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    The Stone Collector
    The Stone Collector
    The Stone Collector
    Ebook104 pages1 hour

    The Stone Collector

    By M.R. Williamson

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    About this ebook

    Billy Joe Willis had spent most of his young life trying to find the normality others seemed to enjoy. Being a Native American raised in a Catholic orphanage did little to help the young Shoshone in that direction. Upon his eighteenth birthday, however, he found a place to fit in- The United States Army. And then came Vietnam.

    But this young man never knew ‘normality’ could have so many faces. After a serious wound left him dependent on a pain killer, he turned to Lin Son, the girl he fell in love with at Camp Holloway. With the Son family’s help, the addiction was overcome. But the Viet Kong were a more deadly threat. The raids on Lin’s little fishing village claimed her, her grandfather, and several of the other villagers.

    BJ’s wound earned him an honorable discharge enabling him to return to Tipton County, Tennessee and purchase an old country home. Working feverishly, he was finally able to send for Lin’s parents. With them, however, came another--one that could not be seen, An Son.
    Being a Shaman, An Son had the power to move between the world of the dead and the one BJ lived in. Saving and helping lost souls to move on was the grandfather’s business now, but he needed help, one who was living. Little did BJ know that he was about to fight again. But this time, the enemy was much more powerful than the Communists.

    War and Horror and Home tangle into a chilling tale in THE STONE COLLECTOR by M. R. Williamson. From Pro Se Productions.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPro Se Press
    Release dateNov 30, 2016
    ISBN9781370729920
    The Stone Collector

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      Book preview

      The Stone Collector - M.R. Williamson

      THE STONE COLLECTOR

      By

      M.R. Williamson

      Published by Pro Se Press at Smashwords

      THE STONE COLLECTOR

      A Pro Se Productions Publication

      All rights reserved under U.S. and International copyright law. This book is licensed only for the private use of the purchaser. May not be copied, scanned, digitally reproduced, or printed for re-sale, may not be uploaded on shareware or free sites, or used in any other manner without the express written permission of the author and/or publisher. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

      Written by M.R. Williamson

      Editing by Tara Dugan & Kristi King-Morgan

      Cover by Percival Constantine

      Book Design by Marzia Marina

      www.prose-press.com

      THE STONE COLLECTOR

      Copyright © 2016 M.R. Williamson

      Table of Contents

      Part One Coin for the Boatman

      Part Two Night Visions

      Part Three Ginger and the Demon

      Part Four Doppelganger

      ABOUT THE AUTHOR

      Part One

      Coin for the Boatman

      Billy Joe Willis lay barely inside the ten foot elephant grass, gazing out across a slow-moving river and into the darkness beyond. To say it was hot was laughable. No breeze, mosquitos grandma, hard to breathe, and sweating bullets would have only begun to describe what it was like. But August was always hot in Vietnam for the young, Army sergeant, especially for Native American born in Tennessee. But this dream was not at all like the other P. T. S. D. dreams. This time, he couldn’t recognize the place at all and he had not the first clue as to where he was.

      Somewhere near Camp Holloway.

      Hearing a slight splash of water, he pulled his M-16 more in front of him and searched the darkness once again.

      Suddenly, he spotted what he was looking for—a slight glint of moonlight from a wet boat paddle.

      Here we go again, he grumbled, thumbing the safety off his rifle.

      Feeling something scoot up close to his left side, brought a quick grin to BJ, a fellow who really needed one. He didn’t have to look. The big German Shepherd always came up on his left side so as not to get in the way of the 16’s hot casings. The bomb-sniffing companion and friend lay silently, listening for BJ’s voice.

      The young sergeant slowly reached back and found the cold nose and broad head of the bomb-sniffing corporal. We ‘hide’, Spike.

      The word 'hide' wasn't unfamiliar for Spike at all. He knew something was about to happen, and usually did.

      I don’t know why we’re here, fella, whispered BJ. All of my other dreams of this place were filled with horrible memories and dying friends. I knew exactly where I was every time. But . . . I have no memory of this weird place--no breeze, a sky without stars, and a river that looks as black as the coffee I had this morning. He glanced back at the waiting K-9. At least it’s better than where we caught that live trip wire on the Hanoi Road. You wouldn’t want to die that way again, would you?

      Spike made not a sound. His eyes remained glued to something out on the water in the darkness. Something was indeed out there and BJ knew his friend was looking right at it.

      Ahhh, there it is, boy. BJ kept his voice low. One small boat and two people. They don’t look like Congs to me, but they’re coming right for us.

      When the small craft drew nearer, BJ noticed the floppy, jungle hat on the one in the back, doing the paddling.

      An Son? He wiped his eyes. But he’s dead. Glancing back at the Shepherd, he added, Sorry. No disrespect intended.

      Closer and closer the small craft came toward the hidden duo. With An Son being at least seventy, the young sergeant could only wonder about his purpose and who was in the front of the boat.

      A woman or a child perhaps. After all, the figure is smaller than the old Grandfather’s.

      The small craft nosed into the knee-high grass of the river bank, prompting the one paddling to step out of the boat and into the water. Glancing toward the two hiding in the grass not twenty feet away, An Son pushed the boat and its passenger well upon the bank.

      A woman? BJ's voice at a whisper as he pushed himself to his knees.

      Come. The old man spoke softly as he extended his hand to the one still in the boat.

      The figure immediately took his hand and stepped out onto the grassy bank. She had no possessions at all--neither a clothes bag nor food sack.

      Na Hat, said the old man softly.

      The woman looked at the old man, and then toward where he was gazing--right at the two in the grass.

      Na Hat had always been the old one’s nickname for BJ. It meant ‘bringer to long life.’ That had always puzzled him, but he never sought an explanation from the one everybody called ‘The Grandfather.’

      How did he know we were here? grumbled BJ. He glanced back at Spike. Go to him, boy.

      Without the slightest hesitation, the big Shepherd sprang from the grass and ran straight for the old man.

      Ahhh, Han Ly, spoke the old fellow loudly. He knelt in the grass and hugged the young Shepherd.

      The old one knew the love the big, tan and black dog had for his master, so he named him ‘Han Ly’. It meant faithful lion.

      Glancing up and down the riverbank, the big, Shoshone stood and walked toward the three near the boat. Augh, Grandfather, he scolded, you must stop wearing those dammed, black pajamas.

      Tut-tut-tut. The old fellow raised his right index finger. Do not cuss, Na Hat. The people should look up to you. Glancing back across the black water of the river, he added, The threat here is not from the Viet Cong. But the evil they are trying to bring is upon us. The old man struggled to his feet, walked the short distance to BJ, and then hugged him. Stepping back a little, he added, I appreciate your willingness to come. I thought with the death of my daughter, and you being sent home for your injuries, you would not remember us again.

      BJ lowered his eyes to the grass at The Grandfather’s feet. When Lin was killed, I lost more than just a good part of my heart. I lost my way. But you and your family saved me from the opium that not only took away my pain, but tried to steal my soul. Lin had not only become a part of me, but a good part of my heart as well.

      The old man looked up at the gentle giant before him. Almost seven feet tall and a good two hundred and forty-five pounds, the Native American’s long, black hair glistened in the moonlight as he looked down at the old fellow.

      An Son reached up with a gentle hand and placed it upon BJ’s chest. "You must overcome this, my son. Lin’s people are counting on you. After death of Lin, the Cong’s grip tightened upon our little village. He looked back at the river as he continued. This place used to be bright and alive. Now, the clouds and stars can scarcely be seen, the air is still and damp, and the water has grown dark and sullen. It is trapping our souls here like a little birds in cage."

      Looking behind him, An Son motioned for the one close to the boat to come. In quick, short steps, she hurried to his left side, stopped, and then looked up at BJ. The woman, being small of stature and graying hair, looked almost frail. She appeared to be well into her seventies. The lines upon her face attested to a life of hard work, harder times, and much disappointment.

      Removing her big-brimmed hat, the old man

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