Prologue

Young, 25 year old George McCray strolled down the cobblestone paths of the city upbeat and full of energy. As a reporter of the city newspaper, he'd just gathered what was probably the greatest scoop in American history. The president sure had a heck of a past, and now it was all going down on paper, and soon, onto people's doorsteps. There was no way Larry Dwight, the editing officer, could reject this article. Especially knowing how famous his newspaper would become. George could just picture the headlines-front page no doubt. Boy, would he make history!

The small bundle of jingle bells on the doorframe tinkled jovially as George stepped into the editing office. He let the door slam noisily behind him, and the bells jingled ever more vigorously, echoing George's jumble of emotions. Ignoring the raised eyebrows from Larry Dwight, George strode over to the desk with a bundle of papers held triumphantly over his head. He smacked them down on the editors desk, causing a name panel labeled Larry S. Dwight to blow to the ground. George opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated. He bent to pick up the name panel and place it back on the desk, feeling a little embarrassed. Nevertheless, George proceeded to speak as if nothing had happened.

"You asked for front-page material, you got it! Right here! Right here, I tell ya!" He jabbed a finger into the stack of papers tied gift-box fashion with twine. Undaunted by George's outburst, Larry reached for the papers and leaned back in his leather-bound chair. Withdrawing a small pocketknife, he severed the string and brushed it nonchalantly to the oak floor. Snapping the papers upright, he began to study the text. George watched in growing suspense as Larry took long drags from his pipe and puffed a set of perfect rings into the still air. It was a trick that still boggled George's mind after seeing his grandfather do it a great many times as a boy. Larry shuffled and reshuffled the papers, his eyebrows raising in surprise, then furrowing in thought. At last, he glanced up and tossed the papers back onto the desk. He didn't say anything.

"Well?" George asked after a few seconds.

"It's. . . an interesting topic," Larry replied. "But I'm not so sure how the public would handle something like this. I'm not even sure what to think of it."

"It's some of the president's deepest, darkest secrets! You know how there's all those myths and rumors about the government. . . this is the real deal!" George jabbed the papers three more times.

Larry stared at him for a few seconds before responding."You know George, you never disappoint me when you walk into this office. You always have a good story that gets people talking. But. . . well, the president's past. . . don't you at least think that's going a little overboard? It isn't something I would want to read first thing in the morning."

"But Larry, it's a great story. People always love something to gossip about!"

Larry turned sideways in his chair and stared intently at the wall. George half expected holes to suddenly burn right through it, the editor's gaze was so intense. Finally, he slowly turned back around, avoiding any eye contact.

"I'll see what I can do."

The next morning, George awoke to loud rapping on the front door to his home. That was odd, usually the paper boys didn't come up to people's houses when delivering the newspaper. The newspaper! He had to see if he made the front page! Scrambling out of bed and nearly tripping over his shoes, he opened the door to the face of a boy who looked to be about fourteen.

"Mr. McCray? Sorry if I woke you, but I have a message from Mr. Dwight. He'd like to speak with you in his office this morning. Anyway, here's your newspaper, sir." The boy handed a thick bundle of newspaper to George and bounded down the steps, tossing newspapers onto other doorsteps.

George walked back into the house and slipped the paper out of the string. He spread it out on the kitchen table and stared in awe at the front page. It read:

Tuesday, September 7, 1895 The Daily Times

PRESIDENT'S DARK PAST REVEALED!

By George McCray

Yes! It made the front page! It was all that George had hoped for. Maybe his life wouldn't completely tumble downhill. After he'd graduated high school, George got a job as a paper boy instead of going to college, which had worked out fine. However, he would often begin to dream of writing his own stories for the newspaper. His curiosity led him to gather many scoops on his own, and this one had to be the greatest yet. Soon, he would be top reporter, and live up to his dream.

George ran his fingers over the neatly printed words-his words-and smiled to himself. Gulping down the remainder of his black coffee, he grabbed his hat and jacket, slipped into his shoes, and headed out the door.

It was a lovely morning, and the sun was shining. The heat of August had all but dissipated, and George wished he hadn't worn his jacket. Well, there's no changing the past! Besides, he was way more interested in hearing what people had to say about his article, and they were talking! Walking down the street he could overhear some people's conversations:

"Tom, you gotta see this." A burly man leaning against a lamppost gestured to another man walking out of a shop.

"Oh, I know it Raymond. That's. . . quite a story there," Tom replied.

George continued walking and came upon two elderly ladies window shopping outside a candy shop.

"Oh, Nell, remember at Christmastime when we would sneak all those peppermint sticks from off the goodie platter and eat 'em all? I sure did love those things."

"Oh yes Millie. That was so long ago, yet I remember it like yesterday. But, oh, if I ate one of those now, I'd probably break off the rest of my teeth! But say, Mildred, you hear that news about the president?" Nell glanced at her friend, whose eyes were still fixed to the peppermints.

"Well, no! Is it something bad?" Mildred turned to look at Nell, wearing an anxious expression.

"Well, I can't say it's not bad. I mean, It got me pretty worried myself when I read it. It was a lot of odd stuff about the president's past. . . Not so sure it's all true, though. Could just be poppycock. . ."

"Oh, it's true all right," George interrupted their conversation. "I'm George McCray, by the way."

Nell furrowed her eyebrows, repeating the name on her lips, until she suddenly looked up in recognition. "Oh, you're the man who wrote the article! I knew the name sounded vaguely familiar. That's quite a story. . . You've really got people talking!"

"Yes, well I appreciate you ladies' interest. I'm off to go speak to the editor myself, so good day to you!" George tipped his hat to them and continued walking down the street.

"Oh, such a kind young lad. Reminds me of a young man I once knew. . ." Nell trailed off as she and Mildred continued walking, stopping to admire the goods on the shelves.

"Well, Larry, what'd I tell ya! This newspaper's going to be bigger than it's ever been!" And so will I, George thought to himself. He was once again standing before Larry's desk in the editing office.

"Oh, people are talking alright. Can't say its all good though." Larry fingered the pipe resting in the corner of his mouth.

"Wait. . . what do you mean?" Could people really be talking bad about his article?

"George, a lot of city folk seem to think that we're up to no good."

"But sir, I was just talking to-"

"And I don't mean everyone, George. Don't take it that way. Some people understand it for what you intended. But I just. . . I don't. . ." Larry paused, visibly trying to find the right words. He took out his pipe and suspended it between his thumb and forefinger. "Well, you sure got your amount of fame I suppose." He let out a short chuckle.

"This isn't just about the article is it, Larry?" George could already feel his cheeks go hot. "You think I wrote it because I. . . because I wanted fame?" George suddenly felt weak, somewhat because that was partly true.

"No, no, no, George. . . well, yes I do, but that's nothing that bothers me. All reporters want to be the one with the big scoop. It's how this one will affect the newspaper as a whole that concerns me. Like I said, too many people think you're up to no good. . ."

George jolted awake as a loud thud on the front door brought him out of his dream. It had been a year since he'd walked out of the printing press building. Too many people had not appreciated his work, and he would've been acting in vain writing more articles with that reputation. Rising from his bed, and stepping gingerly over his shoes, he went to retrieve the daily newspaper.

Sitting at the table, sipping black coffee, George read over the headlines. They were all the usual events and occurrences- A Leap Into The Future: Automobiles Take A New Turn!, Robbery On Main Street!, Buy Now While Stocks Last! He sighed, flipped the page, and took another sip of coffee, nearly choking on it as something in a third page column caught his eye.

HELP WANTED

Podunk Times local newspaper needs
writers and editors. Please visit the
editing office if interested.

George was more than interested. This was a golden opportunity for him. It was time he got over being depressed about an incident that happened a year ago, and move on with his life.

Podunk? It was a town that George estimated to be about a few hours away if he traveled by train. For now, he didn't really mind taking the trip to and from the city. Once he earned enough money, he'd look at buying a house in the town. George didn't like the idea of moving, but if it meant work, it was well worth it. Especially if he could once again write for a newspaper.

George looked up when he heard the train whistle blow long and hollow. Smiling to himself, he confirmed that he would make the journey to Podunk first thing the next morning.

The train station was a madhouse as George awaited the train's arrival. He was thankful that he'd decided to get up extra early so he could avoid the mile-long lines at the ticket booths. However, there was no avoiding the pushy attitudes of many rude, impatient city folk. It was all hustle and bustle these days.

After being pushed aside without so much as an "excuse me, sir," for about the twentieth time, George could finally see the puffs of smoke billowing from the train. The huge locomotive chugged slowly into the station, screeched to a stop, and whooshed out steam. Men hopped out of the coaches and held doors open for the passengers, taking everyone's tickets.

Clutching his brown leather briefcase, George made his way to the nearest door, and after handing his ticket over, leaped up the steps into the coach. Scanning the maroon, leather booths for an open seat, he finally spotted one towards the back. A middle-aged man reading a book occupied the seat next to the window, however, the space beside him was empty. George made his way toward him.

"Pardon me, sir, but is it okay if I sit here?" George asked as the man looked up from his volume. He grunted and made a quick nod, shuffling closer to the window to give George some space.

"Thank you. I'm George," George said, holding out his hand as he sat down next to him.

"Vincent," the man replied, taking George's hand and shaking it firmly. He let go and adjusted his spectacles before turning back to his book.

George debated whether he should start a conversation, but voted not, since Vincent seemed immensely engrossed in that book. George managed to catch a quick glance at the cover, which the bore the title: Anderson's Theories on Psychic Phenomena.

Psychic phenomena? That was sure an odd thing to be interested in. Especially as interested as Vincent appeared to be. He looked like he was at the climax of a murder mystery novel. Weird. Oh, well! He shouldn't be judging other people's interests. If Vincent enjoyed reading about psychic phenomena as a hobby, then so be it.

Suddenly the train lurched forward twice, and the whistle blew loud and clear. They were off! Soon, hopefully, George would begin his new job; his new life. He turned his head to look out the window on the opposite side of the train. As the train left the station, he watched buildings pass by at a growing speed, almost until they all seemed muddled together. Eventually the city thinned out and the countryside brought on a much clearer image. George gazed out at the grass and trees. It was September once again and the grass was long and beginning to take on a golden hue. As tall as the grass was, however, the occasional white head of a Queen Ann's Lace could still be spotted standing tall and confident overhead.

After a while, he became bored of the scenery and focused his attention on the people around him. He watched a cheery little girl with rosy cheeks and black curls play with her doll, which also had black curls. Her brother, who looked about the same age suddenly snatched the doll away and started swinging it back and forth by it's hands.

"Heeeyyy!" The girl whined at her brother. "That's mine!" She reached for the doll, but her brother held it further away.

A woman, whom George assumed to be their mother, scolded them quietly before addressing the boy. "Now, Benjamin, be a gentleman and give the doll back to your sister."

George's eyes wandered to a pair of young women who were comparing their dainty silk handbags, and then to a group of men who were poring over a newspaper, arguing about something in hushed, yet firm voices.

Probably politics, George thought. Losing interest, he turned his head toward the ceiling, letting his mind wander from one thing to the next: Last year's unfortunate incident. Yesterday's fortunate one. This morning's hustle and bustle. Vincent and psychic phenomena. The beautiful, yet plain countryside. The rumbling vibration of the train wheels underfoot. The-

Suddenly Vincent nudged his arm. "Er- George? 'Scuse me, but I gotta use the restroom."

"Oh, no problem!" As George stepped out of the booth to let Vincent out, he noticed Anderson's Theories on Psychic Phenomena lying closed on the seat where Vincent had been. George couldn't help being intrigued. As soon as the other man was out of sight, he sat back down and ran his fingers over the gold lettering inscribed on the green clothbound cover. He lifted the cover just a notch, then stopped. What was he thinking? It was Vincent's book. He shouldn't be nosing around in other people's things. His curiosity got the best of him though, and he flipped the book open to where Vincent had it bookmarked.

It was a section on telepathy, or transfer of messages and thoughts between minds. He flipped a few a few pages backward, towards the beginning. There were the typical wonders of telekinesis and levitation stated as bold headings before a passage of text. George picked up the whole volume and began flipping through the pages, starting from the back.

In the back, headings on more complex phenomena flashed by his eyes. Teleportation, pyrokinesis, psychic healing, psychic shields. . . George was fascinated as the jumble of words and diagrams flashed before his eyes. He jumped suddenly as the door to the restroom creaked open and Vincent stepped out. George quickly closed the book, and set it back down on the seat. He then pretended to be preoccupied with a loose button on his jacket.

When Vincent reached the booth and nudged him, George looked up casually and said, "Oh, pardon me, Vincent, sir," and stepped out of the booth to let him back in.

When George sat down, he caught Vincent stuffing the book into his gray shoulder-bag, slinging the bag over his shoulder. For a second he thought it was because Vincent had caught him sneaking a peek through the book, and was putting it away to keep him from doing it again. However, the conductor announced that they would be pulling into Podunk shortly. He exhaled in relief.

Outside, the scenery hadn't changed much. Trees seemed to be more plentiful, however, as well as gurgling creeks and beds of wildflowers.

The train station in Podunk was much more cheerful than the one in the city. There were small, white cafes and trinket stores alongside the tracks, and colorful baskets of flowers hung from posts on the ceiling overhang. The train screeched to a stop, and everyone stood up, shuffling into the aisle.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Vincent," George said as they stepped off the train.

Vincent tipped his hat to George before mingling with the crowd. George began walking in the opposite direction, when it suddenly occurred to him that he didn't know where he was going. He entered one of the cafes to ask a manager.

The cafe was small, and vacant for the most part. A group of elderly men were seated around a table conversing, and a record player was running in a corner. George strode over to the man at the counter, who looked up when he approached.

"Excuse me, but would you mind telling me where the editing office for the Podunk Times is located?"

"Oh, of course! Once you get off the station here, just head for the square, and it will be one of the corner buildings. Its not too difficult to find. Are you lookin' in to getting a job there?" The manager questioned. "Oh, and I'm Jack by the way."

"I'm George. And yes, I'm hoping to get some sort of job there. I saw the ad in the newspaper."

"Well, I'm glad to hear it. Make sure you stop by often for some coffee. Everyone here knows Jack's is the best! I'm hoping to keep this business up and pass it to my kids, and they can pass it to theirs. That way, anybody ninety years from now can enjoy Jack's top-o-the-line coffee!"

"Alright, I'll make sure of that. And thanks for helping me out." George began walking back to the entrance.

"Oh, its no problem. This town's glad to have you. And I-" Jack cut off as the record player got stuck. It was playing the same few notes over and over again. He shouted to one of the men at the table.

"Benny! Give that thing a kick will ya?"

"Do you want me to help? I can-" George began to offer.

"Oh, no. Don't bother with it. It does this all the time." Jack marched toward the record player.

George nodded and opened the door to leave.

"Good luck!" Jack called as George stepped out of the cafe.

Just as Jack had said, the newspaper building was not very far, and George couldn't wait to get the job. He stopped in front of the building to adjust his jacket, and walked inside.

"Well, good morning sir, how may I help you?" A deep, but friendly voice asked from a front desk. "Ronald Turner," the man said, holding out his hand.

George strode over to the desk. "Good morning to you too. I'm George McCray, and I am hoping to apply for a job in the company. I used to write for a newspaper up in the city, but left that job a while ago. I might plan to move down here where it's a bit quieter, but would like to write for a newspaper again. I saw the ad just yesterday."

"Well, I am so glad to hear that, George, and very pleased to meet you. I must say that I have heard a lot about you, and read some of your articles. You've definitely got talent. This paper needs writers, and since you have had experience with writing in the past, hell, for the city, I would be proud to employ you."

George was astonished. "Oh, but sir, do you need to look at my resume, or-"

"Say nothing. You're hired. All's I need is a good story that will fit the pages. You got the stuff."

"Well, alright. I'll get back to you as soon as possible. And thank you."

"Oh no. Thank you for paying mind to our small trouble. It was truly wonderful for someone to have interest in our little town. You come back with something good, you hear?"

"Oh, yes sir. I will." George shook hands with Ronald once again, not believing how easy that was. This town was either so desperate for newspaper writers, or this was his fate.

He walked out of the building, smiling. Things would start to look up. But what was there to write on? Surely there were things about the economy and such, but he wanted to write something different; special. Something everyone would enjoy reading when they woke up in the morning. Well, he did have all day. He would think of something.

Podunk was such a cheerful town. It seemed that everyone truly cared about one another. Whenever someone asked another person how they were doing, they really did want to know. It was different in the city. Asking someone how they were doing was simply a passive greeting. There were just too many people there, and you could only know so many.

George thought about this as he strolled through town; introducing himself, and getting to know the townsfolk. Podunk appeared to have been brought right out of a storybook. Humble, yet elegant white homes lined the dusty dirt roads. There were markets of fresh produce, and a small school where boys were roughhousing in the dirt, and girls were admiring their dolls on the front steps. At the end of one lane stood a tiny white church. It looked so angelic with it's slender steeple reaching for the blue sky, and the cherry blossom trees rising up on either side.

He was about to turn away, when something else caught his eye. A small, white figure out in the meadow a little ways from town. Whatever could it be? Having become especially curious, George set out for the meadow.

As George drew closer, the figure became clearer. It was, in fact, a young woman. She was dressed in a snow-white gown with an equally white sun hat. Her shiny blonde hair hung in light curls down her back. She was kneeled in front of a bed of bright pink flowers, sketching lightly on a canvas.

"Carnations, am I right?" George inquired as he approached the woman, who looked up, startled. She was very beautiful. Her eyes were a bright, clear blue with long lashes.

"Well, yes. You are correct." She turned away. It seemed like she didn't know quite what to say.

"They were my grandmother's favorite, if I recall," George continued. "That is a very nice picture you're sketching there. Mind if I take a look?"

"Oh, no, I don't mind. But may I ask you your name? I don't believe I've seen you here before," She handed the partially sketched picture to George.

"Oh! Where are my manners? I'm George. George McCray. I'm from the city, but I got a job here for the newspaper. I'm considering moving down here as well." George took a moment to admire the sketch. "My, my, this is marvelous! Where did you ever learn to draw like this? Oh, and may I ask you your name as well?"

"Yes, of course. I'm Maria Caldwell. I've been drawing all my life, and I'd say it's a gift. I especially love to draw flowers, as you can see. Carnations are my absolute favorite. You say they were your grandmother's favorite as well?"

"Oh yes, she had beds of them all around her house. Pink ones, just like those." George gestured to the flowers.

"What about your mother? Did she like them also?"

"My mother. . . she. . . died when I was very young, along with my father. I'm afraid I hardly remember them." George suddenly felt sad. He didn't know anything about his parents, nor had he ever really thought to learn about them.

Maria blushed in embarrassment. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have-"

"No, don't be. It was a long time ago, and- Oh! Speaking of time, I'm going to be late for my train! I'm so sorry, Maria, it was a pleasure meeting you, and I will be seeing you again?" George handed the canvas back to Maria.

"It was a pleasure to meet you as well. I come out to this meadow often, so you might find me here. And. . . well, it's a small town. I'm sure we'll run into each other again." Maria stood up, smoothing her dress.

"Well, have a nice evening." George made a slight bow.

"You too." Maria smiled and curtsied.

On the train ride back, George tried to think about what he should write for the newspaper. However, his mind kept wandering back to Maria. There was something about her that George truly admired. He just didn't quite know what it was.

He hadn't encountered Vincent on this trip back. Him and his odd interest in psychic phenomena. George thought that was a good thing, for he might catch himself stealing more glances at the content of the book. What an interesting day. . .

George soon fell asleep, dreaming about Maria in the meadow, sketching a bed of bright pink carnations.

A couple of years passed, and George became more familiar with the people of Podunk. He continued to see Maria, and in the summer of 1899, they were married in the angelic little church surrounded by cherry blossoms. George built them a nice little house a small ways outside of town, and Maria had planted two large beds of carnations out front. The house was very beautiful and welcoming.

As for the newspaper, George was enjoying his new job just as much as the townsfolk were enjoying his writing. He had decided to write a novel on the history of the town up until the present day, with illustrations drawn by his wife, Maria. Everyone would smile and laugh, and sometimes even cry to the events that were happening in the story, as they brought back memories and made people truly appreciate their town's past.

George and Maria had three children. Henry was the oldest by two and a half years. Then came the twins, William and Sophia. Henry had George's dark hair, but his mother's eyes. He was very outgoing and talkative. He would sometimes be a troublemaker at school, deserving extra chores from his parents.

Sophia would smile all the time as a mere infant. She had inherited most of her mother's traits, with blonde hair and long-lashed blue eyes. By the time she was five, Sophia was already acting very ladylike, and would often want to help Maria sew an enormous patchwork quilt. Maria was making it as a family keepsake, which would be passed on from generation to generation.

William was different. He was a near mirror image of George, with dark hair and equally dark eyes. William was very shy, and would almost never smile. While his twin sister, Sophia, was beginning to say words such as 'mama' and 'please', William wouldn't even make a sound. His parents didn't show any concern for a while. After a couple of years, however, when William still would not speak, George and Maria were beginning to wonder if he was physically unable to talk at all. They were considering calling in a doctor, but decided not to. They didn't want to scare William, or force him into speaking. They decided that it was best to just give the boy some time. Mute or not, he was their son, and they loved him.

Life continued to go on peacefully until one day, when an ominous black shadow, like a cloud, settled over the town. A series of strange incidents were beginning to happen. Common household objects such as dishes, pillows, and lamps started flying around; undoubtably terrifying people all over town.

Soon, people began to go missing, causing others to be scared of even leaving home alone. A group of school children who were hiking in the forest vanished as well, and all three of George and Maria's children were included in the group. The news brought tears and panic upon the townspeople, and although George attempted to calm Maria from her sobbing, he, himself, felt just as frightened as she. However, not unlike the previous incident, all of the schoolchildren returned home the next day as if nothing had ever happened. However, something did change in the McCray family.

When all three children were safe and sound back in their home, life proceeded to go on as they had once known. This was until the day that William spoke for the first time. He spoke complete sentences in perfect English. George and Maria, as well as the other two siblings were utterly shocked at first. But soon, they were excited for William, and relieved that he could talk after all. This wasn't the only strange and unexpected event though. One evening, when the family was sitting down for dinner, Sophia accidentally knocked her cup of milk off the table. The milk splashed down onto the wood panels, but the cup never clattered after it. It was, in fact, suspended in midair just above the floor. Everyone had gasped at the sight. Everyone except William, who was staring very intently at the cup as it rose up to the table, and settled back into place in front of the bewildered Sophia.

The first thing that came to George's mind was Vincent's book of psychic phenomena. Although it was years ago, he still remembered flipping through the pages, watching the jumble of bold headings. Could his son really have been using telekinesis on the cup? Did this have anything to do with the children's brief disappearance? Should he be afraid? So many questions were going through George's mind that it was difficult to focus. No, he shouldn't be afraid of William. He was his son. But George was almost positive that this sudden turn of events had everything to do with their disappearance. He decided to ask his kids if they remembered anything at all.

"Henry, I know you have been asked this before, but are you sure that you don't remember anything, anything at all, from the trip up to mountain?" George asked one evening after dinner.

"Well, no, Father. Not anything unusual. All I remember is hiking around in the forest and then coming back. It seemed perfectly normal to me, but when we got back, everyone was crying. I don't understand." Henry began to look stressed and confused.

"Don't worry, Henry, it's okay. Sophia and William don't remember anything either?"

"No, they don't. They kept asking me why you and Mother were crying. Nobody at school remembers. People say that we were gone for an entire night. . . I just don't see how that can be possible. We were only gone for about half an hour."

"It's alright, son, I just want to make sure you're okay." Just like the children, George couldn't understand either. He didn't understand why the children could not remember anything. He didn't understand what was going on with William. He didn't even understand why any of this was happening.

The next morning, the children woke up to an empty house. George and Maria were nowhere to be seen. Trying not to panic, Henry led the younger two to the closest neighbor's house. They cried for their parents, and the entire town prayed for their safety. However, unlike previous incidences, George and Maria did not come back the next day. Or the next. Or the next. An entire two years passed before anyone heard from them again. Then, one day, much to people's surprise, George entered town from the direction of the forest. His hair had become white and his eyes were dull. He did not speak, and wore a very grim expression. The townsfolk were delighted that their long-lost friend had returned, but were shocked at his appearance and his unusual new personality. He stayed in his house, and would often refuse to see anyone who came to visit. Even when close friends came, he would not say anything about where he had been or what had happened. He never spoke about what became of Maria, and the townsfolk never had the hearts to ask him.

George did not return to the Podunk Times. There were times where he would shut himself up in his house, and become immersed in researching cryptic riddles and psychic powers. Other times, he would pack up his things, and leave town on journeys which sometimes lasted for a few weeks, and others a few months. Rumors spread around town about what he did on these 'expeditions,' but as the years passed, they seemed to die down. However, even through the passing times, the townsfolk hadn't forgotten that George's wife, Maria, never did return home.

As the seasons kept changing, so did the little town of Podunk. The town began expanding, larger buildings and schools were built, and a baseball field was added. George and Maria's house was renovated and the carnation beds replanted. Then, there lived George and Maria's great-grandson, along with his mother and younger twin sisters. Together, they carried on happy, peaceful lives, as the townsfolk once had.

However, in the summer of 1988, the black cloud settled once again above the town of Podunk, which begins yet another story. . .