Mandy Blake was a restless sort, always thinking that the place over the next hill was going to be better than the last. After a couple of months in a town or a city, something always happened to make her unhappy with where she was; so she moved on. One hot midsummer day, her wanderings took her to the village of Woodstock in the Hudson Valley. It was a pleasant tourist town, with little souvenir shops, art galleries, antique emporiums and used book stores. It had gained notoriety because of the two Woodstock festivals that had occurred in the area, the famous one in 1969, and another twenty-five years later in 1994, but neither of which were actually held in the village. Woodstock had always been an artist colony. In the nineteen sixties and seventies, it overflowed with hippies and flower people.

Mandy was too broke to enjoy it, however. She had not worked for some time and had just enough change in her pocket to spring for a cheeseburger and coke at the local McDonalds. Since it was a pleasant summer day, she brought her lunch to the tiny park-like area in the middle of town. She sat next to an aging hippie and struck up a conversation. She was rewarded with puffs off his joint.

"Tell me," she said, "is there somewhere in this town where I can raise a little bread?"

The old man chuckled. "In Woodstock? No way. If you're looking for work, try one of the new stores in the town of Ulster." He gave her complicated directions about where they were located.

"How for are they from here?"

"About eight or ten miles, give or take."

Mandy's calves were sore. She had walked all the way from the New York Thruway entrance, an all-morning hike. "Too far to go today. I think I'll hang around here."

The old man shook his head, his greasy mane flopping around his shoulders. "You don't wanna do that, girlie. The cops here don't like people sleeping on the grass. And don't do any begging either. Not unless you want to spend a night in the poky."

"Oh crap. Is there anywhere around here I can flop for free?"

The man rubbed his matted beard. "Don't think so, unless you want to sleep in some farmer's barn." He took a long last puff on the maryjane, scorching his finger. "Wait a minute. Up the hill about a mile is an abandoned mansion. You could probably sneak in there."

Mandy hefted her backpack onto her shoulders. "Which way?"

"Up the county road. You'll know the entrance cause it's got a friggin' broken iron gate." He pointed.

"It's clouding up. Guess I'll head up there before the rain starts."

"One thing though. Some say the old place is haunted. Terrible things happened there before the owners left."

Mandy grinned. "Ghosts don't bother me none. It's the stinking pigs I don't like."

"Okay then. But don't say I didn't warn you. I've heard terrible stories about that place."

"Maybe you can tell them to me, someday. Well, I'd better get trucking."

They shook hands, and Mandy trudged up the road the old man had pointed out.

By the time Mandy reached the broken iron gate, she was cursing the old man. "That friggin' dude forgot to tell me that the road was all uphill," she mumbled under her breath. She turned in by the broken gate and groaned. Ahead was a long dirt road driveway. It ran up a high wooded hill. Also, the weather had worsened. A large storm was brewing. Black clouds, like ebony mountains, rose along the ridge line within which streaks of lightning flashed, followed by the distant rumbles of thunder. Mandy pulled her collar up as the air became wild and tumultuous. A couple of large drops fell upon her head, forerunners of the cascade to come.

She hurried up the hill. At the top, the house came into view, a bleak and decaying Victorian mansion. It was an impressive building. with wings and towers and porches and artistically carved gingerbread everywhere. It had to have at least a hundred rooms. For a few moments, Mandy gazed with wonder at it. She could see that It had been modified many times. The foundation and the left side of the main house were constructed of cut stone, gray granite and bluestone. The entrance was of Georgian architecture popular in mid-eighteenth century. The wings, copper roof, towers and gingerbread were pure Victorian.

The wind picked up and howled through the rotten edifice. Mandy jogged quickly toward it, knowing that the rain would start any moment. As she reached the porch, a great crash of thunder and simultaneous lightning made her flinch. She hesitated, as she recalled every horror movie she had ever seen, where old mansions groaned and moaned while chains clanked, strange faces peered from windows, and the walls dripped with blood. Gathering her courage she creaked open the rotted door and entered the dark foyer.

She raised her lighter to gaze around. It was the quintessential rich man's palace, beautiful oak paneling everywhere, but darkly streaked with mold where leaks had run down the walls. Large webs hung from the enormous chandelier chained to the three story high domed ceiling. In the center of the room was a theatre-sized staircase with broken balusters and railings. Thick dust lay on the once highly polished parquet floor. To one side were double doors and a hallway.

Mandy retched as the stench of dead things and rot reached her nostrils. She looked around for rats.

Outdoors the storm hit with a vengeance. The wind screeched and howled like the hideous laughter of a psychotic ax murderer. A hard rain battered the walls with hammer blows and dripped through the leaky roof.

Shivering from drafts that blew through the structure and the workings of her imagination, Mandy cautiously explored the building. The first room she entered had been a sitting room. The furniture was covered with dusty sheets. Another room was once a library with empty shelves, although a few volumes remained.

She yawned. It had been a long day. She crept up the broken threads of the stairway to the floor above. Halfway up, she brushed away a great sticky cobweb that clung to her face and arms. She crept along the corridor on the second floor. As she tried doors, the eyes of long dead people stared from portraits hung in the hallway. Finally she found a room with an abandoned four-poster bed. Although the bedding was a stained mattress, at this point in her life it seemed the height of luxury.

A shudder banged, startling her so that she jumped. She ran to the window, getting soaked as she slammed the shutter closed and drew the dark, heavy drapes. She rummaged around until she found the butt of a candle in a holder in a drawer of a battered desk. She had found an empty crate downstairs in the kitchen, which she used for a night stand. She placed the lighted candle on this, sat on the edge of the bed and took out a half of a candy bar from her jacket.

After she consumed this sparse dinner, she felt sweaty from the heat and humidity and stripped to her undies. She left on a hunting knife she had strapped on one calf for protection and laid back with her rolled up jeans as pillow and her denim jacket as a blanket. Although the mansion was frightening and the storm raged, she was so exhausted from walking all day in the heat and humidity that she soon fell asleep.

Some time later she was awakened by the crash and flash of a near lightning strike. As she turned around to go back to sleep, she felt a presence as though someone was in the room with her. She sat straight up and unsheathed her knife. She listened carefully, but heard nothing. She searched the pockets of her jeans for her lighter and lit the candle, which she held it high. She saw nothing. Nonetheless, she still had the odd feeling that someone was in the room. She put the candle down and hugged herself. She felt chilled and donned her clothing except for her sneakers.

Afterwards she tossed and turned and could no longer sleep. The storm was at its fiercest. The whole mansion trembled with the wind, and crashes of thunder and lightning were almost continuous. She worried that the ancient house would succumb to those terrible gusts. Finally, she sat at the edge of the bed and stared around.

In one particularly dark corner something seemed to move. She held the candle higher, but again saw nothing. As she approached the corner, a low moan issued from it. The hairs on the back of her neck rose. "There are no such things as ghosts," she whispered. She did not convince herself. She halted and waited to see whether she would hear the sound again. A flash of lightning lit up the room, followed by a rumble of thunder. Nonetheless, the corner remained dark as ever. Afterwards, she smelled the stench of death and decay.

Mandy stood frozen indecisively. Finally, a hollow woman's voice said, "Beware. He wants your blood."

Shocked, Mandy cried, "Who? Who wants my blood?"

"The undead one."

"Where is he?"

"Near."

Suddenly the presence Mandy felt previously was gone. She shuddered. She realized that she had an encounter with a real ghost. What was worse, the ghost had warned her of a menace, someone who wanted her blood.

She wondered what she should do. Although the most prudent thing to do was to leave the mansion, she dreaded going out into the raging storm. She retrieved a pack of cigarettes from her backpack, lit a cigarette from the candle and smoked while she decided what to do. She withdrew the small cross from between her breasts so that it lay outside her blouse on her ample chest and hoped that it would provide protection if there really was a vampire.

She smoked and shivered for a while. There no possibility of sleep any more. She decided to explore the house. Her stomach growled. Perhaps the previous owners left something in the kitchen that was not moldy or spoiled. She took her lone candle out in the hall. After she took two steps, she heard heavy footsteps on the steps. She ducked back into the bedroom, stood behind the ajar door and peeked out into the hallway.

A huge giant of a man, taller than a basketball player but broad in the shoulders, appeared at the head of the stairs. It was too dark to see his face. He held a flashlight, which he swung around as though searching for something--or someone. Mandy thought, He must have heard me up here. She felt faint from fright as she wondered whether he was the vampire or an ax murderer.

She backed slowly into the room, blew out the candle and stood with her back against the wall next to the door. The man's heavy footfall came closer, and the door swung open. He entered the room and swung the light from his torch from side to side. Mandy tried to sink into the wall in back of the open door. She shifted the candle to her left hand and slid her knife out of its sheath.

The light from the torch fell on her backpack, which leaned against the bedpost. The enormous man growled, "And who does this belong to?" With sudden swiftness, he spun about and slammed the door shut. The flashlight glared into Mandy's eyes.

"Who are you?" he cried. "What are you doing here?" His voice was deep and odd.

Mandy's voice trembled. "I-I thought this place was abandoned. I just wanted a place to spend the night."

The man laughed. "That was a big mistake." He shifted the light away from Mandy's face and shown it on his own. It was ugly and full of scars. His skin was gray, like a dead person's. "Let me introduce myself. I call myself Victor Legion. But you would probably know me better as 'the Frankenstein monster.'

The convention hall in Chicago was crowded, noisy and smoke filled as delegates, media reporters and supporters milled about. This was to be the night that the Patriot Party crowned their choice for president of the United States. There was great national interest in this third party candidate. The man chosen had great charisma and leadership qualities. Many felt that the Patriots had a slim chance of capturing the white house against the Democrat and Republican contenders, who were lackluster and who had each been touched by scandal.

The acting chairman banged on the podium with his gavel several times and yelled over the microphone, "Will everyone return to their seats, please."

There was a great shuffling of chairs. Finally, people settled into their places, and the noise subsided. The crowd gazed at the chairman in anticipation.

"At this time, I'd like to introduce our candidate and next president of the United States, Nicholas Bongiglio."

A great roar went up as Bongiglio strolled onto the stage from the wings. The crowd rose to its feet, stomped, clapped, yelled and whistled. Red, white and blue balloon were dropped from the ceiling. The applause was thunderous and continued for several minutes.

Finally, the candidate held up his hand for silence. The uproar went on for a couple of minutes more and finally died down.

Nicholas Bongiglio was handsome man with curly dark hair. He had the appearance of a man of thirty-five. Only his parents, Tom and Bridget, knew his actual age, which would have astounded the public had it become known. To keep his true age a secret, a false birth certificate had been created. Nonetheless, he was considered one of the youngest men ever to run for the highest office of the land.

After short pause to ensure that he had everyone's attention, Bongiglio began his acceptance speech. "Friends and supporters, I wish to thank you for this great honor. I promise to do my best to live up to your faith in me. I would also like to especially thank at this time The Children of Aquarius for their support and help throughout. Without them, I'm sure my nomination would be simply that of a Don Quixote flaying at windmills. With their help, I'm sure we can win in November. I applaud them."

Another great uproar came from the crowd. Two women, who were priestesses of The Children of Aquarius and represented them at the convention, stood and bowed. They were applauded almost as loudly and long as the candidate himself.

Bongiglio continued, "If I am successful and am elected President of the United States, I vow to uphold the sacred tenets of The Children. These are respect for humanity, the environment, truth, faithfulness and the principles of science. I pledge to fight corruption in government, to do my utmost to bring lasting peace to the world, to bring security and prosperity to every citizen of the United States regardless of race, ethnic background, religion or sexual preference, and to eliminate poverty and crime. You all know my stands on education, taxation and universal health care. Some say that I'm an idealist. That the reforms and programs that I propose are not feasible politically nor financially. To those, I say, Perhaps they are not, but they will never be achieved unless someone at least fights to achieve them...."

He continued on in this vain for some time, pausing to accept the applause of his audience whenever he made a statement that they especially approved of. It was not a long speech, but it had the crowd roaring their enchantment with the man and his program.

After the applause died down, he raised his arms and cried, "Now, let's work like hell to win this election." This brought out another roar that rocked the stadium. More balloons and ribbons were dropped from the ceiling. Finally, Bongiglio walked off the platform to shake hands with politicians, businessmen, labor leaders, Aquariun priestesses and other supporters. His aides and bodyguards whisked him out a back door into the alley behind the arena toward his waiting limousine.

Before entering it, however, he whispered, "Hold up a minute. There's one more person, I need to thank." He walked into the shadows of the alley. When his security people tried to follow, he ordered them to stay away.

Deep in the shadows stood a woman. As he approached, she said, "How did it go, Nicky?"

"Splendidly. You're a prophet. Do you really believe I have a chance of winning this election?"

The woman, who was very beautiful, with dark red hair, smiled benevolently. There was something unearthly about her. She seemed to exude power and mystery by her presence. Her large dark eyes seemed to see into a person's mind. She replied, "Not only will you win the election, but you will go on to even greater heights."

"Greater heights than becoming the President of the United States? How can that be? What greater honor can a man achieve?"

"Ultimate power. You'll see." She backed further into the shadows. "Just be true to your progenitor and follow my advise, and thing will go well for you, My Prince."

Bongiglio had to smile at the title, as though he were the son of a king. "I will to the best of my abilities."

"Which are considerable, as you well know."

"Yes. But I feel that I must use those powers judicially."

"Of course. Well, goodnight, Nicholas."

"Goodnight, Morgaine."

The woman vanish into the blackness, and Bongiglio returned to the limousine.

But who was this man, Nicholas Bongiglio, really? Eight years previously, his mother, Bridget Bongiglio, and her husband, Tom, lived temporarily at Moonwood, the abandoned mansion where Mandy encountered Victor Legion. Tom Bongiglio was a hard working twenty-five year old building contractor. He had been living with his fiancé, Bridget Ryan, for two years, a girl he met in college. Their marriage plans were disrupted when he quit college to take over his father's construction business.

Bridget Ryan was twenty-four, Irish Catholic and devoted to her religion. Sometimes, she chided Tom about his lack of spirituality. On the other hand, he kidded her about her belief in astrology and the paranormal. She worked for Tom as bookkeeper, secretary, sometime forelady, saleswoman, and so forth. From time to time she did every job in the construction business except the actual carpentry. Because she had taken course in interior decorating in college, she helped Tom in that area when called upon. In addition she was a unabashed optimist, pleasant and good humored, which helped when dealing with customers.

Nonetheless, at the time Tom's construction business was not doing well. As a result, the couple jumped at the chance to renovate Michael and Melody Ellul's old mansion, Moonwood. Because Moonwood was located in upstate New York, they moved into the mansion while the work was being done. During their stay, evil assaulted them at every term. It began when they heard rumors that the Ellul's practiced witchcraft. As a result Bridget visited a local psychic. A bad mistake. The seer was Morgaine, the demon witch. Soon afterwards, she seduced Tom. After many other mysterious and terrible events, Morgaine has a vampire steal Melody's blood which she mixes with Tom's semen to produce a homunculus. The demon Asmodeus sends his spirit into the evil creature and rapes Bridget. Morgaine casts a spell to make Bridget and Tom forget all the horror that happened to them.

The child conceived by the coupling of Bridget and the homunculus was Nicholas Bongiglio.

Bridget's pregnancy was strange. For one thing, it lasted only three months. During the second month, she had begun to show.

Doctor Lambert said, "I'm afraid you're further along than you thought, young lady. From the size of the fetus, I'd say that you've been pregnant at least four months."

"Really? I don't know how that could be. I had a period two months ago, and I just started morning sickness."

Lambert shrugged. "Look at the ultrasound."

Bridget and Tom stared at the screen. They saw that the fetus had arms and legs and eyes. Tom pointed at something on the screen. "Does that mean that it's a boy?"

Lambert studied the fuzzy image for a moment and laughed. "That's not what you're thinking. It's a tail."

"A tail? Our child will be normal won't it?"

"Oh yes. At this stage, it's normal for some fetus's to still have tails."

Bridget said, "With those two little bumps on its head, it looks like a little devil."

"It probably will be if it takes after me," Tom said, laughing.

Lambert gazed at the bumps with a puzzled expression. "I didn't notice those before."

By Bridget's third month, her belly and breasts had swollen so that she appeared to be in her third trimester. About this time she heard voices in her head. One day she while she watched a soap opera, someone cried, "Mama."

She peered around. No one was in the room. She decided that it must have been one of the characters in the show. But someone calling "Mama" did not make any sense in the context of the scene. A few minutes later, the same child's voice cried, "Mama, I'm hungry. You must eat."

She turned off the TV. Again there was that plaintive cry, "Mama, feed me." She realized then that there was no actual sound. The voice was in her head.

"Jesus and Mary, my hormones must be all out whack. I'm having hallucinations."

"No Mama. You're not going crazy. It's me." At that moment the fetus thumped against the stretched skin of her belly as if to indicate that it was who was talking to her.

Is this possible? she thought. Could my baby really be speaking to me telepathically?

"Please eat something, Mama."

There was that plea again. Although she did feel especially hungry herself, she went into the kitchen and made a sandwich and poured a glass of milk. After she finished eating, the child spoke to her again. "Mama, I feel better now."

Bridget decided that if she was going nuts, she may as well go all the way. She looked down at her stomach and said, "How is it that you can talk to me? Babies aren't supposed to be able to do that."

"But I'm a special child. My father is a powerful entity."

"Tom, powerful?"

"Not Tom. My real father."

Bridget became concerned. She did not like the turn of the conversation. "What do you mean? Who is your real father?"

"A being of another world."

"You mean like an angel?"

"Sort of."