internet yet so had no clue what was going on online. I went to the library and searched Etiole and EelKat to see what came up and I found tens of thousands of forum posts and interviews and articles all written by Bruce and Dickie, including interviews with Buddy Hopkins, David Mack, and David Icke. All the stuff they said was how they had this demon possessed niece who had been abducted by aliens and has brought an alien back from the mother ship with her and was now protecting him. Every one of the forum posts. Interviews and articles had my full name, my old Orchard address, my email, and my old Orchard phone number listed. That was why so many people were showing up at the tent. In 2006 to 2009. The whole thing of people calling me a Witch and saying about curses and death spells and aliens and demons was started by daddy saying that stuff to Bruce and then Bruce and Dickie spreading it online for 11 years from 1996 to 2007

I started using the name EelKat online BECAUSE my uncles had spent 11 years calling me that on MUFON forums, and when I found out about it and started contacting all the forum admins, I had to tell every one:

"I'm Wendy Christine Allen. I'm the one you all call EelKat, Etiole's friend, the REAL EelKat, friend of the REAL Etiole,  and I'm here to slap every damned one of you with protection from harassment orders. I'm tired of the slander and lies you people are spreading about me of fucking UFO websites. I'm not an alien abductee, I've never claimed to be, until this morning I didn't even know what an alien abductee was. Etiole is not an alien. Etiole is not a demon. He's a local homeless man who has a skin deformity, so he hides in the forest because people are scared of him because of what he looks like, and they beat him up and bully him. The people telling you he's an alien are my uncles, who the ring leaders behind beating him up and bullying him, and I'm quite upset to find out they've been doing it online for quite some time and I'm only just finding out about it now, because earlier this week, I had 30,000 people in my driveway, trying to catch him while screaming that he was an amphibious alien and EBE. You UFO crazies are insane, and I want you people out of my yard. My uncles are lying to you about me and Etiole and you'll idiots for believing them."

I created an EelKat username EVERYWHERE just so I could post that message to every place my uncles had posted that fucking ass alien abduction shit about me and Etiole. THAT, is why you saw me start to use the EelKat username in 2007, when I was always xavychup everywhere before that.

And that is also why I do NOT have an EelKat email.  I've had the xavychup email since 1994, I still have it. And anyone using an eelkat email to contact you isn't me, because I don't have an eelkat email. It always has been and still is xavychup.

Last I knew aunt B and Bruce and aunt L and Bruce's daughters and David's kids and grandchildren were all still continuing to spread demon and alien lies about me and Etiole and were still putting my real name and address on everything. In 2019 they were putting my old Orchard address my high street address and also my water st address even though I was no longer at water street on thousands of forum posts and Facebook posts. In 2019 they were making several hundred posts daily across all there accounts and I found 27 fake EelKat accounts owned just by Bruce himself alone. They were all things like eeelkat, ee1kat, 33lkat, etc. Slightly spell different to look like it was me, yo someone looking quick and not paying attention.  They are likely still doing it and I assume they are doing the same to my mother as well. 

Also I don't even know what mothers address is. How could I put it anywhere? I didn't even know she moved until last summer and apparently she moved a few years ago. No one ever told me she had moved. 

Just like the saying about me saying she got a car. I didn't know about the white car until she came over in it to see Mickey last may and apparently she had a few cars in between. Last car I knew was the black one. I didn't even know she had a new car, let alone more than one.

No one ever told me those things, not her or any one else so it's utterly stupid for her to think I could put her address or cars online. Only people who knew about her address and cars could put them online.

Don't forget she never even told me when Dickie or Bruce died. Both times I found out from the FBI showing up to investigate accusations that I had murdered them

I'm the bed ridden, crippled by multiple attacks. The November 14, 2013 golf club attack, I was almost healed from, but the June 2016 shopping cart attack re opened the 2013 injury and doctors can't operate this time because of the bone shards severing my spinal column. I'm crippled for the rest of my life and no one in this family ever cared. 

Both attacks the FBI wanted to talk to my parents and they refused to talk to him both times. My baby was murdered in the first attack. I was 8 months pregnant and all any of them would do was gibberish about "rosemary baby" and say there was no baby because it was a demon because it was Etiole's. My parents and the Atwaters hate Etiole that much, that they shun the existence of my baby and act like it was never there. That's how much they hate me. That's how cruel and hate filled they are towards me. They spent the last 50 years calling me demon possessed and them saying that is WHY local people attack me and killed my baby and left me crippled for the rest of my life. 

I am in bed 15 or more hours a day, I can barely sit up, I can barely stand up long enough to cook, I have to wear adult diapers since 2013 because half my organs don't work any more because the nerves from those organs to my spine are cut off. My hands shake so bad that it takes me hours to eat a single meal. I can't go back to college, I can't go back to work. But do they care? No. Not my mother. Not my father. Neither of them give a shit. They are both too damned selfish thinking about their own greed to ever once lift a finger to help me. Daddy treats me like a fucking slave and my mother is so far out of my life shunning me because bishop kenning in Saco ward told her too that she hasn't got a clue how bad things are.

I'm not doing a damned thing to any of them. I mind my own business. I write my novels. I don't contact them. I don't talk to them. I don't talk about them.  Someone is clearly pretending to be me online and is slandering me and getting sick of it. My mother flips out about everything thing under the sun and I never have a clue what she's talking about, because I never did or said any of the things she accuses me of. And my father and the Atwaters do the same thing. Some one is out there pretending to be me to get them worked into a frenzy just to sit back and laugh while watching my mother, my father, and the Atwaters be too damned stupid to think. My mother and my father and the Atwaters are all filled with so much pure hatred for me that it takes nothing to convince them to attack me. And whoever it is posting online pretending to be me, knows that and is taking advantage of it. 

I'm too damned sick and crippled to even attempt to do half the crazy shit my mother and my father are accusing me of. And what's worse, my father is right here in the same apartment with me. He sees me every day, he knows how bad off my health is. 

Look how much I'm bleeding all over the house every day. Massive nose bleeds that last for hours to a time, not bleeding from my nose. Just coming out of my nose. I'm so dizzy I can't sit up for weeks to a time. I faint and blackout when I try to get up to go to the bathroom. The pain in my hip and pelvis and knee and spine is so bad I can't even move my fingers to type my novels. 

And look at what they do. Do they really think I'm physically capable of doing the things they accuse me of? They are so damned self centred and paranoid. It's all I can do just to sit up and eat something, how the hell do they think I can do the stuff they accuse me of? My day is spent focusing on trying to get my leg to move so I can make a meal, I don't even have time to think about them. 

It looks more and like my mother and my father are doing this stuff on purpose to try to kill me. My father knows how bad off my heart and lungs are and how difficult it is for me to breath after just a couple of steps. His mother left that land to me in her will in 1983. He stole it, had it put into his name illegally. He's been pissed ever since her death, because she gave everything to me not him. That's been a big problem for him for the last 40 years. He raves about it alongside his ravings about going to Utah taking him off the fire department. He hates my mother because of Utah, blames her every day for losing his fire department pension. He raves about it all night long every single night. He blames me for his mother disinheriting him. He raves about that all the time too. I was only grandchild That's why she left everything to me. Including the land that he stole and put in his name. That land is rightfully mine, his mother gave it to me, and he can't stand it. He's needling my mother about the land just to spite his mother.

He's only trying to get the land away from me because he is mad that the town didn't take it. His mother wanted it to stay in the family. It had been in her family since 1530. Her family was the original settlement family of old Orchard and my land is that spot that the first house in Old Orchard was built.  My father stopped paying taxes to spite his mother and lose the land. He said so many times. He was angry when I bought the land back from the town. He still is. He wants it out of the family because his mother wanted it in the family. That's why he's trying to turn my mother against me over the land. Because he gates his own mother that much.

Keep in mind the 4 door white truck showed up at my workplace daily. Even though I never knew ahead of time what store I would be working at. I was a retail merchandiser and stocked shelves at dozens of stores all over the state. Walmart's every where, CVS, khols, sometimes local, sometimes as far as Freeport and once in Vermont and once in Massachusetts.  I got the notice of which store to be at 15 minutes before I left. So the only person who ever knew where I was going was my father. 

And yet the 4 door white truck would also arrive ahead of me and be waiting. They didn't follow me, they got their first.

And the police caught the truck and the driver in 2017. Kathy BR owned the truck. Her son was the driver.

The smith's are my parents friends. My mother's visiting and home teachers for years.

Kathy was the district emergency dispatch for all the towns in the area, not just old Orchard. That's why none of the 911 calls went through during the attacks by the 4 door white truck. He only attacked while she was on duty. She never forwarded any of the calls so officers never were told to come help me.

That includes the November 14, 2013 golf club attack in South Portland. But the college security officer made a report even though the police never arrived. That big black officer who was head of security was on duty and him and 2 student officers from the police academy made the report.

And FBI found the data from the calls, that never got forwarded to police, that's why Kathy BR lost her job. Because she's the one who tampered with the 911 call files.

Tim and Kathy BR both, not together, individually, arriving separately, both arrived at my tent multiple times throughout the entire year of 2013, saying they were coming to speak to me on behalf of someone who wanted to remain anonymous. So I never knew who sent them. Each time they arrived all they would say was that I had to tear down "the little yellow house" as they called the shop. 

August 8, 2013 the backhoe drove over the shop while I was at work on the food truck down by the pier.

I never saw Tim or Kathy again after that. Not once. And these were people who stopped by to visit my parents daily for over 40 years. Since August 8, 2013 and the backhoe attack on my house, Kathy and Tim have gone to alarming extreme levels to avoid running into me. They just down the street, on one of the private drives, so it's difficult to avoid running into me, and we used to see them a few times a week at local grocery stores. They both, if they see me in a store, literally throw whatever they are carrying across the store and run out of the store like they have a pack of rabid wolves on their heels. It's pretty fascinating thing to see.

My cousin and next door neighbour Tim Murphy was murdered that same week, a few days before the backhoe. His body was left at the cascade Ross road crossroad. 14 days later his head was left at the Portland Ave Ross road crossroad road. His mother put up the big white cross a month later. 

The 4 door white truck showed up a few days later. 

Tim Murphy had an identical truck. The police and FBI initially thought it was his, but his truck was later found.

Tim Murphy owned Etiole's swamp and was the one buying most of the food and supplies for Etiole. 

Tim Murphy was with me and Micheal the day we tried to catch Helen pearly white monkey and found Etiole. 

The FBI believes that Tim Murphy was killed by someone trying to frame Etiole and believes the murder was a retaliation over Tim Murphy refusing to sell the swamp land behind me. 

At the time the FBI was looking at DF Feeney as a suspect but DF Feeney's family was killed in a murder suicide and he too is now seen as someone who was being framed.

The swamp, sandpit, and pond behind me, the Murphys own that, and 3 people in their family have now died horrifically violent deaths because they, like me were protecting Etiole from the people who would kill him because they believed Bruce's demon and alien lies about Etiole. 

Look at what is being done to me. They drove a backhoe over my house and they murdered my baby and they crippled me, all days apart.

Look at what is being done to the Murphys. And they're massacring the Murphy family. Tim's death the same time as the attack on me.

And look at who screams the loudest hate for Etiole. Look WHO calls him a demon.

And look at WHO the FBI's number one suspect in all of this is.

My family laughs and jokes about this whole thing like they think it's a fucking game. People are dying and the FBI is not laughing. 

Look at WHO keeps attacking my car. Look at WHO keeps cutting the wires off the apartment. Vandalism. Harassment. Bullying. Threats. Evil people Evil things. By their fruits yea shall no them, for no good thing springs from dead wood. Those are small petty crimes, but they are still crimes. But it's far beyond petty crimes. The list of people who have been murdered is quite long now. 13 died just at the Boston marathon bombing. I'm crippled for the rest of my life, and so far, I'm the only person who was attacked who lived through an attack. Every one else they've attacked is dead. Most of them beheaded or killed in a bomb. 7 different bombs, including one in my classroom at college in 2013, two in my workplace in 2015 and 2016, the house in Old Orchard in 2006, and my doctor on Saco Ave in 2003 where the doctor the nurses and 21 patients were killed. And the FBI was on site for every one of them, and my family thinks it's funny to laugh and make jokes about all of it. Because that's they do since the day me and Micheal and Tim Murphy found Etiole

Do you realize for all the shit my parents have pulled,  they've never once apologized for anything. And you know why? Because they aren't sorry. They feel no guilt. They feel no shame. They feel no remorse. Why? Because they hate me. They always have. From the time I was old enough to walk both of them reminded me daily that I was supposed to be a boy to replace the baby boy that was born before me. That's why Grammy Helen was the one who was always with me until I was 8. And after that it was Grammy Eva. And then BW. 

Do you know how I found out Santa wasn't real? Grammy Helen died when I was 8. That year for Christmas there were no Christmas presents. There was just my parents arguing over which one of them should have lowered themselves to buy a gift for the mistake that committed the sin of not being born a boy. I remember that Christmas better than any other. Because that's when found out exactly how much my parents hated me and thought I was worthless because I was a girl.

Look at my MRI scans at the damage the foundation nail through my hip did. The mutilated bones that were shattered when I was 6 years old and no one took me to the hospital. I've walked on a broken leg for almost 50 years. 

Look at the jaw surgery I had to have when I was 42 to repair an injury done to me with a brick when I was 14. 

Look at the Gremlin, 1974 orange, obliterated by a sledgehammer. 

Look at what happened when I was awarded phi theta kappa. No one went to the award ceremony. My mother said it was stupid. My father spent the day raving calling me an educated damned fool. BW was at the temple with Rick. And people with golf clubs were waiting at my car.

Do you realize if just one single person had cared enough to be at the phi theta kappa awards my baby might not have been murdered and I might not be crippled now. 

Grammy Helen would beat my dad's ass for the shit he does to me. And Grammy Eva would be ashamed of the stuff my mother does. Neither Helen or Eva would have let them get away with the constant abuse and harassment.

As for what happened to my car March 9, 2022 - KRA vandalized my car and tried to make it look like my brother did it. KRA stuffed the tailpipe full of McDonald's ketchup packets, which is what caused the fuel line to blow up. I could have died. He tried to kill me and make it look like my brother who works at McDonald's did it so my brother would be blamed.

KRA did the same thing in November, because of some guy named Todd who I supposedly convinced to kill himself via may painting a "suicide demon" on my car. There is a picture of Etiole on my car, that is what they are calling "a suicide demon"



UPDATE: February 27, 2022:

Do not underestimate either my willingness or how far I will go to protect my murdered son's grave from being destroyed by the bastards who are the @FBI s number one suspects in having killed him. The ONLY reason that bitch is hell bent on digging up my farm is because she wants to destroy the evidence of my baby having been murdered by golf clubs.

I'm sick of my mother and my mothers shit head Atwater relatives. They won't stop focusing on the cats. They are lost in a delusional refusal to face reality and that is impeding the fbi investigation of the murder of my baby and the crippling of my spine, because all either of them will do is say there was no baby and tell everyone lies about me and I don't like it. My baby is dead and that has nothing to do with the cats and I'm sick of my mother and her filthy Atwater thugs both ignoring what happened at the college 2 years before the cat event happened AND daily arriving to bully me and say it was “RoseMary’s Baby” and not a real baby because it was a demon, because Etiole was a from.

 

Etiole is not a demon, my baby with him was not a demon, you murdered my fucking baby because you are retarded religion crazed jackasses. Get the fuck out of my life and go burn were evil people like you belong!

 

I'm tired of every time I mention the baby that was murdered November 14, 2013 at Southern Maine Community College,  they wave their hand in my face and say, "no you're just upset about the cats". The cats happened May 14, 2015 and those cats were not mine, they were my mother's cats, that she hid in my motorhome because her landlord Nick didn’t know she had 13 cats in her Birch St apartment. And he evicted her a year later when he found out the cats were hers.

That's why SHE is the one making a fuss about them, not me. I'm not the one running around yapping about the cats constantly,  she is. I'm talking about my son. 

 

My baby boy that was murdered by 3 attackers wielding golf clubs in the SMCC parking lot. A blond woman whom the redhaired woman called Claire, a redhaired woman who the blond woman called Kendra, both in their 60sish, and a bald man in his 30ish.

 

I'm not talking about my mother's cats, I'm talking about my child. What the fuck is wrong with these people? 

 

As for my car … did you all forget when and why I painted it? May 12, 2014. Mother's day. The first mother day after my baby was murdered. I painted my Volo on mother's day to divert my mind from killing myself. That's why I painted my car 9 years ago and you all know that, I've said as much hundreds of times.

Ty Mother and the Atwaters are refusing to acknowledge the baby because also refuse to acknowledge Etiole, a local homeless Jewish man who is the baby's father. 

My Mother and the Atwaters are so damned bigoted and religion crazed that all they’ve ever done is call Etiole a demon or an alien, since the first day they ever saw him: September 23, 1978.

It’s been almost 50fucking years that they’ve harassed him because of what he looks like and harassed me because I won’t let them beat him to death. 

They fully 100% believe he is not human and they run around slandering him every chance they can get and they’ve been doing it for 50 fucking years now. 

And THAT is the ONLY reason, they are doing what they are doing right now. 

 

They have NO RIGHT to be on my land. They are fucking trespassing.

Because they are so damned brainwashed by their fucking religions, that they can’t stop believing anyone who is physically deformed MUST be a Demon.

 

And they’ve spent the last 9 years daily hounding me and whooping and cheering joyous celebration over “killing the demon” as they refer to my baby.

 

In you hadn’t watched the local news - January 2022 - there was a massive FBI raid on Main Street and Cutts Street Biddeford, Maine. 8 of the men who have been roaming Southern Maine beating up pregnant women with golf clubs, were arrested and are now in jail where they belong, soon to be moved to federal prison.

And THAT is what has got the Atwaters in a frenzy now, digging up my land in Old Orchard Beach. They are desperately trying to find my dead baby’s unmarked grave, because they know his gold club shattered skull is very damning evidence for them, now that the FBI made a move and started arresting a bunch of their thugs.

 

And those arrested that just happened, they happened because the FBI phone number was painted on my car and locals in Biddeford, came forward with witness testimony of the attacks.

 

What my mother and the Atwaters are doing is cruel and evil and hateful, and I’m sick of it.

They don’t care about or my life, and my baby or his life. As can be seen by the fact of how he died.

The FBI is still trying to ID the bond Claire woman and the redhaired Kendra woman. They caught the bald man with the 4 door white pick up truck, we now know who he is - the son of the Old Orchard Beach police dispatch woman, the woman who would never let any 911 calls begging for help while these attacks were happening, go through.

Don't be surprised if you see the signs - all 144 of them - go back up in my driveway. Because I'm fucking sick of being harassed, and the agreement to keep the signs down, specified that EVERYONE in Old Orchard Beach - ALL RESIDENTS would NEVER HARASS ME again. You people have broken your agreement. I'm painting new signs as we speak.

EVERYONE - includes real estate agents, developers, contractors, construction workers, and any Atwater bitch who thinks they have the right to daily show up at my Biddeford apartment to say: "What are we going to do about Wendy, she can't keep that land, I need a downpayment on a house, she is going to sell her land and give me the money or else!"

Burn in hell you fucking bitch, and take all your fucking Atwater shitheads with you.

There are more then 500 graves on my farm - more than half of them Native American, some of them buried as far back as the 1400s. I WILL NOT let you touch those graves. I take my job as the guardian of these graves VERY SERIOUSLY. And you WILL have an all out war on your hands if you dare touch them.

Now she's threatening to dig up the graves on my land.

My dead baby means a hell of a lot more to me, then her fucking house. She never gave a damn when my baby died, but look at what she did when the cats died. Her priorities are fucked up.

My dead baby means a hell of a lot more to me, then her fucking house. She never gave a damn when my baby was murdered. But look at what she did when the murderers returned and killed the cats!

Look at what she is STILL doing about the fucking cats!

That's all she cares about. Those damned dead cats and her glut lust to have a mansion in KennebunkPort.

Her priorities are fucked up.

She doesn't give a damn about Human life.

And you know what's worse, the FBI thinks she, her sister Barbara, her brother Bruce, and their friends Claire and Kendra, where the people wearing the fake KuKluxKlan robes and hoods on November 14, 2013, when they used golf clubs to beat my baby to death and break my spine leaving me crippled for the rest of my life. 

Her, Barbara, Bruce, Claire, and Kendra - those are the FBI’s #1 suspects in the murder of my baby, November 14, 2013.

And what the hell is with people mixing up me and my mother? 

I'm NOT the one hell bent on a house. I have been willfully homeless for decades I have no desire for the confines of a house. The one running around yapping hysterics about a house IS MY MOTHER NOT ME!

I'm NOT the one talking about cats. The one running around yapping hysterics about cats IS MY MOTHER NOT ME!

I'm NOT the one talking about Todd, I don't even know who Todd is! I don't know any one named Todd! The one running around yapping hysterics about Todd IS MY MOTHER NOT ME!

I'm NOT the one talking about Mark and Dan and Watson, I don't even know who Mark and Dan and Watson are! I don't know anyone named Mark or Watson and the only Dan I know is my cousin and it's clearly not him she's talking about. The one running around yapping hysterics about Mark and Dan and Watson IS MY MOTHER NOT ME!

I'm NOT the one putting curses on people. I don't believe in curses. The one running around yapping hysterics about curses and claiming she's casting death spells on people IS MY MOTHER NOT ME!

I'm NOT the one talking about demons. I don't believe in demons. The one running around yapping hysterics about demons and calling Etiole a demon IS MY MOTHER NOT ME!

I'm NOT the one calling Etiole a demons. I don't believe in demons. Etiole is a local homeless man and Etiole isn't even his name, I don't use his real name online to protect his identity. I'm not the one who calls him Etiole either. Etiole is the name the Atwaters call him. The one running around yapping hysterics about demons and calling Etiole a demon IS MY MOTHER NOT ME!

I'm NOT the one talking about aliens or UFOs or alien abduction. I don't believe in aliens or UFOs or alien abduction. The one running around yapping hysterics about aliens or UFOs or alien abduction IS MY MOTHER NOT ME!

I'm NOT the one calling Etiole an alien. I don't believe in aliens and besides that, Etiole is a local homeless man. The one running around yapping hysterics and calling Etiole an alien IS MY MOTHER NOT ME!

I'm NOT the one talking about Voodoo dolls and Voodoo curses. Voodoo has nothing to do with Voodoo dolls and curses. Voodoo dolls and curses are mumbo-jumbo made up by Hollywood movies and have nothing to do with the Voodoo religion at all. Voodoo is a branch of the Catholic Church. Look it up. Voodoo is a Christian religion. A Voodoo Priest is a type of Catholic Monk. A Voodoo Priestess is a type of Catholic Nun. Voodoo does not cast curses or use voodoo dolls. The one running around yapping hysterics about Voodoo dolls and Voodoo curses IS MY MOTHER NOT ME!

Open your eyes people. Me and my mother don't look that much alike. You should be able to tell the difference between me and her.

Stop showing up in my yard to to attack me because of some fucking shit you argued with my mother about.

If you've got a problem with my mother, take it up with her not me.

Her, Barbara, Bruce, Claire, and Kendra - those are the FBI’s #1 suspects in the murder of my baby, November 14, 2013.

No, I have no updates on Etiole.

He was shot, by a local lunatic.

No, he's not okay.

And I am getting sick of this fucking ass rumour of Etiole being an alien or a demon.

The fact of Etiole being an alien is a stupid urban myth started by some crazy ass locals.

The fact of Etiole being a demon is a stupid urban legend created by some religion crazed nuts.

Etiole is an old man covered with acid burns. His skin is white and face disfigured from acid burns. He's not an alien and he's not a demon. And you people who call him an alien and call him a demon, you're all fucking crazy. 

Etiole is a homeless Jewish man who has no skin because he was tortured in a Nazi concentration camp in France during WW2. He came to Maine in 1953 with a bunch of other refugees, He has post traumatic stress disorder really bad and he's terrified of people. He can't function in normal society, so hides in the forests. He's not an alien, he's not a demon, he's not a cryptid. He's a disfigured old man, now in late 90s. He barely get around. He doesn't you people harassing him like this. Why can't you people leave him alone? Why are you all so damned desperate to believe in aliens or demons that you have to harass a helpless old man? Leave him alone. Why can't you leave him alone? What is wrong with you people?

Read The Amphibious Aliens article, https://www.eelkat.com/AmphibiousAliens.html where way back in 2007, I DEBUNKED every one of you stupid ass alien, cryptic, demon, and haunted car rumours. Amphibious Aliens The Story of Etiole and The World's Most Haunted Car, goes over every event from the 1970s, that started the fucking rumour, and lists off how every alien, demon, and haunted car rumour was proven to be nothing but a hoax started by my mother's brother  Mervin Bruce Atwater. Every single one of those rumours was started by that one man, and were proven to ALL be hoaxes he perpetrated to try to get money out of Dr Larochelle, the man who hit Mervin's younger sister with a car. They tried to convince the old doctor his car had a demon living in it and they scammed the doctor out of $20,000 back in the 1970s. THAT is how and why the demon car rumour got started. I bought the car in 1975. Etiole started living in it in 1978. And that is how me and Etiole got dragged into the fucking ass rumours about a demon car.

The article Amphibious Aliens The Story of Etiole and The World's Most Haunted Car DEBUNKS ALL of the alien, cryptid, demon, and haunted car rumours. Every last one of them.

The car is not haunted and Etiole is not a demon.

You people who believe my car is haunted or think that Etiole is a demon, you are all fucking retarded.

You are slandering me!

You are slandering Etiole!

You are slandering my cars!

I'm sick of it!

Grow up and go get a damned fucking brain!

I'm sick of you people harassing me and Etiole over stupid shit started by brain dead idiots.

If you are having problems with my mother, tell FBI agent Andy Drewer about it not me. Have information, call FBI Agent Andy Drewer at 207-774-9322

Have information about the murder of my baby, call FBI Agent Andy Drewer at 207-774-9322

Have information about any of the attacks on my family, call FBI Agent Andy Drewer at 207-774-9322

Have information about the people who shot Etiole, call FBI Agent Andy Drewer at 207-774-9322

If you have information about anything, call FBI Agent Andy Drewer at 207-774-9322 and give it to him, not me.

https://www.eelkat.com/AmphibiousAliens.html





UPDATE March 8, 2022

One sign is back up. 

How many more go up, is dependent upon YOU.

From now on, every time one of you Old Orchard Beach, Pine Point, or Biddeford shitheads decides to harass me, I'm going to put up another sign.

If you want no more, then you better make dammed sure you keep your friends and family and neighbors out of my yard and out of my life. I'm not selling my land, and I'll not let you dig up those graves.

Burn in hell.

No means no.

And I'm tired of saying no.

Just like rapist, you refuse to take no for an answer.

No. I'm not selling my land and giving you the money so you can buy a house in Kennebunk.

I've said no to you every single week since August 2021. And your current threats to dig up the graves on my land and move them to your land, is why the signs are going back up.

I'm tired of you bullying me.

I'm tired of your threats.

I'm tired of your gaslighting.

I'm tired of your lies.

You keep saying "After all I've done for you!" What have you done for me? When I was 8 years old you locked me in a racoon trap and left me there for 27 years, only letting me out on Sundays so you could parade me around in the Cape Elizabeth and Saco Ward Mormon churches to pedophile priests who paid you so they could rape me. That's why you never had a job until 5 years ago, because you made plenty selling your pre-teen daughter for sex to dirty old men.

You drove a foundation nail through my hip when I was 6 years old.

From the tie I was 14 until I was 42 years old I was near mute, because you broke my jaw with a brick. I was 42 when I had surgery to rebuild my jaw, that's why I can talk today.

You never allowed me or my bothers to go to school or doctors.

YOU took a sledge hammer to my 1974 AMC Gremlin, my 1976 AMC Gremlin, my 1976 AMC Hornet, my Olds station wagon, and you took a chain saw to my 1964 Dodge 330 the worlds most haunted car, the real Christine. YOU did that.

Since 1978 you have harassed me and me boyfriend, the one you call Etiole, because YOU believe he's a demon because of his skin deformities. You and your sister and your brothers contacted MUFON and told them lies about me and Etiole both. You called him the amphibious alien and claimed he had abducted me. Your alien abduction hoax, almost got him killed in 1997 and again in 2007 when ufo crazies arrived in my yard calling him an EBE and trying to shoot him "for science". An elderly man, a French, Jewish Nazis concentration camp survivor who lives in the forest because his PTSD and fear of people is so bad. A man who is scarred with acid burns from being tortured in WW2 and is neither a demon nor an alien and who deeply traumatized by YOUR endless harassment.

It was YOUR friends who drove a backhoe over my house August 8, 2013 because YOU paid them $600 to do so. Because you thought without a house I would sell my land. But I wasn't the one living in that house. My dad lived there. All you did was put him in a Biddeford apartment. I was already living in the tent since May 9, 2006, and I had the Biddeford apartment since February 13, 2007. 

It was YOUR friends who attacked me with golf clubs at Southern Maine Community College, November 14, 2013, while I was 8 months pregnant with Etiole's baby. That they murdered, on YOUR orders, because as YOU put it "It's RoseMary's Baby" while you gibbered about some horror movie about demon babies.

That was YOUR own grandchild that YOU hired those people to kill.

April 10, 2015, YOU broke into my motorhome, put YOUR 13 cats in it, them then brought YOUR friends to attack my family.

We now know the owner of the 4-door white truck, was YOUR visiting teach, Kathy, the driver who tried to kill me, was her son, and the reason the 911 calls didn't go through during each attack, was because she was the 911 dispatcher and her son, driving her 4door white pick up truck, only attacked me she was on duty. They were YOUR friends from the Saco Ward church, YOUR church, attacking YOUR daughter on YOUR orders.

Since August 2021, you arrive at my apartment 3 times a week, to tell me I need to put curses on people at your workplace, citing that I have to, because you're my mother and I'm demon possessed and I should be putting my demons to good use by helping you kill three people you don't like at work.

I'm sick of you calling me demon possessed.

I'm sick of you demanding curses.

You have a severe mental problem and you need psychiatric help.

I'm sick of you spreading slanderous lies about me telling every one around town I cast curses and death spells, when I've never done either.

November 19, 2021, YOU friend Todd commit suicide and YOU told YOUR friends, that me and Etiole used suicide demons to drive him in front of a train.

YOUR friend Todd, who I did NOT know and had never heard of until 6 of YOUR friends showed up at Rotary Park November 21, 2021 to gun down Etiole while screaming that they were "killing the suicide demon", while we were walking my dog.

Something YOU now brag that YOU tricked YOUR friends into do, because you needed to get Etiole off my land in order to convince me to sell it and give YOU the money for a down payment on a house in Kennebunk.

Christmas Eve 2021, you arrived at MY apartment in Biddeford, STOLE my father's psychiatric medicine, medicine he needs to keep him NOT violent, because he has extremely violent schizophrenia and one hell of a criminal record that requires him to never be in the same room with a gun, let alone never have one. He was committed to a mental ward in 2007, and they ONLY let him out because he came to Biddeford to live with ME in MY apartment, and I was monitoring his meds.

After YOU stole his medicine, you took him with you daily to Kennebunk, to a mansion by Bush's house, to daily tell him, you would give him that house if he forced me to sell my land and give you the money from my land to buy that Kennebunk house.

Tell, me, what of THOSE things, is YOU doing anything FOR me?

No, means, no.

I'm done saying NO to you.

You are nothing but a land rapist.

Just like a rapist you refuse to accept No for an answer.

Every week since August 2021, I've said no to you.

No, I will not sell my land and hand you the money so you can buy a house in Kennebunk.

No, means no.

And no, I'm not happy with the fact that because I won't sell my land and give you the money, you are now threatening to dig up the graves on my land and move them to your land.

No, I'm not happy with you saying "You don't need the land, you don't use it, I need a house in Kennebunk, you ought to want to sell your land and give me the money!"

Yes, I do use my land.

Yes, I did see the car YOU dumped behind my motorhome. You have till the end of summer to get it off my land or the police are taking it.

What I do with my land is none of your damned business.

And for your information, my land is where I write my novels. I sit on the hill, and I write every day, all summer long. The only reason I didn't in 2021 is because I had Covid for 3 months.

No, telling me that my grandmother's evil spirit is haunting my land. also does not inspire me to want to sell it.

YOU are an evil, hate fill, mean, cruel, sadistic, child abusing, vindictive sociopath.

Get psychiatric help.

You need it.

What you are doing is wrong and you know it. You won't be so upset about what is painted on my car, if you didn't know it.

You can't hide from the truth forever. 

You can't hide your sins, your crimes, your cruelties forever.

Good things will never come to you, until you stop doing evil things to those around you.


Don't forget, my camera runs 24/7 and it's a simple matter of my uploading the video footage of you doing and saying things thing. Plus a lot of it, you said and did while I was livestreaming so people online have already seen and heard you say and do these things.

Yes, I even have video footage of the 4 bicycle brats who chased the homeless man into the train November 2021.

EVERYTHING, I have said here I have video footage of. That is WHY the FBI have been able to arrest so many people these past few months, in Biddeford.

Cutting the wires off our house November 2021 - you did on a livestream. People saw you do it WHILE you were doing it. 

All 2 of the FedEx workers you demanded death curses for - you did on a livestream.

Stealing my dad's meds - you did on a livestream.

Saying "What are we going to do about Wendy, she can't keep that land, I need a house" - you did on a livestream.

Threatening to dig up the graves on my land - you did on a livestream.

All that n-word stuff you said about the black men at your workplace - you did on a livestream.

People been seeing and hearing you live. They've already seen and heard a lot.

How do you plan to explain away all the hundreds of hours of video footage I have of you breaking into my bedroom during a live stream to threaten me, my family, my land?












To the people who asked about weird emails that you claim you got from someone claiming to be me, here are a few things to consider:

#1: I DO NOT use email and I NEVER have. if you get a letter from me it is going to be written in ink on paper, and in a stamped envelope the mail truck delivered to your mailbox at the end of your driveway. Since 1997 my aunt Barbara has been sending emails out to people CLAIMING they were from me, so in all likelihood whatever you got was actually from her. Her brothers Richard Merlin Atwater and Mervin Bruce Atwater and David Atwater did the same thing throughout the early 2000s. And 57 of their children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren have done it at well. No, I’m not special. They do this to THOUSANDS of people. They run a medical scam and pretend to be LOTS of big name famous authors, hoping you’ll click whatever link they put in the email, because the link is going to open a .exe phishing program to steal your credit card data and medical records. The FBI is currently investigating their medical fraud, email fraud, scam operation, so if you ARE getting emails claiming to be from me, PLEASE print up the email ad take it to the FBI office on Middle Street in Portland, Maine. FBI Agent Andy Drewer is in charge of not only the investigation of the 2015 murder of my family, but he is also in charge of the email impersonation fraud, and the stalker doing the email fraud.

#2: As you have stated, the topic of the emails is Etiole... do know that I have NEVER talked about Etiole, with ANYONE, online or offline. Unlike my mother, and her sister, my aunt Barbara and her brothers Richard Merlin Atwater and Mervin Bruce Atwater and David Atwater, I happen to respect people’s privacy. As I have said before: Etiole is a Jewish, French, Nazi concentration camp refugee who came to Maine in 1953 with a boatload of about 300 other concentration camp survivors. He is covered with acid burns, so his skin looks ghastly white and horrifically disfigured, which is why he lives in the swamps around the Saco River. he is now in his 90s and is still as homeless as he was in the 1950s. He has severe posttraumatic stress disorder, can not speak/is mute, does not have the mental capacity to function in normal society on any level what so ever, and me and a few others have been taking care of him, giving him food and clothing and supplies and medical attention since 1978. There is nothing else you need to know. You do not need to know where he is or how to find him. If you want to see him, go to y livestream/video archive and watch the VOD where I visited him on livestream so you could see what he looked liked and how crippling his metal condition really is.

#3: I feel I shouldn’t have to say this, but apparently I do NEED to say this: Etiole is NOT an alien, nor is he a demon. The article Amphibious Aliens is free to read online. It goes over all the details of both the alien rumours and the demon rumours and debunks them all, while proving all the proof, including medical records and documentation of the people behind the rumour.

#4: The ONLY person who ever claimed I was abducted by aliens was my uncle Mervin Bruce Atwater, who was the leader of the Mane division of Heaven’s Gate for over 40 years. Heaven’s Gate if you do not know, was the UFO suicide cult who murdered 39 people with poisoned Kool-Aid in California in 1997, because Comet HaleBop flew over that night.

#5: I found out about my so-called alien abduction in 2007, when a MUFON tour group showed up in my yard asking to interview me. They carried with them more than a dozen books by various UFO/alien experts and over 100 newspaper articles, all featuring interviews with my aunt Barbara and her brothers Richard Merlin Atwater and Mervin Bruce Atwater and David Atwater, interviews all from the 1970s, 1980s, and 1990s, all of them telling of how I was supposedly a demon possessed child, whose best friend was an alien named Etiole. It was 2007, and it was the first time I had ever heard the term “alien abduction” I didn’t even know what it was. The MUFON group - a group of 30,000 people - standing in my driveway 2007 all wanted to interview me as they pointed out NONE of the 30+ years of several hundred interviews with my aunts and uncles, not ONE of the interviews was WITH ME. This was the source of the April 2007 article titled Amphibious Aliens, where I shocked the MUFON world with the revelation that I was NOT an alien abductee, nor had I ever claimed to be one. It also infuriated me to find out that my aunt Barbara and her brothers Richard Merlin Atwater and Mervin Bruce Atwater and David Atwater had been running around telling people about Etiole, as I had never told ANYONE - NOT EVEN THEM - about Etiole. It turns out my aunt Barbara and her brothers Richard Merlin Atwater and Mervin Bruce Atwater and David Atwater go their alien and demon stories about Etiole from my mother and THIS is WHY I disowned my mother, shun her, and have had nothing to do with her, or her sister my aunt Barbara and her brothers Richard Merlin Atwater and Mervin Bruce Atwater and David Atwater, since 2007. The slanderous alien and demon, gossip, rumours, and lies my mother and her sister my aunt Barbara and her brothers Richard Merlin Atwater and Mervin Bruce Atwater and David Atwater spread about me and Etiole are deplorable and I HATE my mother and her sister my aunt Barbara and her brothers Richard Merlin Atwater and Mervin Bruce Atwater and David Atwater, and I hope they burn in hell for the alien and demon shit they pulled on me and my homeless boyfriend.

#6: That same Amphibious Aliens article ALSO debunks the stupid ass haunted car rumours. My 1964 Dodge 330 is NOT haunted and we fucking proved that. And AGAIN, the haunted car rumour, is sourced to my aunt Barbara and her brothers Richard Merlin Atwater and Mervin Bruce Atwater and David Atwater. That car ran over my aunt Barbara when she was 2 years old. At the time, the car belonged to Dr. Larochelle of Ocean Ave Old Orchard Beach, Maine. My than 2-year-old aunt Barbara almost died and her older brothers Richard Merlin Atwater and Mervin Bruce Atwater and David Atwater, came up with a haunted car/demon possession hoax to scam that elderly doctor out of $20,000, which my grandmother Eva Viola Atwater spent on a 3 year trip to Hawaii in 1973. The Atwaters scammed and terrorized the doctor so badly, that he sold the car to me in 1975 for $5 because he was convinced it was attacking people. The car became famous in 1983 when my then neighbour Stephen King used the demon possession story of my car as the basis for his book Christine. He named the car Christine because Christine is my real name and I owned the actual car. Stephen King returned 10 years later in 1994 to film the Thinner movie in my yard, because I’m the real world “Gypsy Witch” (priestess) that he based his fictional Gypsy Witch in Thinner off of. The movies Christine and Thinner are what in turn made ME famous, and started locals accusing me of being a witch with a demon car.

And as for the fucking Thinner movie - those bastards were trespassers. They just showed up unannounced, barged in, set up filming, without permits or licenses or contracts or permission or even telling us ahead of time that they were coming. No one in Stephen King’s crew acted legally, we are not in that movie willingly, they were not on our farm legally, no one ever received a penny for any of it, and to make things worse, Steven King had no right or permission to go o late night television and tell people my home address and tel his fucking fans to “go visit the Thinner Gypsies of Saco Maine”. They had no right to be on my farm, they had no right to be filming my family. They just dropped in one day. We had no clue who they were or why they were there and it took us fucking 5 hours to chase those trespassing bastards and their film crew off our farm.

In short: I don’t use email, so you NEVER got an email from me. I’m not a witch. My car isn’t haunted. Etiole is not a demon. Etiole is also not an alien. And I was never abducted by aliens.

Also, I don’t know what you are talking about with the house stuff. I’m NOT trying to build a house, I’ve NEVER tried to build a house, I have never applied for a house permit, I’ve never been denied for a house permit because I’ve never even tried to get one. You clearly have me mixed up with someone else.

I’m at 146 Portland Ave. I have 2 neighbours who are building a house: 144 Portland Ave next door to me and 139 Portland Ave across the street from me. I think you mean one of them. My neighbour at 144, has been trying to build a house for 17 years and the town hall has been giving them the runaround. I think SHE at 144 Portland Ave is the one you mean, not me at 146. You seem to have us mixed up somehow.

SHE at 144 is the one putting in a septic system, not me at 146. I’m the one with the pink motorhome and the 35-year-old black Volvo. she’s the one with the brand new big black car and the log cabin house.

You have seriously mixed the two of us up big time.

Understandable considering it was HER family at 144 fighting with the Cyr Clan over a septic tank in 2014, and the Cyr Clan hired a hitman who accidentally murdered MY children, ten of them and nailed their heads to my motorhome door, at 146 than the white-haired man with the green pick-up truck has spent the last 7 years TELLING YOU via running up the street knocking on doors, tell you that it was EelKat trying to build a house, ONLY telling you that to try to cover his ass for mixing up my children at 146 when it was my neighbours children at 144 that was the ACTUAL target.

This is not speculation, the FBI have 100% positive proof that she and her children, not me and my children were the intended target because her family was having a fight with some Connecticut based heroin drug gang that calls itself the Cyr Clan over the septic tank. The hit men the Cyr Clan hire got the wrong house when they murdered my family. And now the Cyr Clan’s trying to convince you that I was the one building a house. I have no interest in a house. Why would I? I’m a Gypsy, I’ve never lived in a house. I’ve always lived in cars and tents my whole life. I have no interest in a house on any level whatsoever. I don’t NEED one, I never have. And you local people should know that. When my health is bad, I rent apartments in Biddeford. I’ve done this for 50 years now. You know that. You ALL know that. I’ve owned 146 Portland Ave since 1975. You people know me. Why are you pretending you don’t?

I’m the feral child who lived in a cage in a woodshed from the time I was 8 until I was 31. Did you all forget that? Etiole was the local homeless man who used to break into the woodshed and break the lock off the cage and take me out into the swamp to hide me from my bastard uncles. Did you forget that too? The ONLY reason any of you spread your fucking rumours and lies about me and Etiole, calling me a witch and Etiole a demon or alien, and spreading lies about me building houses, is because my Uncle Bruce and his Heaven’s Gate friends, told you those lies.

Did you forget what Heaven’s Gate is, what they fucking did? They are an UFO Alien Cult, who murdered 39 people with poisoned koolaid, because they comet Hale Bop was God’s fucking mother ship. They see fucking aliens EVERYWHERE. In everything. And THEY are the ones who started the stupid ass rumour of Etiole being an alien.

Look at the SOURCE of the alien abduction rumour. My Uncle Mervin Bruce Atwater. One of George Applewhite’s thugs. George Applewhite, a follower of Jim Jones, that’s WHY they killed everyone with kool-aid, because they were fans of Jim Jones, and they wanted to jump onboard God’s mothership like Jonestown did! Did you forget that? THAT fucking lunatic, a fan of Jim Jones, who worked for George Applewhite, called Etiole an alien, because Bruce CALLED EVERYONE aliens.

Bruce locked me in a cage, and Etiole broke me out of it and hide me in the swamps, and THAT is what Bruce called an alien abduction. But Etiole is no alien. He’s just a local homeless man. Etiole’s not even his name. I don’t tell anyone his name to protect him from you fucking jackasses who are too stupid to believe he’s just a normal man. My uncle Buce is a fucking lunatic who spends 24 hours a day gibbering madness and nonsense about aliens and demons.

As for the garbage that keeps being dumped on my land… you have all SEEN the big green dump truck with the black and silver striped nose, that illegally trespasses on my land and dumps that fucking garbage.

Open your eyes and look around. You can SEE the truth. The house being built is at 144 Portland Ave NOT 146. You can SEE that, now that the house is up.

Like I’ve been saying right along, it is NOT me building a house. It NEVER has been. I don’t know why you let that idiot try to gaslight you with lies about me building a house, when you can SEE the house is NOT going up on MY land. It’s going up on my NEIGHBOUR’S land.

I know you people are NOT THAT stupid. The white-haired man with the green pickup truck is LYING to you, and you can SEE that for yourselves, just by looking at WHICH property the house is being built on.

Look around... does it LOOK like there is a house being built at 146 Portland Ave where the pink motorhome is? Use your brain and open your eyes. See the truth. The truth will set you free.

Now look next door to 144, you CAN SEE that THEY NOT ME are the one building a house, now that it’s almost finished.

I’d say the white-haired man in the green pickup truck has a lot of explaining to do, like explaining WHY h’s hell bent on trying to convince the town I’m the one putting up a house, when I’ve never even applied for a building permit. Building permits are public record. Go look at the town hall for yourself.

Also, please explain to me HOW the white-haired man with the green pick truck has such very detailed info about the murder of my family, when the records are sealed, not public access, and about 90% of the details were withheld from the public and are know ONLY to myself, the murderer, the police, and FBI? There is ZERO public access to the stuff h is saying happened on April 10, 2015... you know that, right? So HOW did he get the info he has? Explain THAT.

please report any future such emails you receive to FBI agent Andy Drewer 207-774-9322

>>>I’m just more cowardly than they are and I’m afraid of the truth and criticism. In your opinion, what makes someone mean?

When I think of mean, I think of my uncles. 3 in particular. My mother had 12 older brothers and 3 of them all claimed to be “king” (we are Gypsies, Gypsy Kings are a thing). And they fought over it badly. They ended up jointly ruling over the clan, each competing with each other to out-king the other, each doing progressively meaner things to the clan members, especially the female children.

Things they did, just to me, included:

When I was 4 Uncle Bruce stabbed me with a foundation nail - an iron rod over 2 feet long - he drove into my hip, through my pelvis and out my other thigh. I have been crippled and walked with a cane since I was a toddler, because of it. His reason? I was unable to memorize the entirety of chapter 1 of the book of Genesis.

When I was 8 years old, same uncle locked me in a cage that was made for trapping raccoons. He gave me 1 salted herring fish to eat once every 12 days. He let me out only on Sundays to go to church. I lived in that cage for 27 years, until the Heaven’s Gate FBI raid shut down Heaven’s Gate in 1997, after they killed 39 people with Kool-aid. Yes, I am THAT EelKat, the child who lived in a cage, the feral child you see pictures of in almost every college Psychology book. I am the child who survived Heaven’s Gate because I was locked in a cage in a woodshed when they drank their kool aid under the shadow of comet HaleBop. I was 31 years old when the FBI raid rescued me from that cage.

When I was 14 years old, because I was unable to recite from memory the entire book, all chapters of Ecclesiastes, that same uncle beat me in the face with a cinder block brick, breaking my jaw, and cause me to be “mute” until had surgery to fix my jaw when I was 42 years old. From the time I was 14 until 42, I was unable to speak due to the damage of my jaw.

In those 27 years from age 8 to age 31, I was let out of the cage every Sunday to be taken to church and sold or $12k to the priests, who raped me repeatedly, weekly, for 27 years.

While my uncle helped Applewhite to run Heaven’s Gate, he fled the night of Hale Bop. He did not kill himself with everyone else.

Social workers took me after the FBI raid. It took them years to teach me how to not be terrified by the sight of Humans. They say I suffer from having no outward sign of emotions, and that it was caused by my never having experienced a single good event in my early life.

At the time of the FBI raid at 144, 146, and 148 Portland Ave, Old Orchard Beach, Maine, I was one of more than 120 girls the FBI rescued out of cages. All of whom had been raped hundreds of times by priests from Cape Elizabeth, Saco, and Sanford wards of the LDS/Mormon church. Including 16 bishops, an OOB town manager, and several OOB motel owners, all of whom were in the habit of paying $12k to rape girls under the age of 10 years old.

The man with the green truck, who likes to spread rumours about me and Etiole and my house, was one of Bruce’s top customers. He had a thing for numbers and raped 7-year-olds, 14-year-olds, and 21-year-olds because he was obsessed with doing everything in 7s.

After years of social workers teaching me how to live with normal, not abusive Humans. I was 37 when I got my GED and while I was at the high school doing that, those uncles built a grease fryer bomb burned my house down to punish me for getting a GED.

2 years later, while I was in college taking classes to learn grammar and writing, three of them, that same uncle and 2 women I had never seen before, arrived at the college armed with golf clubs and attacked me when I was coming out of the college. I was 8 months pregnant at the time. They killed my baby, broke my spine, broke my hip, broke my pelvis, broke my knees. I was paralyzed for 5 months. It took me 18 months to get out of the wheelchair and relearn to walk, and to this day I am still crippled.

That’s the price I paid to learn how to read and write, in a culture that believes it is okay to execute women who commit the sin of learning how to write.

August 8, 2013, that same uncle paid a local construction worker $600 to drive a backhoe over my house.

April 10, 2015, that same uncle and a group of 74 members of the new reorganized Heaven’s Gate, attacked my farm. 14 men held me down with guns to my head, while the others used hand band saws to kill and behead 10 of my 12 children and then nailed their heads to my door.

And it’s very easy to Google the news reports and photos of all of it.

That is what I think of when I hear the word “mean”. My uncle Bruce was a very mean person.

My uncle Bruce Mervin Atwater is a monster. And he calls EVERYONE an alien abductee or a demon. Did you fucking forget that?

No, I have no updates on Etiole.

He was shot by a local lunatic.

No, he’s not okay.

And I am getting sick of this fucking ass rumour of Etiole being an alien or a demon.

The fact of Etiole being an alien is a stupid urban myth started by some crazy ass locals.

The fact of Etiole being a demon is a stupid urban legend created by some religion crazed nuts.

Etiole is an old man covered with acid burns. His skin is white and face disfigured from acid burns. He’s not an alien, and he’s not a demon. And you people who call him an alien and call him a demon, you’re all fucking crazy.

Etiole is a homeless Jewish man who has no skin because they tortured him in a Nazi concentration camp in France during WW2. He came to Maine in 1953 with a bunch of other refugees. He has posttraumatic stress disorder really bad and he’s terrified of people. He can’t function in normal society, so hides in the forests. He’s not an alien, he’s not a demon, he’s not a cryptid. He’s a disfigured old man, now in late 90s. He barely get around. He doesn’t you people harassing him like this. Why can’t you people leave him alone? Why are you all so damned desperate to believe in aliens or demons that you have to harass a helpless old man? Leave him alone. Why can’t you leave him alone? What is wrong with you people?

Read The Amphibious Aliens article, where back in 2007, I DEBUNKED every one of you stupid ass alien, cryptic, demon, and haunted car rumours. Amphibious Aliens The Story of Etiole and The World’s Most Haunted Car, goes over every even from the 1970s, that started the fucking rumour, and lists off how every alien, demon, and haunted car rumour was proven to be nothing but a hoax started by Mervin Bruce Atwater. Every single one of those rumours was started by that one man, and were proven to ALL be hoaxes he perpetrated to try to get money out of Dr Larochelle, the man who hit Mervin’s younger sister with a car. They tried to convince the old doctor his car had a demon living in it and they scammed the doctor out of $20,000 back in the 1970s. THAT is how and why the demon car rumour got started. I bought the car in 1975. Etiole started living in it in 1978. And that is how me and Etiole got dragged into the fucking ass rumours about a demon car.

The article Amphibious Aliens The Story of Etiole and The World’s Most Haunted Car DEBUNKS ALL of the alien, cryptid, demon, and haunted car rumours. Every last one of them.

The car is not haunted and Etiole is not a demon.

You people who believe my car is haunted or think that Etiole is a demon, you are all fucking retarded.

You are slandering me!

You are slandering Etiole!

You are slandering my cars!

I’m sick of it!

Grow up and go get a damned fucking brain!

I’m sick of you people harassing me and Etiole over stupid shit started by brain dead idiots.

And the same goes for the so-called World’s Most Haunted Car. That rumour was started by the same person. That car was proved years ago, to have a mechanical issue that caused it to start and drive ahead until it hit something. No one ever thought to look at the starter. I’m the 3rd owner of the car. I changed the malfunctioning starter and a so called ‘haunted” stuff the car did, went away. It was a problem with the starter, only that and nothing more.

And these people in Biddeford right now, getting you all worked up - if you hadn’t noticed they ARE Mervin Bruce Atwater’s family.

So it’s STILL the same one fucking person running around getting things stirred up. The Atwaters. My fucking uncles. Like usual.

Yesterday at Rotary Park, Biddeford, Maine, a group of people armed with rifles, went down the track team trail behind the soccer field and started shooting... scared the crap out of the 50 or so children and their 100+ parents, got the 30+ dogs in the dog park howling... the sky filled with thousands of Canadian geese, and the park goers assumed the group was hunting geese and started commenting on the fact that hunting was not allowed in Rotary Park.

A few minutes later, a grey/white haired, bearded man, who looks a lot like Kenny Rogers, but not as fat, with a black dog of a German Shepard-Lab mix look, and a woman with pageboy greyish-blond hair, both about late 60s, marched up to me in the park, bragged they had killed Etiole, stating that he has caused their son whom they called “Todd” to jump in front of a train 3 days earlier.

You know what, I knew that homeless man and HE never mentioned it.

You people are just looking for someone to blame, and think because I’m not white, I wear a hijab, and I have a mural painting on my car, you think you are justified on pointing blame at me for something I had no part in.

That homeless man was obsessed with the fact that his dog and son had been taken away from him.

It’s NOT the evil eye as they called it. It’s The eye of The Grigori Archangels aka The Watchers, from the Apocrypha in the Bible. It’s the blue wings of the Seraphim Archangels aka The Watchers. The Watchers are my Guardian angels. I paint them on everything, I sew it on tapestries, it’s on my car, my motorhome, I embroider it on pillows and clothes, paint it on mirrors, paint canvases art for art galleries with it. It’s the blue eyes wings of the archangels as described in the Bible. I’m not sure why they were calling it the Evil Eye.

It’s the Eye of God, the hamsa. A Jewish protection symbol. Etiole’s Jewish, he draws it on everything, so that’s why I do as well.

I’m sick of you jackasses spreading you wild ass rumours about me.

You’re nothing but a bunch of trouble making busy bodies who can’t mind your own fucking business.

I’m not bothering a single damned one of you, so why the fuck are you bothering me?

Why can’t you stupid ass people leave me alone?

There is no reason for a damned one of you to be in my yard.

There is no reason for a damned one of you to be chasing down Etiole.

There is no reason for a damned one of you to be having psychotic meltdowns over my car!

What is wrong with you people?

Fucking brain dead herd mentality that’s all this is.

One of you ran around screaming like a lunatic and rest of you all decided to join in.

But I also ask... WHY would you be scared of me or Etiole? It makes me ask who has been feeding you lies about me? Who has been feeding you lies about Etiole?

I am a crippled elderly woman. I can barely stand up. I’ve been paralyzed and bedridden since the golf club attack November 14, 2013. I’m only just now in 2021 just starting to walk again, and I can barely do that. I have no grip strength so I struggle to even hold me cane. The golf clubs damaged my spine, my nerves, most of my organs don’t function because of the nerve damage to my spine. I struggle to even breath, just sitting up in bed is enough to collapse my lungs. I have no bladder or bowel movement control, I have to wear diapers. What exactly is it you think I can even do?

And Etiole? The old hermit Nazi concentration camp survivor? He’s over 100 years old now, he hasn’t been able to walk, or sit up, or eat on his own, in almost 20 years. He’s dying. What exactly are you expecting him to do?

Etiole is NOT an alien.

Etiole is not a demon.

I am not a witch.

None of my cars are haunted.

I’ve been saying it for years. Why won’t you listen to me?

You are slandering me!

You are slandering Etiole!

You are slandering my cars!

I’m sick of it!

Grow up and go get a damned fucking brain!

I’m sick of you calling Etiole a demon.

I’m sick of you calling Etiole an alien.

I’m sick of you calling me a witch.

I’m sick of you saying one car after another is haunted.

This whole thing boils down to your fucking white privilege. You know that right?

Your white ass can’t stand the fact that we non-white Gypsies live here, so you have to make up stupid ass supernatural spooky shit about us.

You don’t like that I wear the traditional dress of my people instead of dressing like an American, so you feel justified in calling me a witch and making up spook occult lies about me.

I wear hijab and veils and caftan and silk and it bother’s you that I’m not scum diving in trashy t shirts and jeans like the rest of you.

I paint my cars, same as we painted our wagons and vardos for centuries, and it bothers you because it looks different.

Etiole is a Jew, and your anti-Semite white privilege kicks in to hate him for being born Jewish.

Etiole has scars, so you’re scared of him

I’m different.

Etiole’s different.

My cars are different.

And when you get right down to it, that’s ALL any of this is about.

Me, Etiole, and my cars don’t fit in with your fucking ass white privileged ideas of “normal” and that makes you uncomfortable and you try to make the uncomfortable go away by dehumanizing us with your stupid ass rumours.

There are no witches.

There are no aliens.

There are no demons.

There are just a bunch of whinny ass white privileged brats running around making trouble for anyone who’s not white enough for them.

Grow the fuck up!

NaNoWriMo 2021 Quaraun Novel - Vomit Draft - Day 1 to 3 wordcounts

NaNoWriMo 2021 Quaraun Novel - Vomit Draft - Day 1 to 3 wordcounts

Today is November 12, 2021, and it occurred to me, that, I started writing a new Quaraun novel 2 days ago, and, just realized it was also November, so I should be keeping track of word counts. I normally do not keep track of my word counts.

This is the first time I've worked on a Quaraun novel in 7 years, something, I haven't done since the April 10, 2015 murder of my family. I was releasing new Quaraun novels 3 or 4 times a year since the 1970s and, I've not had time to work on a new one with all the court cases, murder trials, police investigations, FBI investigations going on. These past 7 years is the longest break I've ever taken from writing Quaraun novels, so let's see how well I can pick where I left off 7 years ago. 

In any case.

I started this story on November 10, 2021.

So it is now day 3 of writing it, even though it is day 12 of National Novel Writing Month.

During National Novel Writing Month, the challenge is to write 1,667 words per day or 50,000 words over the period of 30 days, whichever comes first.

Unfortunately, I write well over 10,000 words a day and it only takes me 3 days to reach 50,000 words, every year I've done NaNoWriMo since 2004 (this is my 17th year doing NaNoWriMo), so, anyways, 50k in 30days is NOT a challenge for me, rather it'd be a vacation for me if I was to force myself to write that slow.

If you know where to look for it, this novel is also being live streamed so you can watch me typing it live and witness for yourself, what 91 to 175 words per minute typing speed actually looks like.

And for those wanting to read what I have typed... here it is, the first drafts of an as of yet untitled new novel for the Quaraun series.

I have no plot, no clue where this story is going, and no clue how it will end. I simply got an idea, 2 days ago,  for a scene I wanted to write, started writing it, and next thing I knew I had been writing steady none stop for 33,762 words.

Than I remembered a few minutes ago, it was November and so, now here I am making this page.

Note, this is a "vomit draft" so it's going to have errors in spelling and grammar, plot holes, all the usual first draft issue that I'll go back and fix in the edits after we are done.

Note, the sample chapters linked on this website, are "vomit drafts" so are going to have errors in spelling and grammar, plot holes, all the usual first draft issue that I go back and fix in the edits after they are done. Thiss sample chapters were uploaded as part of a workshop series I do at conventions, to allow readers to compare the finished published paperbacks, to how vastly different the story was in it's 1st draft format. They are used as a part of a teaching course for teaching new writers how to edit their shitty first drafts into something publishable.

And as usual, the END PRODUCT, is NOT found here on my website and will only be available via paperback books.

NO SAMPLE DRAFTS or SAMPLE CHAPTERS of the Quaraun novels, found on my website are the finished product or what you see in the published works. 

ALL sample chapters and sample drafts are UNEDITED FIRST DRAFTS, uploaded so you can see the vast amount difference there is between the first draft and the finished product,, allowing you to see exactly HOW MUCH of the first drats is changed, removed, rewritten, and simply does not appear at all, in the finished product that was published.

There's already a HUGE section, that's going to get chopped down a lot in the editing stage.... you'll recognize it when you see it, it's about 20 pages of weird rambling because I couldn't think of what to write next, so I wrote through it with a ramble, until I thought of something to write next. But we are leaving it in on this page as this page is just for keeping track of NaNoWriMo word count progression, so, we don't cut out anything until after November 30th.

After Nov 30th I'll make a separate page for the edited version, so you'll be able to see then how it changes and what I end up removing. But for now, vomit draft mess it is... see link list below for that...






As I've made changes to what I wrote previously, and, rather than adding new scenes at the end, instead I expanded on scenes all ready written, and made earlier sections longer, than rewrote and started editing stuff as I went, I'm going to leave the previous days draft up, so you can compare the two and see how this vomit draft is progressing and changing.

And as it started getting too long to have them all on one page, I'm now putting each day's version on it's own page, so you can see how much the draft is changing from one day to the next.

Links to each day of drafting is below:

NaNoWriMo 2021 Link List:

The Full/Complete/Current Vomit Draft

Day 1 to 3 Vomit Draft

Day 1 to 4 Vomit Draft

Day 1 to 5 Vomit Draft

Day 1 to 6 Vomit Draft

Day 1 to 7 Vomit Draft

Day 1 to 8 Vomit Draft

Day 1 to 9 Vomit Draft

Day 1 to 10 Vomit Draft

Day 1 to 11 Vomit Draft

Day 1 to 12 Vomit Draft

Day 1 to 13 Vomit Draft

Day 1 to 14 Vomit Draft

Day 1 to 15 Vomit Draft

Day 1 to 16 Vomit Draft

Once we start the editing stage, each additional version of the draft will be linked here as well.

I think it's stupid that the average Mainer is such a cry baby whimpering snowflake that I have a court order issued by the Old Orchard Beach Town Hall via the Biddeford District Court requiring I tell you this, but apparently my books are deemed to violent for the retards, I mean citizens of the Town of Old Orchard Beach, so here you go, a court required trigger warning for you all,...


I repeat, there is a 

MASSIVE TRIGGER WARNING

 for the Quaraun series, as it is 200+ volumes, 8 million+ words of steady, endless, non-stop suicide, suicide references, depression, and suicidal characters attempting suicide in nearly every chapter of every volume!

Don't be fooled by the pink covers. The Quaraun series has won awards for being among the darkest novels ever published.

It's one of the few series so dark, so disturbing, so gory, so bloody, and so focused on putting suicide in your face that...

...on January 6, 2016 the American government has issued a court order declaring I was required to put M18+ book rating on the cover, as well as banned 27 volumes of the Quaraun series from being sold in America.

If you have any questions regarding this court order issued by the Old Orchard Beach, Maine Town Hall, an division of the American Government,  which violates the first amendment, where we are clearly told the government can not censor freedom of speech...

please head to the State of Maine, Biddeford District Court and ask for copies of


Docket #BDDC-PA-2015-00574 and CV-15-58/CV-15-59


the Alfred Superior Court Docket #CV-15-299


and the Portland Superior Law Court Docket #YOR-15-253


Additionally, you can find more information by going to the Old Orchard Beach Police Department and requesting copies of ALL police reports made in regards to 144, 146, and 146a Portland Avenue, from 2001 to 2016 (approximately 300 reports).








I will try to remember to update this page daily, around midnight of each day of November 2021, with that days progress and word count totals.

Anyways, I know my Quaraun fans always want to read these novels in progress, so, here you go, a new Quaraun novel in progress:














NaNoWriMo 2021
Untitled Quaraun Novel Vomit Draft 
WIP
Days 1 to 3
(Nov 11, 12, & 13, 2021)

33,762 words...

And it probably requires some sort of trigger warning, but BoomFuzzy is in this one and we've already reached scenes of depression, suicide, and wrist slicing, so yeah, all the usually BoomFuzzy fare is here, just so you know.

The day before, they had been sent on an assignment to destroy a village near the border of the kingdom. The mission was simple enough, but as soon as they arrived it quickly became clear that this would be a harder task than they thought. 

They entered the village from what seemed like the opposite side of the hill, coming out at a small cliff-side, and as they neared their destination, they began to see signs of life, that had disapeared.

The aim of this mission was to infiltrate it and kill off most of its inhabitants in order for them to steal away all their crops and livestock. They’d gone through three towns during the first two days. Their target hadn’t been particularly active and wasn’t even on the watchtower. It was possible that he was simply not aware that they were there, or just didn’t care enough to take notice. Either way, this is exactly what had made them go undetected. Their first week passed without incident as they scoured the villages for food and loot. They found nothing but empty houses and abandoned farms. They also found no sign of any other people. No one lived here.

It was a farming community, with a few buildings scattered around. There were only a handful of people living there, and they were all farmers. There were no guards. No other citizens. Nothing. It seemed to be deserted.

It had been a week since they'd entered the kingdom. All they'd done was explore, scout, and search for anything useful. They did find plenty of things, though they weren't the ones who picked up what they found, nor did they bring any of it back to camp.

As the weeks dragged on, the team grew more confident about the task at hand. As long as the target was unaware they were out there, everything would be okay. There were no survivors here anyway.

But this town, this village. Something was wrong with it. They  found no sign of any people. No one lived here. It was as if the people had instantly vanished one day. 

Meals still on the tables. 

Horse carts stopped dead in the middle of the road, their contents still packed. 

Farm tools laying in the fields as if the people vanished while still using the. 

This was completely out of place. 

The men made their way through the deserted village, going from house to house, puzzling about where the people could have gone? Had they fled, just dropped everything and run? From a dragon perhaps? 

Meanwhile, just outside the village...

The rich, lush green valley was nearby, just a few days ride. Of course it was just an outpost of their civilization, an outpost here in the common lands. A lone woman, with long golden hair, riding on her war horse, barely made it to her town. Goblins and their dreaded war hounds galloped along behind her. They were a few miles back, but they were coming here next. 

The only way to head them off was to cross the field there and take another path through the trees. But where could she go? She needed food and water for both herself and her steed. Maybe she could get supplies at the farming village ahead. 

She could see farm town just over the horizon. But the closer to the town she got, the more nervous she became. Something felt wrong. She couldn't place her finger on it. But there were not many people living in this area, what could possibly happen? Her heart beat faster when she saw the entry gates to the village. 

And that's when she saw it. A large group of men, standing outside a large farmhouse. All talking amongst themselves. They didn't seem dangerous.

At that same moment, behind the deserted farming village, in the forest along the edge of the valley, beside a quiet stream leading to the lake, was set up a small pink tent. Inside the tent slept an elderly Elf with long white hair, wearing silk robes made out of the same striped pink silk as the tent. Wrapped up in fur pelt blankets, breathing softly and peacefully. The only sounds that filled the air around the tent was the soft trickle of water over stone. 

Suddenly, something rustled in the grass outside of the tent, causing the elderly Elf to stir. Quaraun opened his eyes and looked out from beneath his silken curtain. There in the grass stood a large creature, which was almost like a dog but with longer legs, horns, and a pointed snout. 

“Hello! Who are you?"

The beast did not answer, Quaraun had not expected it would. Most creatures didn't talk. The creature turned and scampered back into the forest. Quaraun sat alone once again.

 After a while he got up and stretched. His joints cracked and popped. Old age was catching up with him.

He walked over to a tree that was near where he had been sleeping and pulled down some moss, which covered the bark. He looked to see a rabbit standing there watching him. He began laughing loudly at the thought of the rabbit's long twitching ears and how much they resembled his own. Humans often called Quaraun "rabbit ears" for the foot tall long thin ears that he held high over his head. The rabbit heard him laughing, the creature's own long ears flattened against it's head and it took off running.

"Well, we've a busy forest tonight, haven't we."

Quaraun left the tent flap tied open so he could see outside. Then he crawled back into bed. He laid on his side, looking outside the tent. Outside there was nothing but trees and bushes. Bushes and trees. Nice. Quiet. Peaceful. Relaxing. Grass and leaves. Moss and mushrooms were scattered here and there. He closed his eyes thinking about the strange creature he had just seen. What was a it called? He did not know. After some time he fell asleep again. 

When he awoke it was dark. He was alone, as usual. He got up and went outside, looking around. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary at first, until he noticed that the sun had set. He began walking towards his tent, when suddenly someone called out to him.

"Excuse me!" a woman's voice called out. "Can you show me where the livery stables are?"

"Stables?" Quaraun asked, looking around and seeing no one there.

Unfortunately, Quaraun's ears acted somewhat like antennae and he could pick up sounds from many miles away, just as clear as if they were standing beside him, and he assumed this was the case now, for there was no woman to be seen, and this far out in the middle of the forest, there was no possibility of a literary in the area. He laid his long ears back, tucking them under his impossibly long twelve foot Rapunzel hair.

There was a village near by, down in the valley. Quaraun had seen it the day before. He could have gone there and looked for a room to rent, a bed to sleep in, so as to not have to sleep on the cold hard ground. Quaraun preferred to sleep in his tent, in the forest, away from Human populations. He was the last Elf. Few Humans these days even believed that Elves had ever been once real, so it was generally best to avoid Human villages until scouting out the beliefs of the local cultures and knowing their thoughts on magical creatures, like Elves.

Sadly Quaraun knew he could never live among the Humans. They were quick to judge anything deemed different, and he was certainly different. He knew most people feared him, some even hated him, sometimes simply because he was an Elf, other times because he was a mage. 

A wizard. 

A necromancer. 

The Pink Necromancer no less. 

And yet, many respected him, mostly for his power. Tales of The Pink Necromancer were legendary and there were few who would dare risk his temper. 

The old Elf felt lonely without anyone there beside him at night, so he began to softly sing. 

A soft quiet song. 

A lullaby. 

The lullaby he had sung to his four small children, two sets of twins, two girls and two boys, each two years apart. 

He missed his children. 

They had been murdered, poisoned with tainted chocolate, them their throats slit. A haunted memory of the blood filled nursery, plagued Quaraun's tortured sleep. 

Two girls age twelve, two boys age ten, murdered in a bloody magic ritual.

Quaraun stopped singing. 

Tears streaming from his eyes.

"I loved my children," Quaraun said to himself. "But I loved BoomFuzzy more."

Quaraun had murdered his children on the one hundredth anniversary of BoomFuzzy's death. An attempt to resurrect BoomFuzzy, with a blood sacrifice, life for life, exchanging the thing he loved most of all, his children, for the return of his long dead lover.

The exchange had worked, but not completely. BoomFuzzy's soul was back. Ripped from the land of the dead, now cursed to roam the land of the living. A incorporeal wraith, a ghost with no body, worse, a Lich with no flesh. Enraged by what Quaraun had done, the Lich immediately fled, to where Quaraun did not know. And so once again, Quaraun was alone, separated from now not only the one he loved, but now with no family to love either.

And so Quaraun wandered the world. In search of BoomFuzzy's tormented ghost, while seek a way to restore the wraith into a physical flesh body, that they could be reunited in life, once again.

The wraith had no voice to speak with the living. No flesh to hug and hold. Alone. Lonely. Lost. Tormented.  It would have been nice to have someone to talk to. Nicer to have someone to hold. BoomFuzzy in his current Lich state, could talk to no one, hold no one. He could only reach out and try to touch them, his hand going through them, and far back in horror as he watched them crystallize in a horrible blue death, a frozen blue ice, The Crystal Plague spreading throughout their body, starting at the location he had touched.

They died. 

Everyone he touched.

Everything he touched.

Every plant.

Every animals.

The Frost Lich's frozen touch of death, struck terror in the hearts of mankind.

So many dead. Entire villages, buried in ice. All because of him. Because he were looking for something. Someone. A lover lost. He wasn't afraid anymore. 

BoomFuzzy. 

The Elf Eater of Pepper Valley. 

King Gwallmaiic. 

The most feared Faerie King of all time. 

Now the most feared Lich the world had ever known. He didn’t care anymore. He'd roamed the world trying not to freeze everything he touched, but he no longer cared. 

Depression filled his mind. 

He wanted death. 

He crazed for death. But he was already dead. 

Now undead. A flesh-less corpse walking among the living.

The Phooka of a Thousand Death, he roamed the world endlessly killing himself over and over again, in search of a way to duie and stay dead.

But he was soul bound to an Elf.

To Quaraun.

And as long as Quaraun lived, the Lich could never fully die.

The Lich grew to hate Quaraun. His lover from once before, was now his curse that trapped him in this state of existing not dead, yet not alive. For as much as Quaraun loved BoomFuzzy, BoomFuzzy hated Quaraun. Hated Qumran for the wish misspoken, that had bound their souls together, trapping them for eternity, always connected together, always separate, never together. The Lich that once in life had been BoomFuzzy, thought to kill Quaraun and free himself of this curse.

So many lay dead in his path. If only he hadn’t touched them.

The Lich had come this way, drifting through these forests, freezing everything he touched. A path of trees, only days ago, lush, green and full of life, now stood dead, frozen, strange blue crystal points, skewered through their bark, trunk, and leaves. Everything touched by the frozen wraith had the life sucked out of it, and nothing but frozen blue quartz crystals left behind.

In life The Elf Eater of Pepper Valley had been a holy terror, a warlord who marches his armies across nations, slaughtering all in his path. No one understood why Quaraun loved him. What Quaraun ever saw in such an evil man. But now, The Elf Eater was long dead, and his frosty Lichified wraith roamed the earth, striking more fear into the hearts of humanity than he had ever done in life.

To kill the Elf Eater, destroy the wraith, rid the world of this icy lich, was the battle cry of millions of cities, millions of villages, who lived in mortal terror that one day this lich would walk through their village and leave behind, as it always did, nothing but icy death.

And while most sought to destroy the lich, Quaraun sought to free him, restore him to life, release him from his frosty flesh-less cursed existence. 

And that was why Quaraun was here, in this valley, whose name he did not know, near a village he also knew not the name of. 

Quaraun was following the Lich that was all that remained of BoomFuzzy, and it had walked through he mere days ago.

Quaraun sat for many hours and listened to the soft hum of the crickets, cicadas, and frogs croaking and chirping and buzzing. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine that he was lying in the soft warm furs that lined BoomFuzzy’s bed. The furs were soft and fluffy and smelled like him, and there was a comforting heat that wrapped around Quaraun when he slept. He wondered if it could feel as comfortable to anyone else, but he never felt more comfortable than with the furry blankets. 

He didn't know what else it could do for them other than being so soft and warm. It had been one of his favourite things to do on rainy days or cold nights. After a long day at work, he would come home and curl up under one of the furs in the living room. He always fell asleep faster there.

He opened his eyes, glanced out the open curtain-door of the tent, and looked up at the starry night sky. It glowed a soft golden hue over the trees and he sighed, resting his head back down on the fur pelt blanket. 

Suddenly Quaraun sat up and pulled the covers off as he remembered where he was. He was not snuggled up asleep in the safety of BoomFuzzy's gingerbread house. 

No. 

BoomFuzzy had died centuries ago and Quaraun was alone. 

These were BoomFuzzy's furs, kept these many years, from BoomFuzzy's bed, but BoomFuzzy had long been dead. 

Quaraun was alone. 

Alone, sleeping in a secluded grove on the side of the road, as he always did now. 

Sad and alone. 

Wandering the world, to wherever the road took him. With no aim, no goal, and no purpose. Ever on his search to find a way to resurrect his dearly beloved BoomFuzzy. 

He was lost. Lost to the world. Lost to time. Lost to all that made life worth living.

All that ever mattered now, was to find his friend. Find the man who would love him so very much, that when he returned to them, he would have someone else, by his side.

Quaraun wandered the world, going from town to town, looking for books, tomes, scrolls, diaries, notes, anything written by a mage. Any mage. Scoring the world for clues, to any mage who might ever have tried to cheat death, tried to resurrect a loved one. Anything that Quaraun could learn that might be of some sort of usefulness for bringing BoomFuzzy back to life.

Quaraun now sat awake, looking around and wondering what he should do next, than he remembered that he had seen a small farm village up ahead. He decided to pack up his tent, and explore the village. Perhaps it had a library or a book collector, or maybe even a village which, someone who might have access to magic spell books he could study and read and take notes from.

Back at the farm village, the men, grew antsy. They seemed unable to leave the village. Try as they might, every time they went out of the front gate,, they immediately found themselves back in front of the large farm house again, with no clue how they got there.

"Dark magic's afoot," one man said.

The others nodded and agreed. Just than an unearthly looking blond woman, riding a large white stallion rode up. She was out of breath, and so was her horse.

"Excuse me!" She called out to the men. "Can you show me where the livery stables are?"

The men stared at her, terrified, as if they had seen a ghost, then suddenly bolted in every direction, running away from the women.

"How rude!" she declared as she climbed down from her horse and set about looking for someone to help her.

Back in the forest, Quaraun busied himself in packing up his campsite. And than began walking towards the direction of the village. If it had a stable for renting horses, than surely it was big enough to also have a saloon, maybe even one with goof quality Fairy Wine. 

It was unlikely. 

Faeries were the only ones able to make good quality Fairy Wine, and they rarely wholesaled it out to Humans. Besides, BoomFuzzy was dead, and not even the best Faeries made Fairy Wine like BoomFuzzy did. 

Hailed among Fae at the best of the Master Faerie Chefs, BoomFuzzy, though famed among Humans for being a warlord, had been famed among Faeries as the chef, every Fae chef dreamed to become.

After some time of walking he came upon a small clearing with some bushes, which were growing around one side of it. In the centre of the clearing there was a large wooden building. Without thinking anything odd about doing so at all, Quaraun entered through the front door, without knocking and saw two women sitting near the fire. They both turned to look at him.

Quaraun noticed that they were both wearing the same clothes as he was, something was not right here. No one dressed like Quaraun. With all his pink silk, pink ribbons, pink bows, pink feathers, pink glitter, pink ruffles, pink crewel, pink gemstones, pink beads, pink rhinestones, and pink fru-fru, no one in their right mind would even dream of dressing like Quaraun, except, maybe Liberace.

Quaraun also made all of his own clothes, right down to the cloth. For Quaraun was a silk weaver and embroiderer and tailor. So it wasn't possible for anyone else to wear his clothes.

Quaraun stood and stared at the women, and while he watched them, they suddenly vanished, as did the house around them.

"How odd," was all Quaraun said as he turned back to the path and continued on his way.

Back at the abandoned village the soldiers were feeling uneasy. No one lived here. There weren’t any villagers around at all. They were beginning to feel like they might actually succeed in taking down the place with just themselves and their weapons. They couldn’t understand why it had been chosen specifically.

They decided to move on when their third week began. There was a small stream nearby that the villagers said flowed into a lake. It would be easy for them to find a suitable location to set up camp for the night. 

While setting up camp, as they started to pack, there was suddenly a loud thump outside. It sounded like someone hitting a tree with an axe. A quick glance at each other and they all rushed outside to see who it was. It was hard not to notice how dark it had gotten. The only light coming from the moonlight filtering through the clouds.

They turned around to see that the woman from earlier lay unconscious on the ground. They approached her slowly. One of them lifted her up to see if she was alright. She woke up when the men approached and glared at them. She pushed past them and ran towards a nearby building that was filled with barrels. The barrels seemed to move.

The men went after her and followed her inside. They saw her pick up one of the barrels and turn it over. She then smashed the barrel open on top of a man’s head. He fell onto the floor bleeding out. As they looked closer they could see his eyes moving under the blood that spilled.

The woman ran from the building as the men scrambled around their fallen comrade.

Outside the woman ran, terrified, looking in every direction for a place to hide. As she ran down the street, she spied a small alley between two buildings and turned down that corner, nearly slamming into Quaraun who was bent over rummaging around in a pile of crates.

"Hello," Quaraun said as he stood up to address the woman. Then noticing the distress on her face added: "Is something the matter?"

The sounds of angry men, yelling and shouting, did not give the woman any time to answer. She shoved Quaraun aside, knocking the old Elf off his feet, as she ran past him and continued her fear filled flight.

As Quaraun struggled with his cane, pulling himself to his feet, the tumble-bumble herd of angry men, came tearing down the road, they too knocking him over as they ran past in search of the murderess who'd killed their friend.

"Oh dear," Quaraun sputtered as he once again reached for his cane and struggled back to his feet. "Every one does seem to be in a rush around here."

Curious as to what was going on, Quaraun made his way in the direction the men had gone, after the woman. He stopped when he saw the men up ahead, and ducked back behind a pile of boxes that stood near the corner, then peeked out to watch what was going on.

As they crept towards a window at the edge of the building’s porch, two men entered one of the houses and left. The door closed behind them, and then everything happened so fast. 

One man ran past them, towards the road. Two others turned towards him; then they fired. A second later, four arrows whizzed towards the man, striking him in the side and chest. He fell to the ground and didn’t move. Three more men burst from behind another house. One pointed his sword straight at the first man who’d run out, while another raised his axe and prepared to attack the others.

Without thinking, Quaraun let out a scream. A moment later, he felt a sharp sting in his arm. It took him a split second to realize an arrow had hit one attacker in the stomach, and then he realized they’d caught sight of him. The remaining three men now  charged at him, weapons drawn. 

One held his shield up high over his head, while the other two held their swords in front of them, pointing at him. Both carried clubs. The last had the axe that he used earlier.

Quaraun drew one of the Elf Eater’s cursed daggers. The magic dagger flashed as the first two attacked him. One grabbed hold of his dagger hand. The other lunged forward, swinging his club. Quaraun dodged away, while the dagger, taken on a life of its own, flew through the air and stabbed the attacker in the face.

The other three quickly surrounded the elderly wizard, raising their blades high above their heads.

Before anyone could strike, the Elf Eater’s twin daggers slashed at each of them. 

All three fell. 

One landed hard on his side. 

One on his leg. 

Another on the floor. 

The third stumbled backwards, holding his knee. He dropped to his knees, dropping both his clubs. His eyes bulged as blood seeped between his fingers.

Quaraun spun and darted into a nearby doorway. Behind him, one attacker groaned and tried to get up. As soon as he moved, one of the cursed daggers lashed out and connected with his neck. The attacker collapsed onto the floor.

Quaraun darted into another doorway, then another. After about thirty seconds, he finally reached a dead end.

He stopped, turning around and surveying his surroundings. The room he stood in was large, but it ended abruptly at a stone wall. The two daggers floated back to him and obediently took their place at his side. His eyes fell on the dead end. If he went down the steps at the far end, it would take him to the bottom of the stairs.

There was nowhere else to go.

So he did.

After stepping off the steps, the stone floor crunched beneath his feet. He walked down the hallway for a couple of meters and stopped, glancing both ways, taking in the room. It contained nothing except a desk, some chairs, shelves, and a door. He glanced at the door. To his surprise, it opened easily and swung inward, exposing the corridor beyond. A small room opened to one side of the corridor. 

Quaraun stepped inside. He closed the door and looked around. A wooden chair sat beside the desk, pushed against a wall. He approached it slowly, monitoring his surroundings.

“Hello?” he called.

No answer.

The old Elf cautiously stepped closer to the table. Quaraun set his pink heart-shaped bag on the table and began rummaging through it. Once he’d found what he needed, he pulled a book from his pink bag. The old wizard carelessly put his pack on the floor and set his two daggers beside it. He then carefully placed the book on top of his pack.

He reached into his pocket and took out his wand and pointed it at the book. With a flick, the book burst into flames, leaving nothing behind but ashes.

Quaraun sighed. 

“I hate being here,” he muttered. 

Then Quaraun moved towards the chair. When he reached the chair, he sat. It creaked softly under his weight. He leaned back and rested his hands on the arms of the chair. 

He waited. 

An hour passed. 

The sun outside began to set. The shadows grew long, deepening the room. Still, nothing had changed. Not even the sound of a horse approaching could be heard. It was odd, the level of silence in this town, in this house even. 

Quaraun shivered, than glanced around the room. It was getting cold, in this place. Unusually cold, frigid even. As though a Lich's frost was encasing the outside of the building.  And there was no fireplace nor wood stove to be seen. He was wearing only thin silk robes, not nearly warm enough for the intense chill that filled this stone walled cellar room. He had hoped to find a place to light a fire and warm himself, but it appeared this cellar was mostly used by it's resident as a reading room, and served no purpose otherwise as living quarters.

Quaraun heard a sound.

"Hello?"He stood up and turned around. "Is someone there?"

There was no reply.

He heard no further sounds, so he sat back down and contemplated if he should use his wand to create a flame-less fire or put on a fur coat from his bag.

Quaraun yawned and stretched his limbs.

Finally, Quaraun stood up, picked up his pack, and walked towards the window. His eyes were very tired. This strange, intense cold was making him very sleepy. Quaraun stared out the window, the ground above was eye level to the bottom of the cellar window, so he could clearly see the ground and part of the sky and not much else. There was no light source, just the moon and stars.

Just then, something crashed into the windowsill, causes Quaraun to jump back startled. When he looked to see what it was, he saw a large black bird, and eagle of some sort, laying on the ground by the window. It stood up and stared at him. It had gleaming black-blue feathers, brilliant crystal blue eyes, and huge sharp black talons. It cocked it's head sideways, staring back at him for a moment and than flew away.

"What a strange looking bird," Quaraun said to himself. "I wonder what it was. I've never seen one like it."

Quaraun turned back to look around the room once again.

His gaze fell on a stack of books sitting on the desk. He reached for one. It was old. The leather binding cracked, and its yellowed pages flapped gently. He set it aside and picked up another. This one had a chocolate brown velvet cover, the exact type of brown velvet as the cassock BoomFuzzy always wore.

"BoomFuzzy," Quaraun whispered as he ran his gold armoured fingers over the soft velvet binding. He turned the book over to look at it's cover. The covered was embossed with gold leafing, exactly like the ones on the covers of BoomFuzzy's boxes of chocolates. "Oh my!" Quaraun gasped when he read the title of the book.

The gold words said:"Quaraun".

Quaraun opened the book, turning it's delicate vellum pages carefully. He recognized the calligraphic handwriting on the pages. It was BoomFuzzy. BoomFuzzy had written this.

"Quaraun is an ancient Moon Elf wizard. A powerful mage, whom has lived for centuries beyond his natural life expectancy. He is known as the most dangerous and knowledgeable wizard in all of the Realm of Fae."

"BoomFuzzy wrote this," Quaraun said as he closed the book and tucked it away inside his pack."But when? I was not yet a wizard when BoomFuzzy died. I was just a child. I became a mage after his death. Because of his death. BoomFuzzy could not have written this."

Quaraun pulled a box of BoomFuzzy's BoomFudgy ButterCream Filled Chocolate Covered Apricots from out of his tiny heart-shaped bag of holding.

He stared at the velvet covered brown box with the friendly gold letters on the top. Such wonderful dark chocolates. Such horrible dark secrets they held inside each bloody bite.

BoomFuzzy had died centuries ago. One bite was deadly. BoomFuzzy's last box of BoomFudgy ButterCream Filled Chocolate Covered Apricots.

The last thing BoomFuzzy ever made.

The last thing BoomFuzzy ever ate.

BoomFuzzy had poisoned the candy.

A horrible, terrible poison.

One that dissolved organs, and caused the eater to dying coughing up a pool of their own blood, mixed with their dissolved entrails.

BoomFuzzy's last box of BoomFudgy ButterCream Filled Chocolate Covered Apricots. The box of chocolates BoomFuzzy had made to kill himself with.

BoomFuzzy had committed suicide.

This horrible box of chocolates killed BoomFuzzy.

No. 

This was not a pleasant thought.

This was a horrible thought.

A memory. 

That's what this box was now. 

A memory of the day BoomFuzzy died.

Quaraun opened the box. The deceptively heavenly aroma of bitter sweet dark chocolate, soft, fluffy buttercream, and gooey fruity apricot jam wafted out of the box. 

Five chocolates were gone. 

The rest still remained.

"I loved my children," Quaraun said out loud. "But I loved BoomFuzzy more. I murdered my four children. This candy is poisoned. I gave them each a chocolate from this box. This horrible box of poisoned chocolates." 

Quaraun stared at the horrible boxes of chocolates that had taken so many lives.

"I knew what they were, I knew they were full of poison, and I did it, anyway. I knew how BoomFuzzy had died. I knew what BoomFuzzy had done to the food. And I gave these to my children anyways. Five are gone. One for BoomFuzzy. Four for my children. The rest remain."

Tears streamed down Quaraun's cheeks.

"Why? They were sweet and innocent. Innocent and sweet. Pure and kind. Kindness is a rare thing. So few are kind. No one has ever been kind to me. I am too different to be accepted or welcomed in any society. Unloved and unwanted, outcast and abandoned. Yet they were innocent. They were not cruel and hateful like everyone else."

Quaraun put the box of poisoned chocolates back in his bag and fell silent once again.

Quaraun picked up the next book from the stack. Quaraun read over the title."The History of the World." Quaraun placed that book back down and opened another. This book was newer and less damaged, but it's pages were blank. There were no words written in it.

He set it aside and pulled another book closer. 

The cover read: "A Treatise On the History, Theory, and Practice of Witchcraft, by King Gwallmaiic."

Quaraun gasped at the name. King Gwallmaiic. BoomFuzzy. BoomFuzzy was just a nickname, a name Quaraun had called him, his real name had been Gwallmaiic, King of the Faeries. Could he have written this book? that was now two books in this stack, written by BoomFuzzy. This was a most odd and curious discovery.

This time, he removed a thick red book from the stack and opened it. He scanned the page, reading. Then he placed it back on the stack and picked up another. 

He read it. 

Replaced it. Then he picked up the next one. 

Quaraun moved onto the next book in line. The cover read: "Treatise on the Art and Science of Magic."

Quaraun held it up and read the words engraved along the top right hand corner: "King Gwallmaiic."

These books belonged to BoomFuzzy. Quaraun was certain of it. He pocketed this one as well in his pink bag of holding.

Again he read. Again he put the book where he found it. 

Once more, he reached for another book. He read the title and chuckled lightly. “The Dark Side of Camelot,” he read out loud. 

He flipped open the cover. The book read: “I have always liked stories about knights who fight the evil sorcerer, Merlin.”

Quaraun sighed deeply. He shut the book, put it back, got up, and went to the desk. Unlike the table, there was nothing on it. He contemplated opening one of its drawers, however; he decided against it.

Quaraun went back to the table and sat in its chair once again. He laid his elbows on the arms of the chair and rested his chin on his fist. He picked up “The Dark Side of Camelot” once again, opened it, laid it on the table, and stared blankly at the open page muttering the line: “I have always liked stories about knights who fight the evil sorcerer, Merlin.” to himself a few times.

“Merlin wasn’t evil,” Quaraun stated to no one. “Nor was he a sorcerer. Why writes this crap?”

A sound on the stone stairs interrupted his thoughts. He heard footsteps. The sound echoed throughout the empty hallways. Soon after, a woman came running down the hall. She gripped a torch in her hand. She stopped short when she saw Quaraun.

Quaraun looked at her. She was tall, taller than him, had blonde hair, blue eyes, and light freckles on her cheeks. Her lips were thin and full. She wore a loose, billowing white blouse, long blue skirt, black boots, and a black leather belt. She had the regal air of royalty about her. A queen or a princess, perhaps. She did not move like a commoner. 

Quaraun recognized her as the woman whom had run ino him on the street. She was the same woman whom was being chased by the angry men whom had lost her so chased after Quaraun instead, causing him to end up in this very room.

The woman smiled awkwardly at Quaraun, than continued looking frantically around the room. She looked as lost as he felt. Quaraun was used to be lost though and this woman seemed to have never been lost before.

"Did you see them?" she asked Quaraun.

"See who?"

"The Goblins and their war hounds."

"No. I've seen no Goblins here. Nor any war hounds."

"They're coming you know."

"Are they?"

"They were about an hour behind me when I arrived this morning."

"Well, that was many hours ago. Perhaps they passed this village by?"

"I don't think so."

"Whatever became of the men who were chasing you?"

"Don't know. Don't care. I've got to find the key."

"Key?"

"Yes."

"What key?"

"Shhhh. Let me listen," she hushed him, than placed her ear to the wall.

She paused when she saw the long corridor full of doors, and opened each door, looking into each one of them, and then hurriedly looked around again before leaving. Her blonde hair flew wildly around her shoulders. Quaraun noted her clothes were torn and dirty, as were her boots and gloves. It appeared she had been running for a while, chased perhaps, and like himself, was looking for a place to hide to escape attackers. Quaraun watched her go.

Finally, she disappeared around the corner. Quaraun frowned. That was strange. Why had she fled? Who chased her? What did she see?

It was quiet now. No sounds at all. The still silence of the chilly night air filled the room. Quaraun closed his eyes and rested his head on the table. He fell asleep. For how long, he did not know. Minutes? Hours? He could not tell.

A sudden bang made Quaraun jump up wide awake.

“Who goes there?!” someone shouted.

Someone laughed.

Someone else spoke. The words muffled. Quaraun could not make them out.

Quaraun stood up and grabbed his daggers.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway again. Coming closer. Closer. Quaraun held his breath, not daring to make any noise. Whoever it was, they were almost here and there was no place to go. No place to hide.

Another bang. This time, Quaraun jumped. He nervously clutched his daggers. Whoever it was, they were getting close.

“Who is there?” the voice repeated.

Quaraun remained still and silent.

A figure stood in the corridor. A man. Wearing a dark cape with a hood. He held a knife in one hand, blade outward, and a torch in the other. No, two men, both in dark hooded capes.

The first man gestured with one hand for Quaraun to follow him.

“Come here!” he yelled.

Quaraun hesitated for a moment.

“Oh, it’s you, Quaraun,” said the second man. “I thought it might be someone from town, or bandits from the woods. Can’t trust no one these days, you know? But I guess it’s just the three of us then.”

“Do I know you?” Quaraun asked.

“Me? Ha ha!” he laughed heartily. “I’m so stupid! You’re the Elf I was told about, right?”

“How should I know?”

“Well, I’ll tell you something, Elf. We’ve been following you since we left the village today, and we gonna catch your tail and drag you back to the village and lock you up good.”

“Wait, what?” Quaraun stood, feeling very confused.

“I’m not one of your people, eh?”

“Uhm... no?”

“Just some poor unfortunate soul wandering around this hell hole. I have nothing in my pockets, so how am I going to pay for food and drink if I can’t find the money somewhere?”

“You don’t have a wallet?”

“Nope. Need money to survive now, don’t we?”

“You’re a bounty hunter?”

“That I would be.”

“You plan to turn me in for the reward money?”

“I do.”

“If money is all you need, I have gold I in my purse. I can give it to you now. You can pretend you never saw me and just let me pass.”

“Oh, no, I can’t do that. Wouldn’t be right.”

“Why not?”

“Well, you see, it’s like this. I’m the additional guard of the castle, see? Can’t let someone like you escape my first day on the job, now can I?”

“I suppose not.”

"Stop lollygagging and move."

With hesitation, Quaraun picked up his things, pocketed the book titled “The Dark Side of Camelot”, and followed the castle guard and his companion.

The two guards led Quaraun down the halls of the castle until they reached their destination, a hallway leading to a stone staircase, leading up a tall stone tower.

"There it is Rapunzel," the guard said pointing to the tower.

"Rapunzel?" Quaraun asked.

"You're hair."

"I understand the reference. I don't understand what it is I am looking at."

"Your tower. With only one door at the top of the stairs. A tower, taller than your hair. I don't doubt you can grow your hair long enough to climb down with it, but it'll take you a few decades. And by that time we will have found the princess without you getting in the way."

"You intend to lock me in a tower?"

"Oh yes. Fitting for one with hair like your's, yes?"

As they walked through a winding hallway, they came to an area that resembled a cross between a hospital and a dungeon. 

It was lit with torches and hung with iron bars. There were cages filled with people screaming in pain, some injured as well. They passed a young boy sitting by himself against one wall.

"Ignore them," the guard said to Quaraun. "They're not there. You didn't see anything."

"I didn't?"

“No. And besides. I got a princess to find. Up to your tower like a good little fairy tale waif with cursed hair, now will you?”

“Princess?” Quaraun recalled the blond woman he had seen only moments ago. Was she the princess of whom these men spoke? Quaraun was more interested in finding his ghostly undead soulmate than helping these men find their princess, though it did occur to him, that helping them, could get him out of his current situation of being tossed in prison. "What sort of girl is she? Is she an actual princess?"

“Yep. She went and run off again." 

“What sort of princess needs being guarded for, by men like you?”

“The kind that makes kings weep with jealousy, of course!”

"Ah! Of course. Now why didn't I think of that?"

The tall man, who was presumably the captain of this castle's guardsmen, leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially in Quaraun’s ear. “She’s a sorceress."

"Is she?"

"Um-hum."

"So... she's a sorceress?" Quaraun mulled this thought over in his mind. A sorceress would certainly explain several of the strange, unnatural happenings of this day.

"Aye."

"Aye?"

"Yep."

"No, you said, aye."

"Same differance."

"Are you Scottish?"

"Nope."

"Than why use a Scottish word?"

"Why you interrogating me over a silly word?"

"Words are not silly."

"Says who?"

"Says me. I say."

"And what right have you to say?"

"I'm a Di'Jinn. We use words, true meanings of words, to power our spells. Bad things happen when you use a word and use a modern slang meaning and not the word's original true meaning. Words are very important. Never say they aren't."

"I'm the guard here. You're the prisoner. Now shut your trap, before I shut it for you, ya hear?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"But you said this princess you are looking for is a sorceress, can you tell me more of that?"

"You know," the taller guard added, his tone now hushed again. "If you wanted me to tell you the story of how her parents died, fighting dragons and she was whisked away by Griffons, I would sit my ass right down in that chair over dair and do so, eh?"

"But it wouldn't be what actually happened to her would it?" Quaraun understood the man was being sarcastic.

"No. It would not."

"Than why would you tell me it?"

"What part of I am the guard here. You are the prisoner. Now shut your trap, before I shut it for you, do you not understand?"

"I got the impression if you was going to hit me you would have just done it outright and not told me beforehand, so I'm thinking you don't want to hit me at all, in which case I am lead to believe that it is perfectly safe for me to continue talking to you."

"Arrogant one, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"You admit it?"

"I know what I am, no reason to hide it. Just accept my flaws and continue on with life. That's all any of us can do. Besides, I prefer to be honest in all things. Less things to try to remember, if you always just speak the truth about everything, yes? Tell me, this sorceress, is she dangerous?"

"The Daughter of Vengeance she is."

"The Daughter of Vengeance? I believe I've heard that before."

"Yeah, that's her name. And she hates me for no reason at all."

"Does she now?"

"Don't even get me started on what she gone done dids to the other guys in town."

"Other guys? What other guys? There is no one in town, except a crew of bandits, which I think she killed. The rest of the village is deserted."

"Aye. That do be me point." 

"Now, come on, will you? Be a good evil sorcerer and come along nicely."

"I'm not an evil sorcerer."

"You're Quaraun the Insane, aren't you?"

"Yes. But I'm not evil."

"Yeah, yeah, we heard it before. The super villain is always the hero in his own story. Come on. We got a nice prison cell for you. Then I can get back to catching the princess. We don’t want her getting caught by the enemy now, do we?”

“Who is the enemy?”

"Don't you know?"

"Know what?"

"Have you been living under a rock?"

"Apparently. Tell me what it is I don't know."

"About her?"

"Who?"

"Didn't you read the letter I wrote to Lady Janna?"

"Who?"

"Lady Janna."

"I haven't the foggiest idea what you are talking about."

"The letter, Elf. Where is it?"

"What letter?"

"Hah! I knew it!"

"Knew what?" Quaraun felt very confused. Though the guard looked like a Human, he was talking like a Faerie, and Quaraun was having trouble following the fast pace Faerie-style logic of not saying everything and changing topics very quickly. BoomFuzzy had always done that, BoomFuzzy being a Faerie, and so Quaraun had often been left clueless to half the things BoomFuzzy talked about.

"It's from the book," the guard continued.

"What book?" Quaraun asked, as he followed the guard up the tall spiralling stairs, leading into a very tall stone tower. While the second guard walked silently behind, jabbing his finger into Quaraun's back every time Quaraun stopped walking. "Will you stop that!" Quaraun yelled as he spun around and slapped the guard behind him. "That hurts! I'm not trying to escape, now poking me!"

"Now, now, Njord!" the leading guard called down, "Stop poking his ladyship."

"I'm not a ladyship!" Quaraun snarled.

Quaraun was in fact a female JellyFish type Thullid, living as a male Elf, so he was using male pronouns, though he was biologically a she and not a he. With this in mind, Quaraun took great offence to being called by any female pronouns, ladyship included.

The guard had continued up the stairs, but seeing how Quaraun had stopped walking, he turned around and made his way back down to where Quaraun stop. By the time he made his way back to Quaraun, Quaraun was now yelling at Njord, threatening to kick him down the stairs.

"You don't take to being a prisoner very well, do you?"

"He's stepping on my hair!" Quaraun screamed frantically.

"Ah. Yes. I do forgets about ya hair." The guard stared down at the stone steps, where Quaraun massive mess of twelve foot long glossy, slippery, silvery white hair, trailed down the stairs behind him, and the second guard, Njord, was standing on the tresses. "Njord, his ladyship has requested you stop stepping on his hair."

"We should just cut it off," Njord said. 

"NO!" screamed Quaraun as he pulled his hair closer to him, winding it up on his arm like a rope. "You'll kill me if you cut it! I'll bleed to death!"

"Hair doesn't bleed," Njord laughed.

"Mine does!" Quaraun shrieked hysterically. "I would bleed to death if you cut it."

"Hair doesn't bleed. . ."

"Mine does," Quaraun repeated again, fear filling his voice now.

"That's not possible."

"It is. My father cut my hair short once. It bled for days. I was anemic for months. It took over a year for the sliced off ends to fully heal, and nearly twenty years for my hair to grow back. It was incredibly painful the whole time. The wounds on the ends of my hairs are still scarred. The scars on the ends are very sensitive to touch. The nerve damage never fully healed."

"Aye, that's true," the guard captain stated. "I remember that. Him were sick for years after hims hair were cut. Him almost died."

Quaraun gently pulled up a handful of hair and ran his gold armoured fingers across the scarred ends. The hair withered, wriggling away from his touch. Moving as though it were alive.

"You have, magic hair?" Njord asked. "It just moved on it's own. I saw it."

"Magic? No. Not magic. Well, I guess by your mind, you would see it as magic."

"But it bleeds?"

"Yes. And it hurts when you step on it. The nerves are sensitive."

"Nerves? In your hair? Scars on. . . but. . . you can't have wounds on your. . . you hair. . . Hair. . . doesn't. . . hair doesn't bleed. . ." Njord stopped talking and watched Quaraun's hair as it moved. Slithering around him, like a massive pile of thousands of tiny, wiry snakes. He moved closer to get a better look at Quaraun's strange hair. "It's not hair, is it? It's. . . it's. . . is it tentacles?"

"What are you?"

"I'm a JellyFish."

"A JellyFish? You're joking."

"No."

"These are tentacles?"

"Yes. I told you, I am a JellyFish. My body is pink and covered with lovely purple ruffles, and my tentacles are long and white and glossy and silver and look like hair. I already said this."

"You hair isn't hair."

"No."

"That's. . . I don't know what it is. That's why you never cut it? It's actually part of your body?"

"Yes."

"They move on their own. How much control do you have over them? Can you move them at will, like arms and legs?"

"I can. I can use them like hairs to grab things and pick things up, or to reach up in the tops of tall trees and pick apples without a ladder. I could climb with them if I wasn't scared of heights. I can walk on them like feet should the Elf's feet get tired."

As Quaraun said this, he suddenly lifted himself up off the ground, and by all appearances looked to be gliding, levitating, several feet in the air, his feet not touching the ground. It looked as though he was flying, unsupported by anything, but upon closer examination, Njord saw that the hair nearest the ground had grown stiff, rigid, and was lifting his body up into the air.

"I was once overpowered by my attackers and they shaved my hair, I was left bleeding to death, as my blood drained from the thousands of severed tentacles."

"That. . . must have hurt."

"It did. This cutting of my hair left me in agonizing pain for months, and while, like any JellyFish I can regrow my severed jelly-limbs, it takes 30 years for my tentacles to grow back!"

"Thirty years?"

"Yes!"

"That's a long time." 

"During that time I had to make the claim that I could no longer cast magic."

"Why?" 

"Without my hair,  I can do nothing. I am a cripple."

"Cripple?"

"Yes. This Elf. His legs are lame. The Hanging Tree left me crippled for the rest of my life."

"I'm sorry."  

"Are you?"

"Yes." 

"No one ever is."

"Sorry?"

"Yes. For hurting me. Everyone hurts me. They think it is fun."

"Has no one ever not hurt you?" 

"No. No one but BoomFuzzy. He took care of me. That is why I did not die. I meet him the same day they cut my hair. He saw I was hurt. Injured. I lived with him in the gingerbread house, those thirty years, while regrowing my hair. He was kind to me, when no one else was." 

"No one is ever kind to you?"

"No. No one."

"Ever?"

"No. Never. Not before. Not sense. I've no one who cares about me. No one who loves me. BoomFuzzy was the only one. And now he is dead and I am alone."

"Why has no one ever been kind to you?"

"I'm seen as a monster. No one ever makes friends with a creature like me. No one ever tries. No cares if I live or die. I have no friends. My family was murdered. I am alone. I went into hiding, citing that my hair is the source of his magic powers. So my enemies would not know how helpless I was without my hair."

"Is your magic abilities connected to your hair?"

"The truth is far deeper than that, though. The Elf's body is weak and in frail health. I rely heavily on my stinging, strangling tentacles to survive. My Elf's body is badly injured, with a lame leg, and I can barely walk with the Elf's legs. I move with my hair, most all of the time, carefully wearing these long skirts to hide my feet, hiding the fact that I'm actually walking on my tentacles and not on my feet." 

"You can walk on your tentacles and fly over people that way."

"Yes. But that would terrify Humans. They would call me a witch and crush me under rocks or drown me with chains tied to my feet. You know how Humans are when they think there are witches about."

"Are you also able to use your hair as a weapon?" 

"Oh yes. When threatened, and feeling I have no other way to escape, my hair takes on a Medusa-like life of it's own, lashing out at my attacker, either pulling them away, or wrapping around them."

"Can you kill people with your hair?"

"I can. I have. When confronted by life-threatening situations, I have been known to use my hair to strangle my attacker to death."

Quaraun glided back to the ground, and gently sat himself back down on the stone steps of the tall spiralling staircase. His hair slithered around, coming to rest snuggled around his body as if protecting him, hugging him, and keeping him warm.

"Being a JellyFish, similar to the Portuguese Man of War, my tentacles are full of highly toxic venom and I can also sting my enemies to death. But, with my hair-tentacles cut off, I can barely stand, let alone walk. And I hide the fact of my being a JellyFish from most people. Only people I strongly trust know that I am actually a JellyFish. Thus why the claim that I can not use magic and must go into hiding, after my hair is cut. Cutting my hair is cutting off thousands of arms and legs and causes me serious injury. It takes a long time to heal with ninety percent of your body is sliced off and chopped up."

"You really are a jellyfish."

"Yes. I live inside the Elf's skull after I ate his brain. I let my tentacles grow out of his head like hair."

"Aren't they heavy? I mean, tentacles must be even heavier than hair, and hair that long is pretty damned heavy. That many of them, that long, they must be heavier than the whole rest of your body."

"They are."

"How do you walk?"

"I manage. I rarely use the Elf's feet or legs. It is why I wear long full shirts with ruffled trains. The skirts hide the fact that my legs are not being used and rather I am gliding over the ground, using my hair to move instead. My body was made for swimming. Not walk. But this ocean, your water, this planet it is toxic for me. I could not swim in it. And I die out of water. So, I live in this Elf and get by the best that I can."

"Okay," the captain said, clapping his hand briskly. "Enough abut your jelly-hair. Up the stairs. Up. Up. Up! We can't spend all day focusing on you. We got a princess to capture too you know. We already lost her once today. We can’t lose her again, right?”

He turned to Quaraun and said: "Here, have a book. A favourite of mine. You can read it in the tower, now move ya pretty lil' ass up the stairs before I kick it up there!"

They continued the long walk up the tower stairs until they finally reached the top, where stood a single door. The guard pushed through the large oak door with a large key and held it open for Quaraun to walk through, while holding the torch aloft. Quaraun entered cautiously. 

As soon as he stepped inside, Quaraun found himself in a small, dark room. 

A small, dark, empty room.

The only thing in the room was a single small oil lamp on the floor and a rusty iron bed beside it. 

Nothing else. 

There was a large barred window on the far side of the room and a small barred window on the wall opposite the bed. Quaraun sat down on the bed.

"You carry a whole house full of gear in that little tiny bag of yours, what's bigger on the inside, so we figured you didn't need any decor in here. 'Cepting a bed. I know you ain't got no bed in your pack. You just sleep on the floor on a pile of furs."

"How do you..."

"So there's a bed. Nice soft mattress and everything, in case you decide to go all princess and the pea on us. Decorate this room to your heart's content, Rapunzel. This is your home now."

"I'm not Rapunzel."

"You're hair says otherwise."

"I am Quaraun, The Pink Necromancer. You already know this."

The guards did not respond. Instead they huddled in the corner talking about the missing princess and now completely ignoring Quaraun, as if he wasn't there. 

Quaraun looked down at the book the guard had handed him: "Differences in the Courtship Rituals of the Bugbear and the Ogre" said the title.

"THIS is good reading? For who?"

Quaraun flipped through the pages. This book is very clear mostly due to the excellent, well-planned chapters and because of the well-done illustrations. This clarity allowed one to determine that the book had very little useful information, and was nothing more than pornography intended to show off the genitals or ogres. Quaraun didn't know whether to be horrified or mesmerized by the lewd illustrations. Though flawed, one can definitely see that the contents contained some original thought. It was easy to determine that this book was extremely informative on the genitalia of ogres. Examining the book, Quaraun found informative pieces of paper with notes commenting on informative information in this oddly informative book. Quaraun placed the book on the bed wondering why the guard would own such a bizarrely useless piece of trash.

Quaraun got up off the bed and went over to the window. The tower was impossibly tall. Too tall. Many hundreds of feet tall. No man made tower could support this height. Clearly this tower had been built by magic. A magic prison, for a magic mage. Quaraun suspected the tower had not been built at random and had in fact been built, just especially for him. But by who? And why?

The dizzying height was making Quaraun nauseous, so he moved away from the window and sat down on the bed once again, and contemplated his situation. And then pondered it some more.

Quaraun realized that no one here cared enough to question him. That felt odd. And the guards seemed to already know everything there was to know about him. No. One guard. The captain knew him. But how? He could not remember seeing such a Human before. Njord on the other hand clearly did not know Quaraun.

Njord stood by the door, looking bored. The other guard, was hoping around like he was high on drugs that made him hyper.

It seemed they both expected Quaraun to do something. 

Quaraun looked around the room. It felt... familiar. Like de ja vu. The sensation that he had been here before. Nothing looked familiar though. The plain, bare stone walls were covered with dust, decades of dust collected on the stone floor. Rust stains dripped down from under the bars on the windows.

After several minutes of silence, Quaraun glanced over at the castle guard. He whispered to his companion. His voice carried easily to the Elf. Quaraun strained to hear what the guards said.

"... he feared her more than anything!"

"Who? The Magician of Destruction?"

“... and so we got to wait until tomorrow night to take him. The princess comes first and if she’s not back by morning, well, it’ll be hard finding her. I can tell you that much...”

"She has to come back! We need the spell book! She took it! Without it..."

"Yes. Yes. I know. We will find her."

"We? Don't you mean YOU?"

"Yes. I will find her. Don't worry."

"Sure, right?" Njord said sarcastically. "She'll turn up. Don't worry. We won't lose track of her! We fucking already lot her once! You know Capt' we really don't have the slightest clue where she went. And now we got Pink Rapunzel here to deal with."

Their whispers continued drifting across the room, floating by on the icy fog of the cold night air. Quaraun was lost in his own thoughts now, though and no longer heard what the two guards had to say.

The cold was bothering Quaraun. It was bothering him a lot. This morning he had woken up in his tent, with a nice warm breeze, chilly, yes, because of the nearby ocean, and the depth of the valley, but still warm none the less. He was good at reading the weather, and all the signs of the wind and the clouds and the birds and the trees said that this entire week was going to bright, warm, and sunny. And why shouldn't it be? It was mid-summer after all. Even here in the North, they had months without snow. Months with green grass. Months of planting seeds and tending crops. And yet, it was so cold now, that ice crystals were forming on the stones of the wall and floor. A glace of ice, was growing up the metal posts of the iron bed. Winter was crouching in on them.

No.

This was not winter.

This was a Lich frost.

A Lich was nearby.

Very nearby.

Likely standing in this very room.

Quaraun looked back at the guards.

The ice on the walls was thickest there by the door, near where they stood.

One of those guards was a Lich.

Quaraun watched the guards and listened as they spoke of the missing princess and their desperate need to find her, but, noted that they seemed in no hurry to leave the door and actually head out to look for her. That too seems to Quaraun, very odd.

Something was not right here.

None of this was right.

Quaraun got up off the bed and moved to the other window this time. Looking through the small hole, he could see the castle's courtyard below. 

Nothing was alive.

There were no people.

No movement.

The same as it had been in the deserted village earlier.

Not even any animals.

No birds.

No frogs.

No crickets.

The only living thing outside, that moved, was the mist. The slowly swirling mist of shimmering frost crystals, freezing everything it crossed.

Glazing the outer walls of the castle with fuzzy frost.

Castle? 

No. 

From here he could see it was not a castle, but rather a very large grey granite manor, shaped like a horseshoe. A large stone manor, with two long stone wings running from either end. The courtyard in the middle between the two wings. A grove of apricot Lich trees, growing around a glass conservatory, and overlooking a white marble water fountain.

Apricot Lich trees?

No. It can't be.

Quaraun squinted his eyes to better see the rocks lining the paths. Not rock. No. Gumdrops. Fences made of peanut brickle. Lemonade in the fountain, not water.

BoomFuzzy.

It was BoomFuzzy's garden, which grew candy behind the gingerbread house.

The gingerbread house?

Was this the gingerbread house?

Quaraun looked down at the rust stains under the window. He touched it. It gave way to his touch. Spongy and soft. It wasn't rust on stone. It was the gingerbread, showing through it's stony illusion.

The Twighlight Manor? It can't be. But it is. He knew it was. He'd been in it before. But that meant... BoomFuzzy. Thais was BoomFuzzy's gingerbread house. 

Quaraun looked back at the guards.

BoomFuzzy.

The guard. Not Njord, but the hyper one. Had he not said he remembered the day when Quaraun's hair had been cut? And was he not the source of the ice on the walls? That guard was BoomFuzzy. 

Or rather, BoomFuzzy's Lich. 

It had to be. 

There was no other logical explanation for any of this.

Quaraun was now more confused than ever. For if this was BoomFuzzy's ghost, BoomFuzzy's Lich, and BoomFuzzy's haunted gingerbread house, than why the charade? 

Why hide from Quaraun who he was? 

Puzzled and confused, Quaraun made his way back to the bed and sat down on it once again. This time he lay down on the bed, his gold armoured fingers crossed over his chest as he stared up ar the stone ceiling and watched the ice crystals as the living frost moved and spiralled along the stones.

The bed didn't feel as comfortable as it had before. For now the oppresive weight of worry, bore down on him. As did the silence. The guards had stopped talking and now stood silently watching Quaraun as he lay in silence as well.

Quaraun laid quiet for a while, trying to puzzle things out in his mind, trying to figure out how the hell he had ended up here, and how BoomFuzzy could possibly be here.

Quaraun tried to remember the last few days, but it was all a blur. He couldn't remember anything before walking up in his tent with that strange dog and it's pet rabbit looking at him.

He couldn't remember anything of the last few days.

He couldn't remember anything of the last few weeks.

He couldn't remember anything of the last few months.

He couldn't remember anything of the last few years.

He couldn't remember anything of the last few decades.

He couldn't remember anything of the last few centuries.

His mind simply went for BoomFuzzy's death to the deaths of his own children to the night he woke up in the tent looking face to face at that strange looking dog.

 Still laying on the bed, Quaraun turned his head towards the window and took a deep breath. Then another, then another. His chest rose and fell slowly, and he began to feel calmer, his heart began to calm down, his mind calmed down, and his confusion began to ebb away into the darkness of unconsciousness.

He closed his eyes and fell asleep once again.

Quaraun woke up to the sound of someone knocking on the door. He opened his eyes and looked around the room. He was alone. The guards were gone. How long had he been asleep?

Quaraun got up and walked over to the door. He opened it and saw a young woman standing there. She was wearing a dark blue dress, her long blond hair cascaded over her shoulders.

"You!" Quaraun said, recognizing the women he's seen being chased by the bandits. The same woman he saw again in the cellar reading room.

"Shh! Not so loud," she said."The guards don't know I'm here."

"You've changed your clothes."

"What? Oh. Yeah. Forget about that. What are you doing here?"

"I'm supposed to meet my sister, here," Quaraun answered automatically, forgetting his sister was dead. "Have you seen her?"

The blond woman shook her head. "Nah, not since yesterday. But what are you doing here in this tower?"

Quaraun shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't know. Maybe I wanted to sleep some more, like Sleeping Beauty. Sleep for a thousand years while I grow my hair out even longer,, long enough so I can climb down out of this tower."

She looked at him skeptically, uncertain if he was being serious or not. Which he was. Quaraun was always serious, and he was contemplating sleeping here in the tower for a thousand years and growing out his hair even longer. Being a pure blooded Elf he could slow down his heart rate and go into a comatose, meditative state of deep relaxation. Elves often did this when they were injured, as a way to heal themselves, growing back new limbs, removing scars. It was why Elves were always young and beautiful and devoid of scars or missing limbs.

"I thought," the blond woman said. "That you were supposed to be n your tent down by the river."

"I was in my tent, but than I fell asleep and ended up here."

"Oh. Right. Well, you want me to get you something? A book maybe?"

"A book?" Quaraun smiled and nodded. "Oh yes, please. Yes that would be nice. I like to read. And I was looking for a book."

"Alright. Here you go." The woman handed him a book.

Quaraun looked at the book she had placed in his hand: "The History of Essential Summonings" Quaraun flipped through the pages and found inside some personal notes, in an archaic tongue, unrelated to the book, scattered throughout the book. Along with bookmarks marking informative information. This book was of above-average clarity thanks to the good diagrams. A short look at the book showed that it was reasonably useful. Especially the chapter on Liches, which was of particular note to Quaraun. Quaraun looked up intending to thank the woman for the book, but she was gone and the door was closed and locked as it had been before.










Quaraun leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on the palm of his hands. His brow furrowed. The last time he had seen the princess, she was with him. Wasn’t she? If that was her. He couldn’t be certain, as he was a stranger in this town. He did not know the royal family. As the two guards talked, Quaraun wondered what the girl’s name was. Was she a prisoner? He couldn’t recall there being any processes here in America. Why were they chasing her? Did she run away? 

“It’ll be our fault if she escapes,” one guard said.

“But he won’t come out unless the princess is there. So if he doesn’t show, then what?”

The castle guard chuckled. “Well, then we kill him.”

Silence followed.

After a moment, the companion spoke some more."What if the princess has a mate? Huh? What then? Tell me that. What if she didn’t get out on her own? What if someone helped her escape?"

“Like who? She doesn’t know anyone around here.”

“What about that necromancer over there? He showed up right after she ran off, didn’t he?”

The guard looked at Quaraun.

“That’s true. Maybe the girl knows him. Maybe she meets him somewhere.”

“Maybe so.”

They both glared at Quaraun, wondering if the old Elven necromancer had helped their princess escape.

“Hmmm, maybe not. I’m not so sure anymore.”

“Me neither. I mean, look at him. Old man can barely walk. Drags his leg and leans on a cane. You think he could scale that wall and get her out?”

“But what if he did? Necromancer, you know? Maybe he can fly.”

“Necromancers don’t fly.”

“Even so, maybe he can help us find her. Use magic to lead us to her.”

Silence followed for a few moments as the guards eyed Quaraun suspiciously.

“He showed up right when she escaped, though, didn’t he?”

“Yeah. He did.”

“Maybe he took her than sat around waiting for us. Maybe there are others in on it with him. I’ll bet they helped her escape while he sat in that room waiting to be a distraction for us, to give her time to get out of here while we fussed over bringing him here to the prison cell.”

Quaraun shook his head, no.

“Yeah, probably not. But you’ll help us catch her, won’t you?”

“Will I?” Quaraun asked.

“You will.”

“Why?”

“Because you’’re a necromancer and you’ll be executed for practising dark magic. But maybe if you found our princess and brought her back to us, we could forget where we put the key to this here prison cell and you could just walk on out of here.”

“I’m the world’s most powerful wizard,” Quaraun said."What makes you think I couldn’t just walk out of here right now?"

“He knows where the princess is,” the companion said. “I can feel it. You can see it in his beady eyes.”

“I don’t have beady eyes,” Quaraun said. “I have eyes that are fine and clean and blue and clear as cut crystal.”

“I can feel her too,” the guard ignored Quaraun’s comment about his eyes. “Can’t you feel her?” He asked Quaraun.

“No,” Quaraun replied. “I cannot feel her anywhere near me.”

“Yes, you can. I can feel her and you know why? Because I know you can and I can feel what you are feeling.”

“How could you possibly feel what I am feeling?”

“Don’t talk nonsense,” the companion said."Just tell us where she is. It;s a lot easier to keep the keys if we have her in our hands, isn’t it?"

“Keep the key?” Quaraun asked. “What are you talking about?”

“Come on, come on! Come with us! Let us take you to our princess. Then you can tell us what is wrong with her and why she isn’t home yet and where her other little friends are.”

“I don’t believe you,” Quaraun said. “I don’ believe you or your story about a princess. This is America. They don’t have princesses in America. Something is not right here. Not with any of this.”

“Oh! Yeah, sorry,” the companion said. “She needs to be returned to us or we might just go crazy.”

“I think you already went crazy. None of this makes sense.”

“That old man will probably kill us for taking her and then try to kill us for kidnapping her.”

“Kill you and then kill you again?”

“Oh, yes!”

“You’re ghosts, aren’t you?”

“The old man wants her there by morning and we’ve lost her.”

“Old man? What old man?”

“The old man, of course! But enough about that. Your little friend the princess, she left her keys.”

“She did?”

“She did!” the guard exclaimed. “So, do you know where she is or not?”

“I don’t even know who she is. You haven’t even told me that much yet.”

“Or, tell us, should we go looking for her?”

“I don’t know. How should I know?”

“We can’t find the key anywhere. Do you have anything special, like a talisman or a spell or any kind of magic that will let us find the key for her?”

“He don’t know how to do magic. Look at him. He’s only an Elf. He wouldn’t know what kind of magic would open the lock.”

“We Elves are more likely to know magic than you Humans and you already know I am Quaraun the Insane, The Pink Necromancer, the world’s most powerful wizard. Of course I know magic, but give me one good reason why I should help either of you?”

“No, no, no!” scolded the castle guard. “Don’t upset the old mage. We don’t know where to find her. We need his help.”

The guard turned back to address Quaraun. “We have to find her. You’re a sorcerer, aren’t you?”

“I am a necromancer.”

“That’s the same thing, isn’t it?”

“No,”

“Well, it’ll have to do. Do you know where the keys are?”

“What keys? I don’t even know what you two are talking about.”

“Oh, dear.” The guard paced around the prison cell, stopping to stare out the barred window. “Where would she have hidden them?”

The two guards left the prison cell, talking about searching the rooms for the key. A few hours later, they returned, stating that they had searched all the rooms and found nothing.

“We will ask our friend the necromancer,” the guard said as he entered Quaraun’s prison cell once again. “You, Necromancer! Where is our princess?”

Quaraun sighed and leaned back. “There is nothing I can tell you.”

This continued throughout the evening and into the next day, with the guards continuing to leave, search the castle, then return to report to Quaraun that they had found nothing.

Quaraun could easily have escaped his prison cell at any time, but so bemused was he by these two ghostly guards and their bizarre pursuit of this mysterious princess, that he decided to stick around and see if he couldn’t figure out more of what was going on.

Quaraun suspected these guards were part of a curse, as was this castle, for Quaraun was certain the castle had not been here the night before.

No. He was sure of it.

The night before, he had entered this strange village to find its farm lands deserted, it’s houses empty, and a group of bandits attacking him, chasing him. H’s run into a farmhouse to hide, and somewhere along the line, opened a bedroom door which had led down to a cellar. There he had read a few books, only to be interrupted by the woman, he could only a assume to be the escaped princess. After which these 2 guards appears and lead him upstairs, where the door no longer led to the farmhouse bedroom, but instead opened into this castle, where he now sat in its prison cell.

“There is strange magic at work here,” Quaraun said to himself. “And where there is magic, there is a mage behind it.”

He picked up the book titled “The Dark Side of Camelot” once again, opened it, laid it on the bed in front of him, and stared blankly at the open page muttering the line: “I have always liked stories about knights who fight the evil sorcerer, Merlin.” to himself a few times.

“I wonder? Could this be a spell book? And a clue?”

The guards were arguing again. Quaraun watched the pair through the bars as they stood together in front of the prison door.

“Interesting. The room keeps changing. That was an oak door last night. Now it has bars on it.”

As the sun began to set on this Quaraun’s second night in the prison cell, a loud crash, sounded from outside the dungeon. The two guards ran from their post at the door.

Quaraun glanced towards the door, then back at the book. He closed to book and placed it face down on the mattress. He took a deep breath and listened, waiting, but no further sounds could be heard.

Suddenly, a ghostly visage of a woman appeared in the room. Her hair glowed golden. A pale green mist surrounded her. She raised her staff in front of her and chanted words Quaraun could not understand. He tried to speak to the lady, but no sound came out.

And then, as quickly as she had appeared, she vanished.

Just then, Quaraun heard the cell door open. The two guards tumbled in, each carrying an oil lamp. They placed their lanterns on the floor and looked around the room, then stared at Quaraun.

“What was that?” one guard asked Quaraun.

“What was want?”

“We heard a sound in here.”

“I heard a sound too, but it came not from in here. I heard a crash coming from outside.” Quaraun pointed to the barred window as he spoke. “The crash came from out there.”

One guard looked out the window.

“I see nothing but trees. And a tree down across the gate. That must be what we heard. Wait... I see something.”

The other guard rushed to the window.

“What did you see?”

“I saw ... something. It was moving fast. And carrying a white light.”

The other guard scoffed. “So what? You saw a white light. That means nothing.”

“No, there was more. The light moved like... like ... flames.”

"A fire? There is no fire. This place is cold and it will get colder still and soon."

"I was like a fire though."

They looked out the window again. Nothing seemed to be out there. The only thing visible were some trees in the distance.

Quaraun spoke up.

"Burning did you say?" Quaraun asked.

"Yeah. Like fire."

"That could be important," Quaraun started to say, but was unable to continue the rest.

"That means nothing!" Snapped the first guard. He left the window and marched up to Quaraun. "Do you know where you are?"

"A strange village?"

"Stop being crass. What is this place?"

"This? This is a prison."

"Yes. It is. And we are the guards and you are the prisoner and you don't talk unless we say so, you hear?"

He stomped back to his companion still by the window.

"Fire you say, eh?

"Yes."

"Blue flames..."

"What are you talking about?"

"A white light, like hot blue flames. Like flames."

"And what exactly are those, eh?"

"I don't know. a Will O the Wisp maybe?"

"A will O the Wisp?"

"Yeah."

"You read too many fairy tales. A Will o the Wisp, eh? So what exactly are those?"

"I don't know. But they come from up there. From beyond the mountains."

The first guard shook his head.

A long pause followed as the two guards scanned the area.

Quaraun stared at the open and now unguarded prison door. He suspected, if he so choose to do so, he could walk out the door right now and neither guard would notice. However, he was intrigued by the overall mystery of this place, so sat on the bed, unmoved.

Finally, the guards returned to their post. Their conversation resumed with some comments about how Quaraun should be grateful for his safe haven, but how he was lucky to be caught, and even better to still be alive and imprisoned in the first place.

They talked about their plans for Quaraun, how he must be treated. They didn’t seem to realize the real meaning of what they were saying to Quaraun.

The next morning, the men returned to Quaraun. Once again, they demanded answers and Quaraun gave them none.

Then they left.

Two days passed as Quaraun awaited the return of these two men. Each day they returned multiple time to question him. Interrogation by both men. And through this, they learned nothing from Quaraun, but Quaraun in turn learned much from them.

Quaraun learned quite a bit more about this town and it's residents. The people lived here surround by forests that were surrounded by mountains, and they believed witches and ghouls came down from the mountains at night to haunt them.

As Quaraun lay alone and quiet on the rusty iron bed, listening for voices or footsteps in the hallway, he thought over what he had learned.

He knew something was wrong with this place, this world. This realm? He had a feeling he was no longer on Earth. Magic and sorcery filled the air. 

The king, the queen, the court mage, and a local witch had all gone missing one each week, one after the other. Out of fear, the guards had locked the princess in the tower, hoping it would save her from going missing as well. But than, on the day of Quaraun's arrive the princess had escaped, and was now missing as well. Than the Will o the Wisp appeared in the village. But still, something was wrong with this castle. Something magical. He could feel it. Something was very wrong with this kingdom. And very wrong with it's people. They were wraiths. Ghosts of some sort. He felt certain of this. He suspected these people were trapped in a curse, lost in time. But why? Why would someone want this place and everyone who lived in it gone, separated from Earth?

Quaraun did not have an answer for any of it. All he could go on was what little he had seen and what little he had heard from his two scatterbrained guards.

Quaraun closed his eyes. His mind wandered back to the day he had arrived here. Think. He had to have noticed something. Something out of place. Something wrong. But no. Nothing. He could think of nothing.

One thing he did notice however were these guards themselves, seemed exceptionally odd. 

Just then, he heard it. Footsteps. 

Running. The sound of someone running down the stairs outside of his room. The sound coming closer. Closer. The cell door flung open and there she was again. The woman he had seen his first night here. Her eyes were wide with terror. She looked around, scanning the room, eyes searching every corner. Her gaze fell upon Quaraun. She took a deep breath, released it, than took another. Slowly she approached him. She took another deep breath as she slowly walked towards him, and Quaraun wondered if she was about to faint. She seemed to have trouble catching her breath, as though she had been running very far and very fast and only just now stopped to catch her breath. Finally she sat beside him, legs crossed.

She opened her mouth to speak to him, but than said not a word. She then jumped off the bed and ran frantically to the window. Something outside frightened her and she ran back to the bed and jumped on it. Quaraun slowly got off the bed. He walked around to the other side to see her face.

"Are you okay?" He asked.

She looked up at him, shaking.

"Who are you?" She asked. "Where am I?" What happened? Who are you?"

"My name is Quaraun, and I don't know where we are. I'm not sure how I got here myself. One minute I was in a farmhouse going downstairs to the cellar and next minute I'm in the dungeon of a castle. I think the door at the stairs must have been a portal."

She got off the bed again and crept slowly to the window. She peered between the bars. Then she turned towards him.

"Quaraun?"

"Yes."

"I think I've heard of you. You're a necromancer, right?"

"Yes. I am."

"I think... I think..."

"Yes?"

"I think we are trapped in a book."

"A book?"

"Yes. I was reading a book about Camelot and suddenly I was hear. I think the book is cursed."

Quaraun pulled the book about Camelot out of his bag.

"You mean this book?"

"You have it?"

The woman rushed forward and tore the book from Quaraun's grasp.

"Oh! It is! This is it! Where did you find it?"

"I saw it laying on a table in the farmhouse. Picked it up and started reading it. You ran into the room right after that. Than two guards showed up and brought me here."

"Quaraun, my dear friend, lease, you must help me."

"Friend? We are not friends."

"But you are a wizard, are you not?"

"Yes."

"Than if this book, truly is cursed, you could break the spell, couldn't you?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I'd have to know more about the curse and the mage who cast it."

"Merlin!"

"Merlin?"

"Yes. Merlin the evil sorcerer. He cast the curse."

"How do you know."

"He must have."

"But how do you know?"

"Well, who else would have done it?"

"But, the Merlin I know is not evil, nor is he a sorcerer. If he cast the spell, it was not a curse, it was made to stop something evil from getting out."

"Evil? No. No! You got it all wrong. See, he wanted someone to go crazy and kill every one for killing his wife."

"Morgana?"

"Yes."

"You suggest that someone murdered Morgana?"

"Of course!"

"First I heard of it."

"Maybe the book has something to do with the magic being used."

"Hard to say."

"A spell he set to prevent anyone who was good from getting out and stopping him."

"Stopping him from what?"

"He needs power."

"For what?"

"How should I know?"

"Maybe we can ask him?"

"Maybe."

"What about the guards?"

"What about them?"

"They didn't take away the book?"

"No. Obviously."

"Then maybe they know something."

"Maybe. Maybe we should talk to them first."

"No!" The women seemed horrified by this idea.

"Why not?" Quaraun asked.

"Why should they tell us anything?"

"Why wouldn't they?"

"No. No. We need to talk to Merlin. He's been trapped here since the beginning of time."

"Well, maybe someone in the village can help us?"

"With this kind of magic?"

"What kind of magic is it?"

"Well, you know, anything really."

"Anything, eh?" Quaraun's suspicions were rising.

"Yes. Anything."

"Like what?" Quaraun asked.

"Like... oh ... I don't know."

"Why would Merlin need power. I think that's the important question here."

"I don't know. Why does he want to protect people? Why does he keep them safe? What does any of that mean for him? Why does he want to kill people? Why will he kill more people?"

"And what makes you think Merlin has ever killed anyone?"

"Because he said so."

"Really?"

"Yes. And now look at you. Look at the state you are in."

"I'm doing quite fine, actually," Quaraun said. "I've been catching upon my rest and my reading. Do you really think I'm trapped here? I can walk out of this prison any time I want to. I'm the world's most powerful wizard. The magic in this place if barely a piffle."

"Barely a piffle?"

"Yes. It's minor magic at best."

The woman took a deep breath once again, trying to calm down before speaking to Quaraun again.

"Look at yourself, I've never seen you like this."

"Never seen... you don't even know me! Nor I you,"

"You're locked away in a prison cell."

"I'm fine. I think of it as being off on holiday."

"You're not fine."

"Why are you trying to convince me of it?"

"He is evil!"

"Is he?" Quaraun wasn't sure he liked this woman. She sounded as though she fully believed Merlin to be evil and yet, Quaraun knew Merlin was not evil at all. Something was wrong here. Something was very wrong and he didn't like it at all, not one bit.

"I'll give you some examples." The woman reached down a pulled a knife from her boot."There is Morgana. There is Gwen. Consumed by his lust for power, and in a desperate bid to secure more resources, Merlin made a pact with the most powerful dark forces of evil: Himal Kedar. He has promised to destroy all the homes of the people and give Himal Kedar a decisive military advantage over them if only the dark forces would lend him their armies to conquer the lands of the valley!"

"What are you talking about?"

"Himal Kedar lives in a world of dragons, demons, and monsters."

"I know who Himal Kedar is. His hair rivals mine. He's a mage from Tibet." 

"These dark creatures constantly war for control of his land, leaving the few human kingdoms in the shadow of a dark and powerful force. But now, the kingdoms of man are fighting back, slowly assembling an army to reclaim their world!"

The woman stared wild eyed as she said these words, still clutching her knife as she spoke.

"I think you have taken too much of something. Ergot seeds perhaps?"

"You are Quaraun, a male half-demon sorcerer living in the town of Belthazzar in the kingdom of Szrahdori."

"I'm what? I'm not a demon, I'm an Elf." 

"You are a prodigal mage who seems to be afraid of something and is fearful of doing magic."

"Well, I suppose that's true... wait... what are you talking about?" 

"You are a skilled alchemist who has developed a special compound that increases a soldier's melee attack by 25% for a period of three hours."

"No I didn't." 

"You have become a respected member of the local militia."

"No I haven't. I hate military and fighting and wars and battles and weapons."

"What do you do?"

"What?"

"Tell me what you are going to do?"

"I'm going to finish reading this book and than find a way to escape from this tower, and look for BoomFuzzy's Lich, like I was doing before I meet any of you."

"What? No, you ain't playing along right!"

"Playing along? What?"

The old wizard looked at the women in silence, and than shook his head in disappointment. 

"Sorry," he said "Magic is a dangerous game, even for an Elf half-demon Thullid like me."

The woman stared at Quaraun in silence.

Quaraun sighed, and then said: "I really need to finish reading my book."

"Very well. I will leave you be," the woman said as she left the room.

The wizard turned back to his book and decided to read until his mind is filled with knowledge.

Quaraun laid on his bed. Closed his eyes. His mind wandered back to the day he had arrived here. Think. He had to have noticed something. Something out of place. Something wrong. But no. Nothing. He could think of nothing. Nothing at all.

A soft rapping at the door pulled him from his thoughts. He rose and went to the door. Swinging it open, he saw a dark-skinned man in a black robe.

"BoomFuzzy?"

The man smiled and said: "It's been a long time, Quaraun."

"BoomFuzzy?"

"You know me?"

"Why wouldn't I? I've been searching for you for centuries."

"Oh, I wasn't questioning your knowledge," the man said. "But I was curious as to whether you still knew me."

"I love you. I'd never forget you. You are my only love, my one and only."

"I love you too."

"I know."

"Why are you here?"

"Here?"

"In this tower?"

"To slay a dragon," Quaraun said.

"Oh?"

"No. That's not right. Something's wrong. A curse. I think a sorceress has cast a curse on this valley. It's messing up my ability to remember things or to even see things clearly."

"Oh, I've known of a few curses in my day, but nothing like this. You must take this to the Dark Lord. If anyone can break this, it's him."

"The Dark Lord? Who is he?"

"The darkest of the dark. Dark Lord."

"Dark Lord... Is he the guy with all the tentacles?"

The man's eyes widen, then he spoke again: "Not ZooLock. No. HellBorne The Summoner of Darkness."

"Not ZooLock?"

"No. HellBorne."

"What about The Daughter of Vengeance?"

"I knew her. She cursed my father's soul. It's her. Go to Kai. He needs to know."

"Who is Kai?"

But there was no answer.

BoomFuzzy was gone. Quaraun wondered if he had ever been there.

When Quaraun woke up the following morning, he looked out the window to discover the landscape had changed. The Twighlight Manor had moved. No longer in the lush green valley, no longer overlooking the deserted farming village, the huge haunted house had gotten up during the night and dragged itself to the  base of Fire Mountain.

Fire Mountain, in Pepper Valley. Home to King Gwallmaiic, the Elf Eater, leader of the Lich Lords. The frozen, blue crystal skeleton, whom in life, had been Quaraun's lover: BoomFuzzy the candy maker and gourmet chef.

The courtyard and its undead apricot trees still sat to the back of the building as it always did.

"Why are we at Fire Mountain?" Quaraun pondered out loud.

Quaraun looked up at the sky. "Oh my!" he explained.

The sky was no longer there. A huge blue, cut crystal glass bubble, a dome, a magic sphere, sat down over them. Quaraun spent several minutes examining and contemplating the shimmering cut crystal overhead. 

"We are in a glass bottle," Quaraun said. "Oh dear! We are in a genie bottle. This is very bad. Who would do this? Who even could? Di'Jinn magic is rare. And the Di'Jinn are dead, save me, and maybe ZooLock."

Seeing how there were no guards at the door once again, Quaraun decided to see if he could get outside and take a look at Fire Mountain up close. It was, after all, BoomFuzzy's home. If he was going to find anything that would help him resurrect BoomFuzzy, it would be here, wouldn't it?

To his surprise the door was unlocked. There were no guards outside either. Looking down the stairs of the tower, the tower no longer seemed so very tall. So it took him not nearly as long to get back down to the bottom as it had taken him to reach to the top.

Quaraun stood at the front parlour of the manor house, looking outside. He decided on the easiest was to go about entering the volcano's underground castle, then slowly snuck out of the Twighlight Manor. Though it appeared he needn't have been so cautious. There was one gate on the ground level, and it was neither barred nor guarded. There had been no guards anywhere around the tower or the courtyard either.

Once outside of the castle, Quaraun made his way to the edge of Fire Mountain and set out to looking for the entrance into the palace he knew was in the lower levels of it's cave system. He hadn't gotten far when he spotted someone else. 

They were running away from a group of black shapes. Quaraun quickly started to follow their lead. They seemed determined to escape.

At least until one of the black shapes stopped, whipped around and ran directly at the person, knocking them off balance.

Quaraun tried to determine what the black shapes were, and they appeared to be large birds, or perhaps small dragons. They were too far away for him to be certain.

A few moments later a black bird with blue crystal eyes flew at him, cawing angrily.

"What? Arrgh!" Quaraun screamed as the bird flew at him, clawing at his hair with his talons. Then as suddenly as it had appeared, the bird flew away.

"Damned bird," Quaraun muttered as he pulled out his silver hairbrush and began smoothing his shiny whit tentacle hair back into place. "Wait. Isn't that the same bird that attacked me before? How odd. It is stuck in the gene bottle as well, I suppose."

Quaraun looked down the road again, hoping to catch sight of any sign of the other black creatures attacking the other two people. But they appeared to have disappeared now. Both the mysterious crystal birds and people they were chasing were now no where to be seen.

Quaraun looked up at the stars, and the sky was a dome of blue above him, and he felt the cool night breeze running through his hair. He turned south and started walking down the road.

Quaraun carefully made his way closer to the mountain once again, scanning the roads and paths along it's edge, looking for see if one went inside the mountain through some doorway or tunnel.

Quaraun heard a noise behind him. He looked back down the road to see a new figure approaching. A different person, not one of the two whom had been chased by the crystal birds. This figure was smaller, a Dwarf or a Gnome perhaps, and coming towards Quaraun, very slowly, approaching with caution. Oddly, they were holding a glowing white stone above their head. They appeared to be in a daze or trace, walking without seeing, zombie-like.

Quaraun was about to continue on the road south when the figure caught up to him. He was shorter than Quaraun, but broader across the chest.

The being saw Quaraun and screamed out in a language Quaraun had never heard before, neither Gnomish nor Dwarven, gibberish words mixed with grunts and shrieks. He raised his arms up to shoulder level, still screaming, still walking very slowly. 

Quaraun thought he saw a glimpse of long white fingers, like a bog mummy's, hanging down from the being's arms.

Quaraun watched the strange not-Gnome. Quaraun decided to help the poor man. He is clearly a stranger to the area, as was Quaraun.

Quaraun approached the not-Gnome and said in Elvish: "Hello, little brother. Do not scream such a strange words.  May I help you?"

The creature made no response, continued screaming out strange words, and attempted to reach Quaraun. The not-Gnome drew his broadsword, a common Dwarf weapon, and said: "Go! Run!"

"What is it you are doing here?" Quaraun asked.

"Get away from me!"

"But why?"

"Please! Go!" the not-Gnome begged, pleading at Quaraun. His eyes were wild, terrified, and desperate.

Quaraun stepped forward.

"Don't come near me!" The not-Gnome held the sword in both hands, pointing the blade forward at Quaraun. In doing so, he had let go of the glowing white stone, which now remained in place, floating a few feet above the not-Gnome's head. The not-Gnome's eyes glowed a vivid purple colour.

"Please! Get away!" the not-Gnome said, his voice becoming deeper and more sinister. He took several steps towards Quaraun.

"Tell me why!"

"Go!"

"It's all right," Quaraun said, slowly backing away. "I'll not hurt you. I meant no harm. I'm on your side. I just thought you looked tired, carrying that big stone and need help. I meant no offence."

The strange being continued to scream and glare at Quaraun.

It took Quaraun a while to realize that the creature was laughing. It was an unpleasant, grating sound, like a cross between a lion's roar and fingernails scratching on a chalkboard.

Not knowing what else to do, Quaraun decided to introduce himself.

"My name is Quaraun. Who might you be?"

"Njord," the creature said.

"Njord? Is that your name?" Quaraun asked, but the not-Gnome said no more.

He continued to stand, glaring at Quaraun, his eyes still glowing a lurid purple. This time, he reached for his sword. But the glowing stone remained above his head, and he could not grab it.

Njord's eyes glowed brighter. The purple colour darkened even more, becoming a deep purplish red colour, turning nearly black.

His face became longer and more pointed, his snout elongated, and his teeth appeared, sharp and deadly. Quaraun could feel his fear.

A low growl, rumbled from Njord's throat.

"Forgive my presumptuousness," Quaraun said to the not-Gnome. "But you see, I'm afraid I am lost. I do not know this area. I was asleep by a mountain stream leading into the valley, then I woke up in a deserted farming village, and two men locked me in Rapunzel's tower, and than I woke up here, and I'm all so very confused, I do not know how to get back home. You don't think there is any chance you could help me, is there?"

The not-Gnome considered Quaraun for a long, silent moment. He snorted once, then began to scratch at his neck.

"You know, it is quite rude to not speak when spoken too," Quaraun stated.

Njord shook his head and replied: "No. No. No help for you. No help for anyone! Go home! Find a place where no one knows you. Don't stay here too long. Be gone, gone, gone!"

Njord began to run, shouting and screaming incomprehensible words. Quaraun knew so many languages of so many races, he couldn't understand how it could be that he couldn't understand Njord's words. The creature rushed away from Quaraun, his head down and his long arms pumping.

As Njord passed, Quaraun noticed a small black bird with sparkling cut crystal eyes, sitting on Njord's shoulder. Whispering into Njord's ear. Quaraun began to suspect that Njord was just a puppet, controlled by the strange crystal bird.

As he watched, the bird flew into Njord's ear, and Njord screamed, as blood sprayed from his ear. He began to run away from Quaraun, screaming.

"What are you doing?!" Quaraun shouted at the bird.

And then Njord turned the corner around a corner.

He vanished.

Quaraun waited for a few minutes, but the not looking back didn't reappear. Quaraun walked further up the street. He wondered if Njord would ever return.

Then he felt something touching his shoulder. He reached up and grabbed hold of what he thought was a cobblestone, but when he pulled away it was a shrivelled up and almost completely dry skin.

"Argh!" Quaraun screamed and threw the lump of dried skin as far away from himself as he could. 

Quaraun looked around. There was no one else.

The dried skin began to crumble.

And Quaraun screamed again.

The piece of flesh rotted before his eyes, maggots formed and crawled over it. Then the horrid thing turned to dust and blew away in the wind. Quaraun stood there, staring at the empty space where the vile creature was a moment ago. His heart was beating wildly and he was sweating.

This place was strange. Full of magic. Dark magic. Wild magic. Faerie magic. He would have to be careful. It would never be wise to fall into a Faerie trap, of this Quaraun knew for certain. He had heard too many tales of innocent Elves getting caught by the cruel and bloodthirsty creatures that dwelled in the Forest of No Return.

He looked around for the Faerie Stones or Fey Crosses or mushroom Faerie Rings. He knew if Faeries were in the area, they would have built a sacred circle of some sort, some place they could stand and not be seen.

Then something caught his eye. Something lying in the dust. Something he didn't recognize. Something like a rock, only larger. An old, battered looking stone, maybe the size of a fist, but its surface smooth, almost glassy. It lay near some bushes growing beside an old path. It seemed oddly familiar. Maybe he'd seen it in the market earlier this year? He must have. 

Quaraun knelt down to pick it up. He picked up the stone and turned it over and over in his hand. Something was etched on its surface, something that reminded him of two L's back to back. At first glance, it seemed unbroken.

"Hmm..." Quaraun thought. "I've seen this before. But where?"

Then he noticed something sticking out from underneath the thing. A piece of cloth. A dark, grey cloth.

Quaraun reached out. His hand touched the cloth. The fabric felt warm against his skin. Like fine smooth, soft satin silk.

Quaraun moved his finger slightly, touching another part of the fabric underneath. Something hard, and round.

His finger traced a shape. A symbol. Something Quaraun recognized.

A star. He recognized it from somewhere. "I know!" Quaraun said to himself. "It is a symbol that was carved on the forehead of one of the skull's in BoomFuzzy's gingerbread house. The skulls that..." Quaraun paused, his voice quivered. "The skulls that he used the day he turned himself into a Lich. The day BoomFuzzy died."

Quaraun felt sick, his stomach churned. He took a step backwards.

"You shouldn't have done that," a voice whispered aloud. 

Quaraun stood up and looked all around but there was nothing. No one. No where.

"They shouldn't have died," the voice continued. "He deserved to die. Look at what killed him. That monster's power has driven him mad! He should have stayed dead! You shouldn't have brought him back!"

Quaraun looked down. The grey stone was glowing. A low rumbling came from inside it.

"It is time to choose, Elf." the voice boomed from inside the stone.

"Choose?" Quaraun asked, looking up at the sky, still looking for the source of the mysterious voice. "Who? What? I do not understand. Please. Explain yourself."

"Do not let your fear of death drive you to do this, for death will follow you no matter your choice."

"I don't understand. What do you want from me?"

The stone began to glow brighter, brighter, hotter, and then it melted away, leaving behind a pile of ash and bone. A windstorm picked up and blew away all the sand from the road, exposing the bare stone ledge of the cliff.

A carved skull appeared on the ground before him. The star on it's forehead, matched the star which was carved into the stone, ledge ground. On each point on the star on the ground, hovered yet another glowing stone. Quaraun slowly backed away. As he did so, the skull lifted up off the ground and followed him, the five glowing stones doing the same.

The skull turned into blue crystal and hovered before him at eye level. 

"Go ahead," it said. "Make your choice."

Quaraun looked down. The road was now filled with a sea of bone ash and dust, swirling around him, faster and faster, bubbling up from the ground all around his feet.

"What magic is this?" Quaraun asked. 

"Choose!"

"Choose what? I don't know what you mean. I don't understand what you want me to do!"

As the wind whipped the dust into his eyes, he could see the crystal turning a deep shade of blue. 

"You are our Maker," it said. "You are a servant of the Dark Gods."

"I serve no gods, dark or light. I AM a god! I am the Sacred Pink JellyFish. People worship me, not the other way around. It is YOU who should kneel at my feet!"

The blue crystal began to spin, swirling the bones and dust around it, faster and faster, faster than Quaraun could blink.

"Make your choice," it said.

"No!"

"Choose!"

"I refuse!"

The swirling stopped. A bright blue crystal grew out of the swirling, hovered before Quaraun, and then turned into a young girl.

"Who are you?" Quaraun asked.

"I am the Angel of Death," she said.

"You look like a girl."

"I AM a girl. But I serve the Dark Gods."

"What do you haunt me?"

"I am Death. I am the bringer of death."

"Your words mean nothing to me," Quaraun said.

"You are The Pink Necromancer. You speak to the dead. You speak for the dead. You steal my dead from my Swamp of Death."

The girl began to laugh, her face twisting and contorting as she did. A Jack-o-Lantern's head began to form where the little girl's head should have been, her arms stretched outward, longer, twisting, spiralling, turning green and sprouting vines. To Quaraun's horror the girl, morphed and melted away, turning into a grinning, Jack-O-Lantern headed scarecrow.

"No!" Quaraun said, stepping back, away from the scarecrow. "No! That's not how it works! That's not how it works! That's not how it..." Quaraun closed his eyes and put his hands over his face. "The Pissed Off Pumpkin Patch isn't real. It's isn't real. It's just a children's fairy tale."

"Is this your final answer?" Death asked.

"I don't know," Quaraun said. "I don't know. I'm sorry. I don't know."

Quaraun's ability to think clearly or rationally, had left him. He felt like he was in a dream, but he knew he wasn't. He knew that Fire Mountain was surrounded by The Forest of No Return. A Fae Forest filled with dark magic, trickster Fae with morbid illusion. He had to steady his mind. Focus. Focus. Focus! But on what? What? The skull! The skull was real. It was a relic belonging to King Gwallmaiic. The skull was real, everything else was not. Real... real...

"It's not real," Quaraun said. "I'm not going to die. I'm not going to die."

"Is this a magic doll?"

Quaraun opened his eyes. The little girl was back. She was holding what appeared to be a black magic doll in her hand. A burlap doll, with button eyes, and red and yellow headed pins stuck all through it.

"Perhaps," Quaraun answered.

He took the doll from the girl's hand to get a closer look at it. But he, should have known better than to do that. As soon as he touched the doll, the girl's voice broke out into a demonic, haunted cackling glee.

"You are such a fool, Quaraun," the girl said. "Look at me. Look into my eyes. Do you see the truth? I am Death. I am darkness. I am the night."

"You are not real," Quaraun said to the girl.

"I am as real as anything you will ever meet in this world or any other."

"You aren't here! You aren't real!"

Quaraun closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the girl was gone. On the ground at his feet sat the blue crystal skull. Perched on the skull, was a black bird with blue crystal eyes. It cawed at him, then flew away, leaving the skull behind.

Quaraun bent down and picked up the skull.

"This is why I've avoided so long, coming to Fire Mountain. The Faerie Magic is strong here. Wild Fae are everywhere. This close to the mountain, one can trust nothing he sees or hears."

Quaraun put the skull in his bag, and continued on his way around the base of the mountain looking for a way to get into the tunnels beneath it and find King Gwallmaiic's under mountain palace.

Quaraun continued his way to the mountain, and as he walked, every plant he walked past, uprooted itself and started walking along behind him. Every flower. Every bush. Every shrub. Every tree. And every time Quaraun turned to look behind him, they all instantly stood still, pretending they were not following him.

"Fucking trees," Quaraun muttered under his breath. "You ain't fooling no one."

He quickened his pace, hoping to lose the trees. After another short while he sat there, panting from running through the dense forest. He stared up at the canopy above him, watching its shifting shadows dance across the ground. They created strange shapes, like twisted snakes, or giant mushrooms, or the faces of creatures he would never know. It frightened Quaraun to look at it, though he couldn't quite tell why.

The forest around Quaraun grew darker and colder with each passing minute. The temperature dropped even further, making him shiver in his thin silk kimono.

The path Quaraun walked on, grew narrower and narrower until it was nothing but a rabbit trail through the grass, and whittled away to nothing.

"Damn it! Now where do I go?"

A young pine tree scampered on ahead and pointed all of it's limbs to a narrow cliff, leading around and up, the side of the mountain.

"Thank you," Quaraun said to the tree as he took a deep breath and continued onward.

His soft sueud soled silk slippers were not made for travel on dusty, untraveled mountain trails like this. His found barely any footing for his cane, and dug his shoes into the ground as he stepped, terrified of slipping and falling off the edge. 

There was no ledge, no rockfall, just bare, sandy dirt, and tiny little pebbles, trickling down the side of the mountain, with each step he took. His heart quickened as he glanced down and saw there was nothing, but a sheer drop to his left and straight up to his right.

With his heart pounded, he kept going and walking. The trees got taller, but there were no birds. No insects buzzed. Even the smell was different up hear. Cleaner. Drier. Far less oxygen than Quaraun was used to. He felt dizzy and light headed.

Quaraun stood up and looked at the cliffs in front of him. It went up and up and up and up and up, so far up, that he could not see the top of it. 

Behind him were trees. Lots and lots of trees. All stil pretending they were not following him, every time he looked back to see if they were still there. Big ones. Pine trees. Old growth. Mast trees. Great for ship builders. Not so great for people who didn't like to be lost in the forest.

Fire Mountain. 

Here it was. 

A tree branch moved in the wind. Someone was watching him. Quaraun spun around quickly, but found only himself facing more trees. In fact, it was more tress than had been there a few minutes ago.

"Fucking Faerie forest. Can't even trust the trees not to sneak up behind you and kick you off a cliff."

His pale blue eyes darted side to side, anglicizing every movement of every tree. This was definitely The Forest of No Return. He could tell by the fact that several trees had uprooted themselves and were walking around, pacing back and forth, stretching their legs. Roots? Who knows? A couple of the pine trees blinked their eyes and showed their fangs, while a weeping willow slowly inched its way around to the side, trying toget behind Quaraun.

"I see you," Quaraun snarled at the willow tree. The tree immediately rooted itself and pretended to be a normal, ordinary, not enchanted Faerie tree.

When nothing more happened, Quaraun relaxed. Still standing alone in the woods, at the base of Fire Mountain. No one to talk to. No one to ask for help. No one to yell at. Just him an these fucking trees that wouldn't stop following him.

"Hello?" Quaraun called out to the trees.

The entire forest stopped moving. Pine trees, oak trees, maple trees, birch trees... they all stopped walking and stood stiff, pretending to be normal trees.

The air around Quaraun grew colder. Frost crystals began forming on the pine needles below his feet. His breath grew frosty and cold, freezing in the air before his face.

"Lich," Quaraun said, as he looked up at the sky and watched the deep cerulean blue miasma mist swirling through the clouds over the tops of the enchanted trees. He frowned. "BoomFuzzy. Always near. Always watching. Always separated. Always apart."

Quaraun turned back around and stared at the mountain before him: Pepper Valley's infamous Fire Mountain.

He looked around again, hoping for some signs of civilization. Something. Anything. A bridge. A road. A building. A path even.

Nothing.

The trees continued to loom over him, dark and menacing.

"Oh, fuck off!" Quaraun yelled at the trees as they got too close to him. "I'm not scared of you. Now get out of here!"

The trees took several steps back away from The Pink Necromancer.

Fire Mountain.

Maine's ancient super volcano. 

Long dormant. 

One of four largest volcanoes in the world. 

The volcano rumoured to have been so devastating the last time it erupted, that it caused the Ice Age and killed every dinosaur on the planet, by blanketing the planet in ash, preventing the sun's warm rays from reaching the surface and causing instant mass flash freezing of the entire planet. 

Or so say the scientists who study such things. Quaraun was not in the habit of studying volcano, so he knew nothing of Fire Mountain other than a few random passages he had been told.

Quaraun had heard of Fire Mountain many times. Tales of it swarmed through myths and legend. 

But this was his first time ever seeing it. He'd never been here before. He wasn't sure what to expect.

A volcano, so big, so deep, and so ancient, that it was rumoured to contain the world's last surviving dinosaur. A huge, viscous black scaled, fire breathing dragon.

Somewhere there was an entrance. A way inside. And then a way down. But where? How in the Hell does one get into Fire Mountain, to even start to look for the under mountain palace of King Gwallmaiic inside?

The trees began moving closer once more and with a sigh Quaraun continued forward, onward, and upward, up the side of Fire Mountain. He would find the entrance into Fire Mountain, even if it took him days, weeks, months of searching. He hoped it wouldn't take so long.

Quaraun sat on the ground. He was weak and hungry and thirsty and tired.

"I wish I could just find the entrance into Fire Mountain," he muttered to himself, quite forgetting that he was a Wizard of the Di'Jinn order and knew better than to ever star any sentence with the words "I wish".

Just then a large fortified gate, appeared. Quaraun stood up and stared at the huge cast iron fence, that stood around a stone archway. A 1920's neon sign, with art deco neon lights, stood over the entrance blinking the words: "Entrance!" in friendly purple letters, while bounding neon light purple puppies wagged their tails below the word.

"Oh good god, what have I done?" Quaraun questioned as he realized he's made and granted his own wish.

"Congratulation! You my friend have found the entrance to Fire Mountain!"

Quaraun turned to see who had spoke and found himself face to face with a dark skinned Faerie, dressed like a ringmaster of a big top three ring circus.

"Oh no!"

"Oh yes!" The Faerie took off his top hat and made a magnanimous sweeping bow at Quaraun's feet, than perch the hat on top of his wild mess of dreadlocks once again. "Aren't we a lucky one?"

"Never. No. I have no good luck at all. I have terrible luck. Especially when it comes to Faeries. I am not a lucky Elf."

The Faerie kissed Quaraun's nose, then spun around and pranced to the gate. "Of course you are. We are always so lucky. Lucky. Lucky. Lucky!"

There was a loud POUF! And the Faerie disappeared, leaving behind a large pouf of purple smoke.

"Damn you," Quaraun said as he made his way to the iron gate.

As Quaraun get to the gate, he saw a dark skinned Asian solider, with long salt and pepper grey dreadlocks blocking his path. Quaraun tried to walk pass the Faerie but immediately, sharp spears grew up out of the ground, all pointing toward Quaraun and blocking him from going in any direction.

"Ah, uh, uh! You shalt not enter. You only wished to know where the entrance was. You didn't wish to get inside."

"Will you stop it!"

"No, no, no! Wishes not carefully word are prone to backfire you know."

Quaraun glared at the Faerie. The solider had glowing blue eyes, made out of gemstones, and wore a cloak made entirely of black feathers. On his fingers where nails should have been, great glossy black talons grew instead.

"You're a Phooka!" Quaraun gasped. "Oh my."

The solider laughed.

"Well don't just stand there gawking at me," the bird man said. "You are in the presence of the Griffin King. Move aside boy."

"No."

"No?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I must get into the mountain."

"Really?" 

"Yes. Really."

"Why?"

"I have a renegade Lich to catch."

"The one you used to keep locked in a bottle?"

"Yes. He escaped. I wasn't done with him."

"Oh, my, my, my, my, my! Deary me. PoooooOOOOoooor wee lil Necromancer done gone un lost hims Lich?"

The Phooka fell on the ground laughing. When he did all the trees that had been following Quaraun, likewise fell of the ground and rolled around laughing.

"Are you done?" Quaraun snarled at the Faerie.

"Oh, no! Of course not!" The Phooka bounced back up to his feet. "Why would I be? I have so many much lots of time to torture you, remember?"

"Yes," Quaraun answered dryly. "I do seem to recall, being made immortal by a wish gone wrong."

The soldier stared at Quaraun.

"Oh, you're not going to cower in fear of me, are you?" the soldier asked.

"No reason to. You're just a psychotic Phooka."

"Just a..really? Just a Phooka? Is that all I am to you?"

"Just a Phooka."

"I feel I should be insulted." The Phooka looked past Quaraun to the trees. "Be insulted, boys, will you? I don't have the patience to do it myself."

The trees immediately started stomping around in circles looking as insulted as trees could make themselves look.

"So, I'm just just a Phooka, eh?"

"Yes. A psychotic Phooka with a lot of Psychotic trees at his command."

"Do you not like my trees?"

"You're trees are annoying, as they always are."

"Mighty bold of you to say as much."

"Not really, no."

"How so?"

"I've dwelt with Phookas before."

"Have you now?"

"Yes. I have. You KNOW I have. I have to keep putting up with you every few decades, don't I?"

"Oh pooh! You're not being any fun."

"You are dead, why should I be having fun?"

"We are the most fearsome race of all of Fae. No monsters are more feared than we."

"Yes. I am aware of this, but you see, I am Quaraun. The Pink Necromancer. As you very well know."

"Pink? Let me guess," the soldier said, pointing at Quaraun's robes. "You're a Flower Faerie, and this is why you're wearing pink. Am I right?"

"BoomFuzzy! I am an Elf. You know, I am an Elf"

"An Elf? Really?"

"Yes. Do we have to go through this every time you pop up!"

"Well, let me think... why YES!"

"Why?"

"Because you are a Necromancer."

"So?"

"I am dead."

"Yes. I noticed that. I'm trying to fix that."

"Ah yes. And how is that going?"

"Well, let me think... oh yes... you are still dead."

"I'm a Lich, Quaraun. Not much you can do about that."

"You don't have a physical body."

"Yes, let me see, that would be because I am dead. Being incorporeal kind of with the territory."

"Are you going to let me in the mountain?"

"Uhhhhhhhhhmmmmmm....... no."

"No?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"My, you're a lil one, aren't you?"

"I am short," Quaraun said, "for an Elf. Stop changing the subject."

"Indeed. You're not very tall," BoomFuzzy said. "But you're not very little, I've seen shorter, and that's good enough for me. Are you thirsty? I have water. You can have some if you want."

"One must never accept food from Faeries."

"This is not food. This is water. And I am not Faeries. I am your BoomFuzzy. You'd think you could trust me by now, I've been haunting ya bony lil ass for the past seven centuries."

"You being, BoomFuzzy, is EXACTLY WHY I can't trust you. No can trust you. You'd stab your best friend in the back if you thought you could get a laugh out of it."

"You ARE my best friend."

"That's exactly my point."

"You are thirsty. Here."

"It could be bottled dust for all I can tell. Faeries never offer real food."

"Not even for a shiny red apple?"

The bottle of water, he held in his hand, was now a shinny red apple. Quaraun smiled, and the soldier smiled back. Quaraun took the apple. 

"There, you see?" the soldier said.

Quaraun threw the apple off the cliff.

"Yes. I do see. I am Faerie Sighted. You tried to offer me a maggot filled rotten apple core."

"But you are hungry and so too are I. But you can eat and I can not, for I am dead and you alive."

"I am not hungry. Only you are hungry. Here, I shall give you the apple core." Quaraun stretched out his gold armoured hand and the rotten apple core appeared in the palm of his bejewelled metal glove. "It is fresh from the garden of the apricot trees in the courtyard below. Eat it. Drink it. And live forever with me."

"If only that were possible. I seem to be lacking a physical body."

"It is possible. I will make it so, if that's last thing I ever do."

"You are the Elf who believes in love. That love survives all. Even death."

"I am."

"Your lover died and left you alone."

"Yes. You did."

"And now you wander the world in search of his missing soul."

"I do. And it would be easier to find a cure for you if you would stop jumping out of your bottle and running away. Every minute I spend looking for you is another minute I don't spend trying to build you a flesh body."

"But you murdered his other lover."

"Gibedon. Yes. I did. I killed Gibedon."

"Why?"

"Gibedon was going to kill BoomFuzzy. He was plotting wit Finderu to overthrow the throne. They were going to kill the King in his sleep. I had to stop them."

"Even though you knew King Gwallmaiic loved him."

"Yes. BoomFuzzy loved Gibedon, not me. I am so sorry I broke his heart. He killed himself a few days after I killed Gibedon."

"Apology accepted," the soldier said. "Now let us go inside, inside this mighty fortress we call home. We'll eat and drink until our bellies ache, till the sky falls in, and then we sleep the sleep of death."

The Phooka opened a massive stone door in the side of the mountain. Quaraun stepped inside the door and immediately it vanished, along with the gate and the solider, and Quaraun found himself standing on the dark cliff, overlooking a deep, ominous looking hole in the ground.

"Just remember, wishes come with consequences," BoomFuzzy said as his vanished once again.

"What consequences? BoomFuzzy what did you do this time?"

Quaraun waited for an answer but got none.

BoomFuzzy was gone again.

"A house wizard dispatches Quaraun to retrieve arcane and mysterious information that only the Thullids possess. A powerful magic item is said to be lost in the ruins of the ancient city," Quaraun said to no one in particular. Largely because there was no one around to talk to. 

Legends told tales of a mysterious mountain, which could appear out of no where, whenever and wherever it pleased. Much the same as The Twighlight Manor did, the same too as The Forest of No Return did. Not surprising as all three were places BoomFuzzy lived and building himself enchanted homes, seemed to be a talent of his. 

The mountain. The Manor. The forest. Disappearing into the mists from which it had mysteriously immersed, the mountain proved itself difficult to find. 

Normally Quaraun did not take on such risks, but, this particular mountain had been on his radar for a while now. For this, was Fire Mountain, home of The Elf Eater of Pepper Valley. Leastwise it had been his home, centuries ago, when he was still alive.

"What am I doing here?"

Quaraun stood on the cliff, looking down at the gaping black hole. A steam vent, from a long inactive volcano. The ancient, old Elf got down on his hands and knees and peered into the hole.

Nothing

He could see exactly nothing.

"There has to be another way in. A better way in. A way in, that doesn't involve me tying a rope to god knows what and hoisting myself down into god forsaken pits of who the hell knows what's down there."

"I suppose, I could just jump in. If I die I'll just start my life over. Won't I?" The bizarre question was enough, without having to give an exact answer. "How many lifetimes can I live, before I stop reliving the same life over and over again? I never jumped down this shaft before, did I? I don't remember. I've a dragon to get past. Jump it is."

Quaraun woke up some time later. Laying on the floor. Dazed. Confused. And unable to remember, either where he was or how he had gotten there.

"Why am I sprawled on the ground? I am covered in dirt. On my back. Why am I on my back? How did I get here?" 

Quaraun lay on his back, staring skyward into the darkness. At the ceiling. 

Maybe? Is there a ceiling overhead? 

"I can't see. It is so exceptionally dark. I need to sit up. The ground below me is hard and rock like. It hurts. It hurts so bad."

Stiff.

Uncomfortable.

Painful to lay on.

"Why am I laying on it? It hurts. I hurt. I ache all over. Where am I? Why am I on the ground? Gravel and pebbles are scraping my skin through my clothes. I hate it. It hurts. Abrasive sand is tumbling around my toes, inside my shoes. It hurts my feet. It hurts my toes. I have sand between my toes. I hate it."

When Quaraun couldn't remember what he was doing, he took to pontificating to rumble through random words, hoping one of them would spark a memory of what he was doing. 

Failing memory was the worst part of growing old. Quaraun's failing memory often left him waking up confused, not remembering where he was or how he had gotten there. 

This was the case today. 

Quaraun preferred someone to sleep with him, so they could remind him, when he woke up, where he was and what he was doing there. He hated sleeping alone, because he hated waking up and not being able to remember where he had bedded that night. 

Quaraun tried to remember what he had been doing the day before. Walking, but where? He walked so much, so far, so often, that little difference passed from one day to the next. He had been going somewhere, but where? 

Why was he sleeping on the ground? 

Why not in his tent? 

Or on a bedroll? 

And why was it so damned dark? 

And what was he sleeping on?

Dirt. 

A road? 

"Am I sitting in the middle of the road? Why am I sitting in the middle of the road?"

Quaraun strained his eyes trying to see, but it was nothing but pitch black, thick blackness all around. Not a sliver of light anywhere. 

Nothing to cast shadows. 

Nothing but total blackness. 

The only thing that gave him any indication of how far off the road he actually was, was the soft sound of his voice echoing back from all sides. It made the hairs at the back of his neck stand up.

What had happened? How did he end up here alone? 

What had happened to everyone else?

Wait? Was there any one else?

How had he ended up alone?

As much as he tried, he couldn't remember anything before waking up just now. Nothing at all. He wasn't even sure who he was. His mind was a jumble of thoughts and feelings and everything just seemed... different. 

A lot more chaotic than normal. And there were no memories to help explain his confusion. No way to tell if he really knew anyone other then himself.

His chest tightened. There was something heavy inside it, something cold and hard and painful. Something he didn't want to be feeling right now. That's when he realized it was fear. Fear that this place would never end. Fear that no one would ever find him. Afraid for himself and everything about himself.

He swallowed hard, suddenly feeling very alone.

It took him a moment before he felt the first tear roll down his cheek. He hadn't expected them to start, or to come at all. Tears. Why? Why was he crying. He'd lost someone. Someone had died. Someone close to him.

"Why am I sitting in the middle of the road?" Quaraun asked himself again. "How did I get in the middle of the road? What happened? Where am I? What has transpired? I don't remember. Why don't I remember? Why am I outside? Why is it so dark? Is it night? I can't see anything.  Have I gone blind? No. I've lost my sight before. Briefly. After being struck on the head. It wasn't like this. It wasn't black. It was grey. Foggy. With bursts of colour exploding inside my skull." 

Quaraun put his hands on his head and discovered this was a difficult task when one could not see where one's head was.

"No. This is just darkness. But there are no stars. No moon. Where is my moon? Have I fallen into a hole in the ground? Am I underground?" Quaraun reached around blindly until he felt a sod wall, and long tree roots. "Oh! I AM underground! How did I get underground? Have I been buried alive? Who would bury me alive? Entombed beneath the earth."

Quaraun crawled around feeling the ground as he went, trying to feel something he could recognize.

"I can feel dirt and rocks and dirt and soil and dirt and sediment and dust and dirt. And dirt is everywhere. There is so much dirt. I'm dirty. Where is the edge of the trail? Dust is everywhere. And dirt. It's dirt everywhere. Dirt and dirt and more dirt. I can't find any anything. Is there anything here? Anything at all. No. I can find nothing. It's just dirt, dirt, dirt, dirt, dirt and dirt and dirt and more dirt! So much dirt. Why is there so much dirt! I hate dirt. Why does nature have to be so dirty. Why can't it be clean like water?"

Quaraun grew increasingly more panicked the more he found nothing but dirt. As his breathing became laboured, so did his thoughts. 

Thoughts and fears. 

Things were getting more and more out of hand as his panic rose. His breathing quickened as he ran out of air.

"Where is the end? Where is the edge? Where is the edge? Please. Where is the edge? Where is the edge? Where is the edge?!" Quaraun cried as he crawled around in the darkness feeling with his gold armoured fingers for something, anything. 

He stopped for a moment, trying to collect his breath, then continued crawling over the rough dirt. He tried again, then gave up after finding nothing but more dirt.

"Nothing. There's nothing here but dirt and dirt and dirt. Just dirt. Nothing else. There's nothing here but dirt. Where am I? Why did you leave me here? Please. Help me!" Quaraun pleaded.


"Where is the grass? I can't see. I have dirt all over my hands. Why can't I find any grass? I need water or grass. Something to clean my hands! I can't fucking see anything! Why is it so dark? There is no grass. I can't feel any grass. Where is the grass? Why is there no grass? I need grass. I have dirt all over my hands. Why is it so messy? Where is the grass? My hands are covered in mud. I need to clean my hands. I need some grass for wipe this mud off my hands."

"I can feel the dirt, rocks, and dirt, dirt, debris, dust and dirt. And everywhere there is just more dirt. Gravel and dirt and dust. There is a lot of dust. I'm dirty. My hands are dirty. I can feel dirt on my hands. It's drying out my skin! My clothes are dirty. My shoes are dirty."

Quaraun sneezed. 

"Argh!! I have dirt in my nose! I hate it! I hate it! I hate it! I hate it!"  

Where is the end of the road? Dust is everywhere. It's dirty, it's dirty, it's dirty. Is there something here? No. Nothing. I can't find anything. Dirty, dirty, dirty, dirty, not dirty. 

Why is everything so messy? Where is the grass? 

I can't see. 

My hands are covered in mud. 

I need to clean my hands. 

Why can't I find any weeds? Why is it so dark and there is no grass? I don't feel the grass. Where is the grass? 

Why is there no grass? I need hashish. 

My hands are in the mud, not in the grass. 

I didn't feel the plants at all. 

Why do these things keep happening to me!

I didn't ask for this!

Damned stupid ass wishes!

Nothing. No plants. I don't feel the grass. 

I didn't feel the plants at all.  There was nothing green in my arms and feet. 

I can't see. 

My feet hurt. 

Dirt is getting stuck in every single part of my shoes. 

I can't walk, I can't stand. 

Where is my cane? I can't get up without it!

I can't get anywhere by myself. 

Dirt is sticking to my skin and clothing. 

My head hurts. 

I think my brain has been hit with a hammer or something. 

My whole body feels tired and weak. 

I can't see. How can I go home if my eyes are shut? My eyes were open, but now they feel like I have them closed because my whole head feels too heavy for me to lift. 

The pain is almost gone from my legs, though, and that means I should be able to walk without hurting my limbs or making them bleed. I don't think I have any broken bones.

Damn it, BoomFuzzy! You fucking pushed me off a cliff! I remember that much, you wretch! What the fuck is wrong with you? Why did you do that? You could have killed me!

And you know what? You're lucky you're already dead and I 'm too lazy to kill you again! You bastard!

I'm trying to help you get your body back and you are not exactly making it easy for me when you pull fucking jackassery stunts like this!

And now I'm stuck here, under this fucking mountain with nobody to save me anymore. 

There's nothing here, just gravel and dirt and rocks. 

Quaraun's shouting caused an avalanche of rubble, soil, gravel, sand, and rocks to come cascading down from above, much of it landing on top of him.

Damn it!

Why am I trapped under these huge, heavy stones?

No! This ain't right. I have to get outta here. 

If I die down here, BoomFuzzy, I'm gonna kill you over and over again for eternity!

Fuck!

Where is my cane? Why do I always end up in these shit storms. Shit! I gotta find my stupid cane and there's no fucking light down here, I can't see a thing and now I've got a fucking landslid that's probably buried my cane so I can't find it at all now. Fuck this shit!

That avalanche wasn't an accident either was it? This is your idea of a joke, isn't it? You pushed them down here on top of me didn't you?

BOOMFUZZY! I know you can hear me.

Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! 

No! This ain't right. I have to get outta here. 

Fuck!

I need to calm down and breath.

Think nice thoughts.

Calm. Relax. Breath.

Mother's ever loving tentacles.

It's so hot and humid in here. So damn hot! It makes the air so thick I can barely breathe and it feels as if it's getting harder and harder for me to draw air into my lungs.

My throat feels raw and parched from all the yelling I've done.

Damn it! I don't have any water.

I need water desperately, even though I have no idea where any water source might be. 

I'll figure it out later though, I guess. Right now, I have to keep my mind occupied. There's gotta be some sort of light source around here somewhere.

If I find anything, hopefully it will give me directions and make me feel less lost. Even if I do end up being lost in the end, at least my mind will have some peace. 

I'm having difficulty keeping my eyes focused properly. 

I close my left eye tightly and focus my gaze on one spot, then another.

Nothing. Nothing in sight, anyway.

It's just too damned dark down here.

I let my hand drift over and rest upon my forehead.

What was I doing?

Flowers.

Yes. Flowers. I was looking for flowers.

I don't feel flowers. 

I can't feel the trees. Dirty and dirty. And gravel.

It's not just grass. I can't feel any plants at all. Nothing. There are no plants. I can't feel any grass. I can't feel any flowers. I can't feel any trees. It's just dirt and more dirt. And gravel. And I broke a nail. I hate dirt so damned much. Why does there have to be so much damned dirt?

No shrubs grow here. I can't feel any grass.

No ferns. No hedges. No plants. No plants at all.

No foliage. No hedges. No shrubberies. No thickets. 

No briers. No bushes. No grains. 

Why? Where the hell am I?

There are no forests here. No forests. No trees.

No birds or insects. Or any sounds other than my own footsteps crunching on dry, unblemished dirt.

Where is this place? Who made it look like this?

I need a place to call home. But there's only emptiness and me walking in endless circles and not getting anywhere. It's so strange...

But I don't want to be here. I want to find someplace else.

 I don't feel any grass or bushes. No fence. No plants. No leaves. There is no fence. There are no bushes. No thistle. There are no bushes. No grains. No fruit. No fence. No herbs. No vegetation. There is no dike. No weeds. No watercourse. No roses. There are no bushes. No brush. No strawberries, no trees. Neither trees nor seedlings can be found. No seeds. There are no bushes anywhere. Treeless. Treeless. Treeless. Treeless. No trees. No vines. No leaves. There are no banks. 

No berries. No hedgerows. No herbs. No vegetation. No hedges. No under brush. No brushwood. No roses. No bushes. No brambles. No burs.

No trees. I can't find any trees.

No saplings. No seedlings. No timbers. No trees. No trees. No trees. No trees. No trees at all. Treeless. Treeless. Treeless. Treeless.

Where did the trees go?

No vines. No leaves. 

I am not indoors either. 

No floors. No canvases. No chairs. No tables. No benches. No desks. No floors, towels or chairs. There is no table. No carpets. No bed. No bookcase. No furniture at all. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing!

Just dirt. And dirt. And dirt. And dirt. And dirt. And dirt. And dirt.  And dirt. And dirt. Just so much fucking godforsaken dirt.

I am outdoors. In nature. In dirty, grimy nature. 

I should be in my tent. 

Sleeping.

I'm tired of this.

I can't do this any more. How does anyone live like this? Why am I living like this? I can't do this any more. It's driving me crazy.

I should be in my tent. 

My tent! Where did that go? Where is my tent? It is right there! My tent! Where did it go? Where is it? Who took it? Why is it gone? What did they take? Is it still there? 

Who took my tent? 

If anyone comes near my tent, I will have them dead before their legs even hit the ground. If anyone tries to steal from me or steal my tent from me again, I will kill them.

But I don't have anything to steal now.

The tent is in my bag. They stole it. Who stole my tent? Who wants my tent? 

My tent! Where is my tent? Did someone take it too? 

Why does everything smell like dust? Or dirt.

There is no table. No carpet, no bedding. There are no books. There is no furniture. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing, just dirt, dirt left here by God. Dirt that doesn't belong to Him! Dirt that belongs to me! That belongs to all of us. That belongs to the Earth. Earth of the Earth! That's what dirt is! Dirt that belongs to the trees and gives them life! Dirt that belongs to the animals and sustains their existence! To the birds, to the fish, to the bugs, to the worms, to the jellyfish. To me!

Dirt that belongs to me. I am the Grand High Emperor of the Triple Planets. Everything on the Triple Planets is mine!

Dirt doesn't belong to God. It doesn't belong to him. He can't have it. It should not be his! This dirt shouldn't be anywhere near His feet!

I am a god! The one and only! A god, like Him! But why? Why is this dirt mine?! Why has God given it to me?!

Why do people love dirt so much?!

"Why do they need to touch it?" I ask myself.

The dirt is my treasure. Dirt is how I keep my power. Dirt is the source of my immortality. Dirt is how I control the entire universe. Dirt makes everything I touch shine.

Dirt makes everyone else glow too.

"Why does dirt make them happy?" I ask myself.

Dirt makes everything better. It fills your heart with joy, and you know deep down inside you're in a good place. Dirt makes you feel like nothing could go wrong. Dirt makes you feel free.

This is where I belong, floating through space, surrounded by dirt. It makes me happy and peaceful, it makes me forget about all that's going on around me.

This is where I live. Right now.

Where do I live? What do I call it? Where do I go to hide when the sun is beating down from high above the ground and the air tastes like metal in the back of my throat? Is there an exact definition for the name I'm supposed to give it?

He was out there somewhere when we started our search. He was there. He knew. He knew our planet was dying and he did nothing. He let us die. 

And then we found BoomFuzzy. 

He was there and he was alive. 

And then he wasn't anymore. 

Now he's dead. 

BoomFuzzy is dead.

Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead!

He's dead, dead, dead.

All gone.

Gone forever.

Just gone, gone, gone.

And left me alone.

Gone, like he never existed.

I should have died in his place.

No cares about me.

No one wants me.

He had friends. He had people who needed him.

No one needed me.

I should have died instead.

And now I'm back here in this filthy, filthy, dirty world. This dirt filled, filthy, dirt blasted dirt, with its stink and its pain. With its misery and its hopelessness.

No. 

I don't remember anything. 

I don't know where I am or how I got here. 

Nothing makes sense anymore. Nothing except that thing called pain. 

So much pain! 

Pain in my leg and pain in my back and pain in my hip and pain in my hands and pain in my head. 

Just pain, pain, pain, pain, pain, pain!

No.

No more dirt.

I hate dirt.

My hands in my hair again. They're wet and sticky and sweaty, with mud all over them. Dry clay and sticky sweat, equals the worst type of mud at all.

Mud in my hair.

Mud on my face.

Thee mud is everywhere.

I hate it! I hate. I hate it!

Its on my clothes and all around me. Everything is dirty and gross and I just want to get away from it. I don't want this. I want BoomFuzzy back.

I just want to be with BoomFuzzy.

I don't want anything else.

BoomFuzzy is gone to Hell and I'm left here on Earth.

This of not Heaven.

No.

This is the opposite of Heaven. 

The opposite of Heaven. The opposite of Paradise. 

The opposite of Heaven. The opposite of anything. 

This is not paradise. This is Hell. Hell. Hell. Everywhere.

This is Hell. Where everyone who dies lives forever. 

Forever and ever and ever and ever.

Hell, where no one has happiness. No one has peace. Where death is never truly rest. Where pain remains for eternity. Where no one has hope or purpose or joy. This is Hell. Nothing but Hell.

Hell is made of dirt.

Dirt.

Dirt, dirt, everywhere.

EVERYWHERE!

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing, just dirt, dirt left here by God. 

Dirt, dirt everywhere. 

Everywhere. 

All over me. 

On me. 

Staining me. 

Drying me. 

Drying me out. 

Drying me out, all over. A

ll around me. 

Soiled.

Soiled.

Soiled.

My pink silks are soiled.

Dirt on me. Mud. Sand. Dust. 

Dried blood.

Damned bloody nose.

Damned scraped knees.

My clothes are filthy. 

Not dirty enough. 

It's worse than dirt and mud, because dirt washes away. Muddy. Unkempt. Wet. Dirty. It dries. 

Not like dirt. 

Not dirty enough.

Not dirt. It takes dirt off. Dirt gets cleaned off.

And so damned fucking dark in here!

I don't know what dirt looks like anymore. 

It's all the same now, the way everything has been for so long.

It makes my eyes hurt.

They sting so hard.

So hard they burn.

They itch so hard.

And yet, still the tears come. And they keep coming even when my eyes stop hurting and my skin stops itching and my throat heals up from being dry and scratchy. They still fall.

When the first raindrop falls, they are almost the last drops of water that trickle through the clouds. When I hear the second drop, I look toward the source of the sound, but it doesn't land where the third drops were falling. Crying for trees. Where are the trees.

There is no forest without leaves. Why am I not at home? There is no canvas. There is no chair. Without seats without seating, there is no carpet without an office. Nothing. Nothing! I'm waiting for a dirty. . . what is this? Do you feel something? What are you? 

Wait. What's this?

I feel something.

What is this? What are you?

It's wood. It's not a tree. It's square. It's sharp. It has a corner. And OW! Splinters. Now I have a splinter! Damn you! What are you? 

A beam? A beam, leaned on something.

On what? 

A wall? Are you a wall? 

Yes. A wall. 

Wooden.

Am I inside? I'm inside. No. Yes? Maybe. 

How? How am I inside? There's so much dirt. What is this? Why is there so much dirt inside? It feels like a road, all packed in and travelled on. Busy, busy, like on the highway. No. This is not a highway. I'm not outside. I'm inside. In. . . in what? Am I in a cave? How did I get into a cave? AM I in a cave? Why am I in a cave? Is this a cave? I can't tell. 

Where am I? Where did the beams go. I need to feel them again. Something's not right here. This can't be a cave.

It should be more open. I'll look around. I'll find more wooden posts. I need to find more wooden posts. Oh! There's something else out there! There must be a door. I wonder if it's big enough for me. I wonder what it looks like. I hope it opens. If it's just one door then it isn't too tight for me.

It's not a door but it is something I can open, I think. It's kind of hard but I try. The latch is very complicated. So many buttons and knobs and switches. And a whole bunch of levers and knobs. How is a lever supposed to work, anyway? But I guess I do. I push down a switch and I hear an odd sound.

Click?

Did I hear a click?

Something clicked. 

What?

Where?

I can't see a blasted thing.

How did I get here? 

You're a vertical surface. You can help me up. I won't have to crawl around grovelling in the dirt any more. If I hold on to the wall and walk along you, maybe I can find my way out of here and back into sunlight. Why is it so damned dark in here? I can't see a thing.

Searching. Probing.

Probing. Searching.

Through the darkness, for anything that might reveal to me where I am. 

Piling. Scaffolding. Plank. 

Joist. Pillar. Rough. Old. 

Crumbling. Decayed. Decomposed. 

Mouldered. Rotted.

It will collapse. Oh! It's not stable. It gives if I lean on it.

This whole place will fall in on me.

Wait. I felt, gravel on the ground. Where was that. 

Ah! I found you. Cold. Smooth. 

Hard.

It's a crystal. Is it ice?

Quartz? Maybe? Or Selenite? 

These aren't gravel. 

They're gemstones. 

Am I in a mine? Oh my! Did I fall down a mine shaft? Oh that's not good. Some mines are miles deep. And have so little air. But a mine! No wonder there is no light. I could be miles underground.

Oh dear. That would be horrible, wouldn't it? 

Oh! The dark.

It will go away eventually. I'm sure it'll go away. I can't see anything. I won't find any water or any food. 

Oh no. 

How long has it been? Days, weeks, months? Time doesn't seem to have meaning here. It's like being in the past, but not really. It's not real time and all time isn't real either. But what am I supposed to do now?

I need a name. That's silly. You don't use names anymore. I can't think of one. My name is Joist. What else should I say?

My thoughts wander and my body drifts.

I know this is how things work when you're dead.

No, that's wrong. 

There aren't people who just die from falling.

I feel like I'm drifting. It's almost peaceful.

That's odd, because this is the first time I've ever been able to float. Floating used to be an unpleasant experience, but now it's sort of nice, like floating in a warm bath. I wonder why I can't swim any more? I can feel myself getting tired and tired. It feels like I'll lose consciousness any minute now. But I can feel something, like...

By the feel of the stone and dirt and massive timber beams on the wall, it's gem mine. A Dwarven gem mine. I seem to have found myself in a roughly hewn chamber of some sort. Some sort of cave. Or a tunnel. A sod house, maybe? 

A mine? Oh. It IS a mine isn't it? A Dwarf mine? No? Yes. It must be. It has to be. What else could it be? How did I get in a Dwarf mine? I can see nothing, damn it! The shades of stone, dirt and rot from the huge wooden posts hanging from the walls are all the same. Pitch black. Blacker than my string of black pearls. Where are those? I should wear them again. If I ever get out of here. I need to get out of here.

The beams feel like scaffolding for mine shafts.

I can't find out for certain in this dank darkness.

A tunnel, perhaps?

Under a mountain?

But to do what?  

And where?  

Where am I?  

How did I arrive here?

I simply can not recall.

Why can't I remember?  

Have I stumbled into a mine shaft?

Did I discover a mine by accident? 

I do not remember. Why can't I remember? Why is my memory so poor of late. I forget so much.

It concerns me greatly that I can not remember in what way or manner I arrived at this place. Did I come here by design? Was I abducted? If so, than by who? 

And why? 

And where are they? 

Why would they leave me alone here? 

Why can't I remember how I got here? 

Or was it a portal? Oh! It could have been a portal! Did I fall into a portal? 

Oh! 

I could be any where. 

Any planet. Any dimension. Any time. 

Oh! How would I even know? 

By what means did I come to be here? 

And where exactly was here?  

How on earth am I supposed to get home?

What if I never find a way back to where ever I came from? What then? Will I die here?

I am not sure whether to be frightened or elated. Is it possible for one to die and still be alive? Or will I finally be granted rest after being so tormented?

Is this death? Is this eternal torment?

Perhaps that is not the worst option. Perhaps death itself might be preferable to eternal torment. Perhaps it is better to live forever in hell than to be trapped here for all eternity as well.

If I were trapped here forever, I would die sooner or later. I cannot see the future anymore. There are no more memories, no more thoughts, no more ideas. It has all ended. There is nothing.

I am not going to die like this.

I don’t want to die like this.

If there is anything at all I can do to prolong my stay here, I must. Even if it means suffering endless boredom and isolation.

My name is Quirinus. That's it. No. That's not right either.

The story is over.

Now I need to begin again.

The question before us now is; How many days will it take for someone to notice I've gone missing?

It is dark.  

It is so dark.

So very dark.  

So very extremely dark.

So very extremely, extraordinarily dark.

Ah! What are you? Nothing helpful? Time-worn wooden pilings are leaning against walls. I can feel them. And the walls are made out of stone and collapsing clay. Dry clay. Smooth and silky. It'd be good for my skin. I should take some with me, but I've no way to carry any.

Not a weapon either.

Oh.

Oh no.

And what was that sound? I hear sounds. I don't know what they are. I can't see a thing. I hate that I can't see. I'm wandering in blindness.  

The sound of running water?

Water. Echoing through the darkness.

Running. Falling.

Water.

I'm so thirsty. I need to head towards the sound of the water.

I don't know anything about this place, and neither does anyone else, and if we run out of food or water then we won't last long anyway. 

I'm hungry. And thirsty. There's a spring close by, I can hear it. And maybe there's something else nearby. A stream maybe? Water from the sky. A nice drink after being in the rain. Yes, that would be nice indeed. If I was on land. Which I'm not. I'm underground. Miles and miles underground. Under hill. Under dale. Under mountain.

My head hurts, like someone has taken a stick to it. I try to remember what happened. 

I am in the cave, I think. And then there was... an explosion. And purple smoke. 

And I was running. I was jogging with a bunch of trees. And it made my leg soar. My damned lame leg. I shouldn't have run. It hurt my hip.

And I fell through the floor, no, off a cliff. 

I tried to grab a hold of something, but I couldn't see what. 

Then the ceiling collapsed, and it became dark and I couldn't get up. 

The pain was all over, it felt as though someone had reached inside of my brain and twisted. I can't remember. I just know I was running, and then I hit something hard and black and when I opened my eyes again everything was gone.

I open my eyes to see myself on the ground. 

Oh gods, oh god oh gods I'm going to die. My heart is racing, and I feel faint.

Quaraun continued inching ahead, ever so slowly.

Deliberately. Reaching out. Hands outstretched. 

Into the darkness. Touching the wall.  

The dirt on the wall is thick and dry, barren, parched, but not sandy. It's. . . powdery. 

Caked. Clumping. Smoothly textured like talc mixed with clay. Heavy. It smells like the rich dark peat clay found under a forest's leaf carpet. 

What a wonderful smell. 

Dirt would be nice if it wasn't so dirty. 

I love the smell of dirt. 

I just hate how badly it soils my clothes. And my hands. And my hair. Silk is so hard to get clean.  This clay smells so nice. If mixed it with water it would feel so nice on my skin.

Using his fingers on the earth wall as a guide, Quaraun pursued the passage, hoping to find an exit. Or at the very least, a light. 

Who knew what is lurking in the darkness with me? Beasts. Monsters. Bandits. There could be dangers lurking all around me. I'd not know to run. 

Oh my! What was that? I heard something. There is a great abundance of noise. And soil dribbling down from the sod ceiling with every vibration.

Distant. Moaning.

Rumbling. A mountain that rumbles.

Was this a cavern in. . .a volcano?

Wait, is that lava I heard rushing by? Not water?

It bears resemblance to a mine shaft, but maybe it's not.  

I'm in a volcano.

I can smell it. The sulphur.

It feels like it. This whole place is filled with smoke and steam. The air thickens as if on purpose. It's so hot, I can barely breathe.

I'm sweating buckets. My silks feel clammy. My arms are trembling.

How long have I been here? Hours. Days? Weeks?

"Is anyone there?"

My voice echoes through the dark room. I try again, but no one answers.

What's going on? Why am I stuck here?

I need to listen. For danger. I must take notice of every sound. Be always alert and ready to run. Except run to where? I can't see a thing. Not one single, solitary thing. If I trip, I'll break my neck. How am I supposed to run from danger when I can't even see my own hand? Why the hell is this place so dark? This is the darkest, darkness I've ever been in.

OW!

Damn it! What was that? Stubbed my toe. Now it hurts. I was already hurting enough. Now I hurt more. I didn't need more hurt. I needed less hurt. Damn darkness.

Accursed darkness. 

Damned accursed darkness.

Stupid blackness everywhere.

Eternal blackness.

Why does it have to be so damned dark in this place?

And I'm alone.

I hate being alone. I'm just always alone. No body cares. No one. Ever. Not no one. I have no one. BoomFuzzy's dead. He killed himself. Because I killed Gibedon. I shouldn't have killed Gibedon. I had to kill Gibedon. Gibedon was going to kill BoomFuzzy.  Why did he have to die? I never should have killed Gibedon. BoomFuzzy would still be alive if I hadn't killed Gibedon. He loved Gibedon. BoomFuzzy loved Gibedon. Why did he love Gibedon?

He hid Gibedon from me. He loved Gibedon and he didn't want me to know. I thought he loved me. I loved him. 

I loved BoomFuzzy so much. Why didn't he love me? We were soul bound. I cut my soul in half to be with him. Part of him. Him part of me. I would have loved him forever. I do love him, forever. I'll always love him. Why did he have to die? Why did he kill himself? I don't understand. I miss him. I miss him so much. I feel so alone without him. 

I feel so angry at myself for killing Gibedon.

Why must I get so upset all the time?

How can I make myself stop feeling like this.

I can't sleep at night. I can't eat. My chest hurts. I feel like there is a whole where my heart used to beat. My chest feels empty. I feel empty. Unloved. Unwanted. Alone. 

Why did BoomFuzzy have to die? Why did he kill himself? I don't understand. I miss him. I miss him so much. I feel so alone without him.  I hurt. I hurt so bad. I can't bear it. It hurts like nothing else ever has. It hurts. I feel so lonely.

Gibedon was gone. I killed him. How could I? That wasn't supposed to happen. But it did. I killed him. I killed him for good. Forever. I hurt BoomFuzzy so much. 

I'm going to die alone and I'm going to die sad. 

I can't live without him. I can't go on without him. 

I'll be alone forever. 

Forever. 

Forever, forever. 

Forever, forever, forever, forever, forever. 

Forever. Forever. Forever.

I wish I had a knife. Maybe then I could slit my wrists.

Maybe then I wouldn't have to feel so alone anymore. 

Maybe then, maybe then I'd be free. Free, free, free. 

I'd finally be happy. 

Free! I need to see BoomFuzzy again. 

I need to feel his arms around me again. 

I don't care how bad it gets.

Quaraun collapsed on the ground, sobbing.

Just than a knife appeared in front of him.

Oh!

No!

Not another wish!

I have to stop doing this.

No!

No!

NO!

No more wishes!

Stop with the wishes.

Please.

There is so much darkness here.

Just everywhere.

There could be monsters all around me and I wouldn't know it. I can't see a thing. And this tunnel just keeps going and going. It doesn't end. And I can't see where I'm going. I got to get out of here.

And it's hot and humid. Dry and muggy. Both at the same time. It makes my lungs hurt. And it makes my head hurt. 

And my eyes and my throat. 

It's so hard to breath in here. 

It's so dark and dirty and I hate it. 

And that smell. Sulphur.

But I am so tired.

I need to rest.

Need to lay down.

So tired.

Quaraun lay down on the ground and drifted off into a fitful sleep. Though he'd only been awake for a short while, his fear of the dark had exhausted his mind.

Quaraun was prone to not think clearly when he was afraid.

Prone to panic.

Prone to forget, in his panic, that he had supplies with him. Supplies he could use. Like a lamp. And matches to light said lamp. Both of which were tucked away inside the little bag of holding hanging from his belt.

Quaraun's fear of being lost and alone in the dark, was so great, that he had forgotten, where he was, or why he was there, or what he carried with him.

And so Quaraun wandered through the caves of Fire Mountain, traumatized, terrified, not knowing where he was or how he had come to be there. Not remembering that he had gone to the mountain, seeking the Obsidian Idol, which sat in the bowels of Pepper Valley's ancient volcano.

The hours slowly ticked away, timeless, in the silence of the darkness, of the subterranean caverns of Fire Mountain's underbelly. Quaraun slept, passed out on the dirt path. After many hours of sleep, he awoke once again, to find himself still alone, still in the dark, still so deep in the earth, that there was no way to tell day from night.

It's dark. It's night.

Have I slept all day?

No.

It's not night.

I'm in a mine. Or a cave. A dark, dark cave.

Darkness still. There is no light.

I need to see something. 

There is nothing to see. 

I need light. Without it my mind wanders into its darkest depths, when I can't occupy it. 

I hate it. 

I hate these thoughts. 

I need to get out of here. There's nothing to do. Nothing to see. I can't see anything. My mind is as dark as this damned tunnel that I now found myself wandering in. Where the hell is the exit to this place? How did I even get in here? I need to find a way out, but there's just nothing! Miles of endless nothing. How long is this tunnel? When does it end?

It's ghastly.

Foreboding and ghastly.

Ghastly and foreboding.

I miss BoomFuzzy.

I feel so very alone and abandoned. Just so alone. Alone. Unloved. Unwanted. Left behind. Cast aside. I have no one. I'm going to die down here. Lost and alone. And no one will know I died. No one will know where to look for me. Wolves will eat my body. I'm all alone. Alone. Nothing but darkness all around.

The lonesome darkness all around me.

Above. Beside. Below.

Isolation. Desolation. Seclusion.

Dark and morbid.

Morbid and dark.

The darkness surrounding me. The emptiness.

The silence. 

My ears are ringing. It hurts. All around. My head hurts.

What happened?

How did I fall here?

Where am I? Why am I here?

Why is this happening?

Why am I trapped like this?

This is not what I expected when I woke up this morning.

What do they want from me?

What has this got to do with me?

Why am I here? What is wrong with me?

I need help. I want someone to come for me. To take me home. I want people to love me. To care about me. 

They can't leave me here to rot. They won't. 

That's not how it works. I'll never be accepted if they don't take me back. I need them to take me back.

They should come for me. If they don't, then I'll go mad. 

If they don't then, then I'll kill myself. 

But I can't do that. They must save me.

If only I had some water. Then I could drink some water. If I had water, maybe I wouldn't be feeling this dizzy. I wish I had something to drink. But nothing. Just darkness. This tunnel is huge.

The lonely, lonesomeness of how very alone I feel is bearing down heavy upon me in this endless, eternal darkness.

Gloom and doom.

Doom and gloom.

Depressed and forlorn.

Ominous and sad.

Sad and dismal.

The anguish, bitterness, misery, and despair.

I can feel it all around me. My depression bearing down on me, worse than ever before. Like a sickly presence I can not escape. It follows me everywhere. I hate it. Why won't it leave me alone?

Day and night. 

Night and day. 

Always there. 

Always watching. 

Always waiting. 

Waiting and watching. 

Watching and waiting.

Now, I'm lost in this dark endless cave. I feel the dark depths of despair, crashing down around me. Crushing me heart and soul, body and mind. Mind and body, soul and heart. My soul is cut in half. Half my soul is in BoomFuzzy. And BoomFuzzy's dead. Half my soul is dead. I'm half dead. Half alive. And lost in the dark.

I must escape this darkness. But where? How? I had no idea where I am or which direction in which to go. I am lost and alone, in the darkest cave system I'd ever not seen. If only I had a light.

It seemed to Quaraun as though he had roamed aimlessly in this blackness forever.  His mind crashed deeper into the depth of fretful depression.

He felt so helpless and trapped. He wished he knew what to do. What was wrong with him? What did he need to do to fix it?

Companionless. Despised. Rejected. The darkness around me, left me with nothing to occupy my mind. Alone now, with nothing but my own dark and morbid thoughts.

A loud deafening roar, suddenly interrupted Quaraun self pity. He sat silent, his eyes wide, seeing nothing through the darkness. Silent. Listening. Watching. His eyes detected the flicker of light up ahead. The air became suddenly warm. It was very warm. Too warm. Hot even.

And dry.  

It is very dry.  

The glow ahead flickered in dancing shades of orange.  

A fire? 

Is there a fire up ahead?

Quaraun quickened his pace.

There was a fire.  I can smell the smoke.

As Quaraun wandered through the caves, trying to get somewhere safe, he began to hear sounds. A faint, but distinct sound. He began moving towards the sound. As he walked, the noise grew louder. Soon enough, he heard the sound of someone singing. At first, the song made no sense to him. He could have sworn that the voice sounded almost familiar. Then again, it could've just been the echo of his own thoughts, which seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. The song continued, growing louder with each step he took.

Suddenly, the tunnel ended abrupt.

Quaraun hastily fell back and clutched for the wall. His heart raced. The tunnel had ended, yes. 

And suddenly.  

Very suddenly.  

Too suddenly.

A sheer drop off.

A tall, sheer cliff overhanging the dark nothingness below.

I'd nearly ambled off the edge.

Quaraun inched his way back to the edge.

Slowly. Deliberately.

Cautiously. Carefully. Gradually.

He leaned forward to peer over the ledge. At the nothingness below. Darkness. Endless nothing.

Dangerous blackness below.

Ominous gloom above.

It was grim and foreboding.

Foreboding and grim.

I feel so very alone.

The lonesome darkness, all around me.

Above. Beside. Below.

Isolation. Desolation. Seclusion.

The aloneness, of how very alone I felt, was bearing down heavy upon me in this endless darkness. Gloom and doom. Doom and gloom. The anguish, bitterness, and despair. I can feel it all around me. Like a sickly presence I can not escape. 

But the light. . .

It. . .

I saw a light. I know I did.

Where was the light?

It is gone.

Did I not seen a light up ahead?

The glowing flicker of warm orange flames leaping from a fire.

Where is it now?

Did I imagine it?

Surly I had not.

It moved.

It must have moved.

That was the only answer.

Yes, it had moved.

But how?

Has someone carried it away?

Or put it out?

Does that mean I am not alone?

Is there someone else here?

Someone perhaps carrying a lamp of some sort?

Someone whom had been ahead of me, but had now moved on out of sight?

Quaraun got on his hands and knees and ran his fingers along the edge of the ledge.

Perhaps there were stairs. Or maybe a ladder.

No.

Nothing.

But now I am on the other side of the tunnel.

The other wall.

Quaraun stood up, clinging desperately to the wall as he did. Terror filled the terrified Elf's chest as his heart pounded in fear. 

I am scared of heights. And cliffs.

I'm scared of cliffs.

And they are so much scarier now when I can't see them.

Terrified the cliff at his feet would crumble and fall. Tumbling down the side and toss him into the unknown depths of death below.

Down.

Down.

So far down.

Into the pits of Hell.

Hot. Boiling. Bubbling. Tar pits of Hell.

Wait. That's not tar pits of Hell. 

It's lava. Magma. So very far below. I can barely see it.

Am I inside a volcano?

Where am I?

Why can't I remember?

Why is it so hard to remember?

Remember. . .

. . .any thing. . .

Something.

Nothing.

With his back against the wall, Quaraun inched his way away from the ledge. Away from the edge. Back to the safety of the darkness above. Away from the terror of the darkness below.

At least here, there I've a solid stone to my back.

Solid dirt beneath my feet.

Solid stone walls behind me. Solid ground in front of me. 

But even as he thought it, he knew it wasn't true.

The floor was hard and unforgiving beneath his hands, and every time he made one step forward, he felt something give way underneath his feet. 

Every time he fell, he heard the sound echo through the cavernous space, amplified by the walls that surrounded him. He heard the sound of his own screams, too loud for this space. Too loud for his own ears. He felt them ricochet off the stone and into the dark corners, where he didn't dare go.

I can't hear myself scream anymore. My throat feels raw, and all that comes out is a raspy gurgle.

His breath caught in his chest as he saw it: the faint outline of the door at the end of the corridor in front of him. His eyes followed its path to its destination, which seemed so far away. Far, so far, away.

How long will he be able to keep walking? How long would it take before it became impossible to move any more?

If I could just make it another few steps...

He looked down at himself, seeing how badly damaged he was. The blood that dripped from the wound on his forehead was slowly staining the front of his shirt with dark stains

Quaraun looked from side to side, straining to see something. Anything. But no. Nothing. Pure, total, blackness.

Above.

Below.

Everywhere.

He continued to move, slowly, feeling his way with his fingers on the dirt wall. But Quaraun hadn't gone far, only a few feet away from the edge, before the wall disappeared.

He froze. Terrified. He dare not move.

Feeling, the air, I found the other wall. 

A sharp bend that veered the other way.

A tunnel off the tunnel.

Heading down.

But down to where?

I can't see. This is worse than blindness. Blindness I at least saw foggy grey swirls ahead and glimmering lights behind. 

No, this, this is nothing but pitch blackness.

Empty blackness. As though everything had been sucked into a hole leaving nothing left behind.

Quaraun continued inching his way through the darkness search for something, anything. 

The floor of the tunnel sloped down. Sometimes just a little.

 Other times steeply, causing him to trip and fall, and tumble forward, landing hard on the ground. The old Elf skinned the palms of his hands as he flung his arms forward into the darkness, trying to break his fall.  

One such fall was worse than others, as the tunnel, inclined sharply, and Quaraun fell headlong, tumbling and rolling all the way to the bottom.

Dazed. Dizzy. Bleeding. Scraped. Bruised. And confused. Quaraun sprawled on the ground for a few moments, before struggling to stand.

No.

I can not stand. I'm too dizzy. I've hit my head, too many times on the tumble through the darkness.

Blood trickled down Quaraun's face from a cut on his forehead. More blood trickled from a split lip. His pink silks, were growing wet from the blood seeping from his scraped knees.

Quaraun sat on his knees, clutching his hands over his head, trying to stop the spinning, vertigo sensation that was just now swirling around him.

He felt faint.

"No. Don't faint." He said out loud. "Stay awake."

He tried again to stand. Slowly this time. Dizziness flooded through him, pounding though his head, like a herd of horses galloping through his skull. Ocean waves, flooding behind his eyes.

Quaraun squeezed his eyes shut tight, hoping the swaying he felt would go away. His tentacles wrapped tightly around his body, hugging him, comforting him.

By the gods, what is that?

 He had no time to think. No time to react. A giant, glowing yellow-orange slug, the size of an elephant, came barrelling through the wall. The wall shattered and crumbled around it. Blazing hot lava-slime, dripping with golden orange acid, burned through the wall, melting the rock.

A Lava Slug! Good god. I didn't any still existed.

Quaraun scrambled out of the path of the massive, peaceful behemoth as it made it';s way through the mountain, making new tunnels as it went.

Quaraun stumbled and fell, tumbled and rolled, and once again, hit his head and knocked himself out.

Thud. Thud. Thud. 

Quaraun heard a pounding noise like the beating of a drum. 

"Argh!" Quaraun woke up. He sat blinking and yawning. 

He looked around and found himself alone.

Everything is hazy and his head ached. 

He tried to remember where he was.

Fire Mountain.

Yes. That's it.

That's where he was.

Fire Mountain.

Home of King Gwallmaiic.

The Elf Eater of Pepper Valley.

BoomFuzzy.

"I entered into Fire Mountain, and became lost in the mass network of Lava Slug tunnels.  I must have hit my head when I jumped down the shaft and forgot where I was. Oh dear. Light. I have a lantern in my bag. How silly of me."

Quaraun stood up, but a chill ran down his spine as he heard the drumming sound again, louder and closer. The tunnel ahead of him glowed a deep orange-red, and with a feeling of dread, he knew something is coming for him, and he should run! As he turned to flee, he remembered the demons... he was frozen with fear. Slowly, Quaraun took a step forward. And then another. He was still too dizzy to move quickly. But the pounding was getting closer and he could smell sulphur.

His legs stopped working.

Quaraun collapsed back on the ground, gasping and coughing.

How long has it been since he last ate? 

Too long. 

It has been too long. Why hasn't he eaten since he left the tent two days ago? What happened? Did he fall asleep? Is that why his stomach hurts so badly?

Quaraun wandered through the dark, sandy cavern. There were many rooms within the mountain, each smaller than the last. But this cave was deep within the mountain, and many rooms were carved into the stone. Even the tables and chairs were carved of stone from the mountain. 

Many rooms had no lights at all, save the moonlight streaming through the holes in the roof. his night however, the ceiling did not reflect the light from the moon, for there was no sky up above. Only the cut crystal blue glass of the bottle they were trapped inside of,mountain and all.

And as usual, Quaraun was alone again.

He felt a sense of loss as he walked through the tunnels.

No one dared come down into the lower depths of Fire Mountain. If they did, King Gwallmaiic would kill them and feed them to his beast, his great black dragon. 

Quaraun never thought that he would one day defy his own rule to never set foot inside Fire Mountain, and now be down here roaming through the darkness of it's endless passages.







One evening a man walked through a portal into King Gwallmaiic's room. This man wore a blue cloak that covered his body, which looked almost like armour. He had blonde hair tied into three buns on each side of his head. His face was covered by a red mask, the edges of which curled up.



The Mist Blood of The Vampire Silverwitch from the Kingdom of  the Infernal Teeth of Emerald and the Amethyst Coat of Radiance, flooded the room. She had come to steal the skulls and take control of Midnight LanceKiller, The Elf Eater's black dragon. But Midnight LanceKiller, was not going to let that happen.

The woman laughed. Her dark hair was a tangled mess, her face pale as death, her lips stained crimson. A strange creature stood beside her. Her eyes glowed in the light of her dark magic. A wicked smile curled on her lips. She was ready to fight. And she knew she'd be victorious. The vampire Queen had already taken three souls from the victims of the raid on the village below, and another two would soon follow. She only needed one more. One last powerful soul.

"Come out you pathetic creature!" She snarled, as she looked for the dragon. "I know you're in here. You can not hide from me!"

Silence.

No answer.

Not a sound.

Water dripped from the stalagmites of the cave.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

No other sound could be heard.

"Fine! Have it your way. But you won't hide from me long. I'll find you."

She turned and walked out of the cave.

As the woman disappeared, something shifted in the back corner of the cave.

Something stirred.

Something moved.

Almost like smoke swirling around.

A great pair of glistening green and purple eyes glowed from high near the ceiling of the back wall.

Quaraun gasped, and covered his mouth to stifle his own scream.

There she was. The Elf Eater's Dragon. And she was huge. The size of a giant blue whale. Quaraun had never imagined she would be so big. Nearly as big as the mountain itself. But how? It was not possible for something so large to fit through even the widest of the tunnels into this room.

Oh but she was beautiful. Mesmerizing. Quaraun had never seen a dragon before. He never could have imagined he'd ever be this close to one.

Dark magic surrounded the creature. And a dark miasmic mist swirled all around her.

Quaraun trembled in fear as he stared at the dragon. Trembled in fear of touching her, Fear of touching Midnight LanceKiller. He couldn't believe this was real. Couldn't believe this thing actually existed. A dragon. A real, live dragon. Creatures of myth. Creature long thought extinct for millions of years. And yet, here she was, a beautiful metallic black dragon. 

The dragon stared down at him, as she slowly lowered herself down from her perch in the ceiling of the cave, lowering to stand on all fours.

She wasn't afraid of him, and that scared him most of all. Quaraun was used to people being scared of him. Used to people attacking him. Used to having to fight for his life at every turn. He didn't know how to react to something that neither feared him, nor was trying to kill him.

She lowered herself completely to the ground, curling up like a giant cat, and laid there, quiet, still, not moving, watching him. Her lizard eyes, cold and unblinking, like the eyes of a giant serpent.

Quaraun watched the dragon as she watched him. Knowing nothing of dragons, Quaraun didn't know what he should do. Should he stay still or try to run? Could he talk to her? Do dragons talk?

"Yes, we do."

Quaraun's thoughts froze. He had not asked those questions out loud, and the dragon had herd him and answered him. Except, she did not answer with a voice, rather he felt her voice inside his head, like a hive mind, like the hive mind he had had so many years ago with the rest of the Elves. The hive mind of the Elves was gone, as the Elves had gone extinct many centuries ago. Quaraun was the last full blooded Elf, though a few half-Elves were found from time to time.

"You know my thoughts?"

"Yes."

"Can you speak?"

"No. I have no vocal chords. I am a dragon."

"Oh." Quaraun thought about that for a moment and realized he really had no clue what exactly it was that a dragon was. He'd never seen one before. In fact, he'd never even considered the possibility of dragons being real. He had always thought them a fictional fairy tale creature created by parents to scare naughty children. "How do I know the thought I'm hearing are your and not the thoughts of some trickster Fae pretending to be your voice?"

"You don't."

"I suppose that it true, isn't it. But there must be some way to verify your thoughts are yours."

"What would you suggest?"

"I... I don't know. I know nothing of dragons. I never dreamed it possible that dragons were real. I don't even questions to ask you."

"What questions would you ask me, were I not a dragon?"

"I would probably ask you your name and where you hailed from, your nationality, culture. Your favourite foods. Your favourite colour. That sort of thing."

"Your favourite colour is pink."

"Yes. It is."

"You are The Pink Necromancer."

"Yes. I am."

"My name is Njord, I am from Planet Ptarmagin. We Dragons are not native to Earth, it is why there are so few of us on your planet."

"Njord? The not-Gnome outside the mountain. His name was Njord."

"Yes. He was me. I am he."

"Are you a shape-shifter?"

"I am a Purple Dragon of Planet Ptarmagin."

"Purple? Are you not black?"

"Oh no. My scales are purple. But they look black in certain lights."

"But you can change form?"

"I can appear as whatever I want."

"What it your true and natural form?"

"You are looking at is."

"I've seen many strange beasts, many strange people these past few days. Where they all you?"

"Some where. Others were not."

"The Crystal Birds were not me. They were the Master."

"The Master?"

"You meet him at the gate."

"The Phooka?"

"Yes. My Master is a Phooka."

"The two guards, back at the tower, that was you and him, wasn't it?"

"Yes. It was us. He and me."

"Why did you put me in the tower?"

"It was Master's idea. He was angry with you. He's not now. It is why he let you out."

"What about the princess?"

"What of her?"

"Is there really a missing princess?"

"Yes. There is. And she is a sorceress as you were told."

"Why is your master looking for her?"

"He is not."

"But..."

"He only said that to distract you. To confuse you. And it worked. Did it not?"

"Indeed it did."

"The girl I met..."

"That was me."

"So, not the princess?"

"No."

"What about the deserted farm village?"

"It was like that when we found it. Goblins with great war hounds were not far away. I suspect they Humans fled when they got wind of it."

"And the bandits, who attacked me?"

"Just common bandits who happened to stumble across you. Nothing more."

"Oh. Well, I guess that explains everything."

Quaraun though silently for a few moments.

"You said you are from Planet Ptarmagin."

"I am."

"I never heard of it before. Where is it exactly?"

"It is the moon of Planet Vesonta, one of the Triple Planets."

"The Triple Planets? Do you know where they are?"

"They are a long ways from here. In a solar system on the other side of the galaxy."

"I am from the Triple Planets, but I do not remember it. I was injured. I can remember nothing of my life from before this planet."

"Many of our people came to Earth. Few survived."

"Why did we leave?"

"Our sun grew dark. Trees stopped growing. There was no more light. Mushrooms bigger than the trees, grew up in their place. Our beautiful, lush green world died and a dark black world of eternal night took it's place. Ptarmagin is the dark and dangerous world of the undead, now. Ptarmagin is a world of monsters, swollen with endless armies of the undead, where flesh-eating ghouls rule the world, and all living creatures are at their mercy. Some constructed cities that float in the clouds, to escape the monsters of the Mushroom Forest below, but few were found worthy to join the elite in the Golden Palace in the sky. Our home planet is not dead, but it might as well be for those who must fight to survive on it."

"And Dragons come from there?"

"Oh yes. There are many Dragons on Ptamagian, Diona, Vesonta, Flame, and Crystonia. Fire Dragons. Ice Dragons. But our entire solar system is in turmoil. Our sun went dark, and all the planets live in chaos now."

"You said you knew who I was?"

"Yes. You are Quaraun, a human male Necromancer in the kingdom of Quebec."

"I am an Elf."

"Are you? Where are your rabbit ears?"

"I keep them behind me, held down back, hidden under my hair."

"You look like a Human without them."

"I know, it's why I do it. I am the last Elf. My people went extinct centuries ago. Humans today believe us fairy tales. They do not believe we were once real."

"Yes. As they do with us Dragons."

"If I am to survive on this planet, I must hide my ears and pretend to look as Human as possible."

"There are no Humans here."

"Indeed. There are not."

"Then why do you still hide them?"

"Force of habit. I'm used to walking with them down, I don't often carry them high."

"May I see them?"

"I see no reason why not," Quaraun said as he twitched his ears, allowed them to lift out of their hiding position. Quaraun, being a Moon Elf, had exceptionally long ears, standing more than a foot tall over his head, ending in fine points. In each ear was 24 small gold rings. In each ring was a thin gold chain. Each of the gold chains, looped around and connected to one of the 3 gold rings in Quaraun's nose. From his ears to his nose, each chain was hung with dozens of tiny pink quartz and watermelon tourmaline crystal points, and tiny gold charms in the shapes of flowers, hearts, birds, jellyfish, and leaves.

"You have decorated your ears like a Christmas tree."

"Yes."

Why?"

"There are scars on my face. The chains and charms cast shadows and cover my scars."

"They match the gold on your hands."

Quaraun looked down at his hands. He had quite forgotten he was wearing the gold armour on his fingers.

"Do they serve a purpose as well?"

"Yes. When I was a child my fingers were crushed. My hands broken. My hands are dead, I can not use them. They do not move, The bones are shattered, the nerves and muscles are, useless."

"And the gold gloves help this?"

"Yes. They are magic. Enchanted. BoomFuzzy made them for me."

"BoomFuzzy?"

"Yes. He took care of me after... after The Hanging Tree. I would have died other wise. But when I had recovered, my leg was lame, I could not walk normal. I've used the can ever since. But my hands... my hands were dead, and I an a tailor. I weave silk and embroider cloth. I could do this no more. I could not eat. I could not feed myself. I could do nothing that required the use of my hands. So, BoomFuzzy made these gold plate for my fingers, that I may use my hands again. I can not take them off, unless I have someone to put them back on me again after."

"You are the little Elf from Ivujivik."

"I am."

"Master has spoken of you. You were born in a small village, Ivujivik, just outside the walls of the castle of the Lich King, and you grew up under the close watch of the Lich King."

"King Gwallmaiic. Yes. I knew him as BoomFuzzy. I lived with him for 30 years. In the gingerbread house." 

"You were tutored in magic by him from a young age, and have grown up with no knowledge of much else. You are very good at what you do, and you do magic best of all. You were a great apprentice. He has said so. You were his most faithful student, and are his most powerful Necromancer."

"Yes. That is true. But he is dead. And now I am alone."

"Ptarmagin is a strange place, a far away land, where the undead rule, and Necromancy is an outlawed art. You wouldn't like it there."

"I never said I planned to go there."

"Of course not. It is too far. Too far for us."

"For you maybe."

"For any of us perhaps."

"Who was that woman, just now. The one hunting you."

"We are free to roam where we please and wherever we want. The Dead Worlds are full of monsters. Creatures from the depths of Hell are always there waiting for us."

"Is Hell a real place?"

"Oh yes. Hell exists. A planet that burns in eternal flames, orbiting far too close to it's sun. It's inhabitants suffer greatly. None want to remain there. Many would escape. But Hell exists in the realm of chaos, and it's people are seen by Earthlings are Demons, twisted creatures, half man, half animal. The Humans do not like the Hellions."

"That woman, was she from there?"

"No. She was The Vampire Silverwitch from the Kingdom of  the Infernal Teeth of Emerald and the Amethyst Coat of Radiance, and that sickly fog that she brought with her was called The Mist Blood. The Vampires of Kingdom of the Infernal Teeth of Emerald and the Amethyst Coat of Radiance have heard a rumour about a rare flower that can re-energize a vampire's thirst and raise it to it's former power. There is plenty of danger in searching for this flower, but it is said that a successful adventurer could live as a king in the Kingdom of  the Infernal Teeth of Emerald and the Amethyst Coat of Radiance. And to get the flower, they believe requires the blood of a sacrificed Dragon. She is after Master's crystal skulls." 

"Crystal skulls?"

"Yes. King Gwallmaiic has a large collection of skulls on a shelf behind his throne. He uses them as decoration, but also as ornaments. In his unicorn form he decorates his horn with them."

"My little black unicorn," Quaraun said to himself. 

"They were very pretty, with intricate carvings and nice colours, but more than this, these skulls are very powerful. The Elf Eater used them to control a large black dragon who he calls Midnight Lancekiller."

"And that would be you?" 

"Yes. She was a beautiful, glossy black dragon, with a purple mark, a scar, under her right eye. Her black scales glistened with a purple sheep, like peacock ore. She is kept in a cave under the King's Mountain Palace on Fire Mountain. It was said that a dragon slayer once used these skulls to kill a dragon. And that this was how Gwallmaiic knew of her existence, found her, captured her, and tamed her."

"You are talking about yourself in third person, that's a bit bizarre."

"Is it?"

"Yeah. A little."







Njord was sitting in a chair beside the king's empty throne, when he heard footsteps entering the room. He turned to see his brother, Lord Headbanger.





Quaraun headed off to Daemeon's Court to speak to Kai the court mage. Where Quaraun presented his concerns. Dr. Daemeon Emperor of Planet Ptarmagin was a large and menacing figure. A bird, twelve feet tall. An arrogant partridge who seemed to have a lot of power, but little concern for things he doesn't directly control.