The Crucible Book One: What do you Fear?

Prologue

“I believe in everything until it's disproved. So I believe in fairies, the myths, dragons. It all exists, even if it's in your mind. Who's to say that dreams and nightmares aren't as real as the here and now?”

― John Lennon

It was just before true sunrise in the little town, quiet and still as the sun’s rays slowly crept across the houses. The coffee shop opened early, the owner knowing very well just how many people would come stumbling in, half-awake. Many of them had work to go to, classes to teach at the school, or other things that drew them away as soon as they had finished a cup or two. But a handful always stayed behind, and these were the customers he loved the most. Not because they kept drinking his coffee and buying scones and sandwiches, but because they told stories.

His favorites were the writers. Many of them dreamed of being published someday, and a few of them had. He had posters of their book covers up on the walls, as if to quietly state "I helped make these happen." After the first one came to him and said that they published their book, he decided to make a writing corner of sorts to stimulate their creativity. Comfortable chairs by the window and the fireplace, plenty of table space and outlets. There was a woman who owned the small bookstore down the road, and as soon as she saw the space, she asked to add in some shelves and fill them with books. Not for selling, really. Just for inspiration. If you wanted one, you could take it. But you'd better leave another in exchange. The written word was a sense of give and take, after all.

And in return for all of this, the writers of the town came there to work and tell their stories.

On this particular day, a man walked in just as the shop opened, a newcomer that the owner didn’t recognize. He sat down in a chair right between the bookshelf and the window, pulling out a notebook from the pocket of his coat. It was simple and black, with creamy, not quite white pages. Over half of them were covered in ink, words and drawings filling every page. Old Thomas Baker, the man who owned the shop, came over and leaned against the bookshelf, a respectable distance away. The man looked up with a questioning glance. Thomas gave him a friendly smile and said simply, "Looks like you've got quite the story in that journal." The man nodded. "It's been a long and difficult story, but it's worth telling. I just wish there was a better way to tell it, so people knew it's real. These are more dangerous times than anyone realizes sometimes."

"You're not some spy or terrorist, are you? Can't have those in my shop, this is a quiet town." The man laughed quietly. "No, I'm not. You could say that I'm the one that keeps the monsters under a child's bed at bay. The one that stops the shadows you see out of the corner of your eye. You know they're real, right? The shadows?"

Thomas wasn't sure, but he could have sworn he saw something in the glint of that man's eye. Madness perhaps? Certainly sounded like it. Best to leave him be to write, before he drove some of his other customers off with his crazy talk. So he shook his head and turned away, saying, "I'm too old to believe in monsters like that. They're best left to the kids. I'll get you a coffee." The man in the corner sighed quietly and opened his notebook to a fresh page and took out his pen. "Then it's too late," he whispered. "Too late to save you from your own darkness."

"What was that?"

"Oh, nothing. Just thinking out loud."

The man watched as Thomas walked away, then shook his head and put pen to paper. There was the sound of hot water being poured, a cup being placed on to a plate. And then the crash of ceramic hitting tile.

In a flash, the man in the corner stood, catching a glimpse of a moving shadow, eyes from the darkened hall in the back of the shop. Ink spilled over the page, obscuring the words he had begun to write, looking almost like blackened droplets of blood on the white paper.

"I'm so sorry."

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