Should I Continue Writing This Book?

 Chapter One

My writing method is a bit weird. I don't write notes on the timeline, plot, or characters. Usually, something triggers an idea in my mind, and I let my imagination do the rest. 

I start writing and think of the next 4-5 steps ahead. Later, I go back and change or add something, but usually the story flows pretty smoothly as I progress with the chapters.

Although I just finished writing chapter one, this will not be the final version. As the story flows, I might go back to rewrite parts of it.

Let me know what you think

Did the beginning of the story catch your attention? 

Does this chapter promise you a story you'd like to read as a full novel?

Chapter One

The heavy oak door of the Historical Archives groaned in protest as Jayden pushed it open, the cool air a stark contrast to the bustling Budapest street outside. Sunlight filtered through stained-glass windows depicting scenes of Hungarian conquest and artistry, casting a web of colors across the polished marble floor. He’d been there before, years ago, a wide-eyed archaeological student tracing his ancestral footsteps. Now, as a recognized archaeologist and full-time employee, he was there with a purpose, a singular, all-consuming mission that had driven him across an ocean to discover his heritage. On his first day on the job, he was punctual and even switched from his usual T-shirt and faded jeans to a not-so-neatly-ironed shirt and trousers. His thick, brown hair was tied with a rubber band, and face neatly shaved, he was looking forward to meeting Dr. Molnar, a great source of the history of the Hunnic Empire.

His gaze swept across the grand hall, a silent testament to centuries of history. Busts of stern-faced monarchs and stoic generals lined the walls, their marble eyes seeming to judge his youthful ambition. Jayden adjusted the strap of his worn leather satchel that contained all his scribbled notes, digitized maps, and photocopied ancient texts. He was searching for a needle in a haystack; a burial site lost to time but whispered about in hushed tones and dismissed by most as folklore. Attila the Hun’s final resting place.

He approached the information desk, a polished mahogany behemoth manned by a woman with a stern expression, hair pulled back in a severe bun. “Excuse me,” Jayden began, his voice a little too loud in the solemn quiet. “I’m a new employee, and I’m supposed to report to Dr. Molnar.”

The woman blinked, her expression unreadable. “Third floor.” Her tone was flat and efficient.

Jayden offered a polite nod.

Dr. Andras Molnar, a renowned, though eccentric, historian who had supposedly dedicated his later years to the very subject Jayden was now obsessed with. Molnar’s published works were sparse, but the few he had written hinted at a deep, intuitive understanding of the Huns. Jayden had managed to secure a position in his department, a lifeline in his otherwise solitary research.

He navigated the echoing corridors, the sheer volume of artifacts overwhelming. Armoires, weaponry, ornate jewelry, each piece a silent story, a fragment of a life lived long ago. He found the stairs and ascended, the air growing slightly warmer, the scent of old paper and dust more prominent. The third floor was quiet. Display cases and shelves held pottery shards, faded textiles, and arrowheads, each meticulously labelled with dates and origin.

The door was wide open to Dr. Molnar’s office. Jayden peeked in and scanned the cramped room overflowing with books. Piles of academic journals teetered precariously on shelves that sagged under their weight. Jayden knocked.

No answer. He knocked again, a little louder.

He heard a muffled cough, then the shuffle of papers. A woman in her late twenties stood up, her dark hair pulled back into a messy bun that seemed to defy gravity. She wore a practical, slightly paint-splattered linen shirt and sensible slacks, her hands stained with what looked like ink. Her eyes, a startling shade of intelligent green, widened slightly.

“Yes?” she asked, her voice a warm alto, laced with a hint of weariness.

Jayden felt a momentary pang of disappointment. This wasn’t Dr. Molnar. “I’m sorry,” he stammered, “I’m looking for Dr. Andras Molnar. I had been hired by him and…”

The woman offered a small, apologetic smile. “Oh, Jayden Marlow. Dr. Molnar told me you’re starting today, but he’s… not in… today is the third day he didn’t show up, which is highly unusual.” She smiled politely. “I’m Anna Novak. I’m his research assistant.”

Jayden’s shoulders slightly sagged, feeling disappointed. He’d counted so much on this meeting. “Nice to meet you, Miss Novak.” he extended a hand.

Anna’s grip was firm, her touch surprisingly cool, her gaze sharp, appraising. “Dr. Molnar said you’ve signed a full-year contract with us to extend your research.”

“Yes,” Jayden replied, trying to read her expression. He hesitated, then decided to take a chance. “I’m particularly interested in the Hunnic period. Specifically… the potential location of Attila’s burial site.”

Anna’s eyebrows shot up, a flicker of genuine surprise replacing the weariness in her eyes. She leaned against the desk, crossing her arms. “Attila’s burial site,” she mused, a faint smile playing on her lips. “A classic. The Huns were a bit… more elusive than leaving clear written records behind.”

“More elusive, perhaps,” Jayden conceded, stepping further into the cluttered office, drawn by her intelligent curiosity. “But that’s precisely what makes it so compelling. The legends, the lack of concrete evidence… it all points to something deliberately hidden.”

Anna’s gaze shifted from his face to a worn leather satchel on his shoulder. “Deliberately hidden,” she echoed, her voice thoughtful. “And what makes you think it’s here, in the archives, rather than somewhere in the Great Plains of Hungary, or even further east?”

Jayden gestured toward a stack of books near her desk. “Dr. Molnar’s work. His theories on the strategic significance of river systems, the migratory patterns… he seemed to hint at a more complex geographical puzzle than most have considered.”

Anna’s smile widened, a genuine spark igniting in her green eyes. “Ah, his ‘river of gold’ theory. He was always fascinated by the union of natural waterways. I assume you’ve read all his books.”

“Obsessively,” Jayden admitted, a flush creeping up his neck. He felt a sudden surge of validation, that someone else understood the depth of his interest, the intellectual current that had pulled him here.

“Obsessively is good,” Anna said, her tone laced with amusement. “He would appreciate that. He believed the key wasn’t just in the texts, but in the nuances of language, the forgotten dialects, the coded messages left on everyday items by those who sought to protect their secrets.”

She pushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear as Jayden watched her, intrigued. There was an intensity about her, a sharp focus that mirrored his own. He felt a strange sense of ease, a connection forming in this cluttered space, amidst the ghosts of centuries past.

“That’s going to be your desk.” Anna pointed at the desk buried under stacks of papers and books. “It’s a bit of a mess; I didn’t have time to clean it for you,” she said, with a slight shrug of her shoulders.

“No problem. I’m not really known for my neat working environment.” He laughed. “What are you working on?”

“I’ve been working on cataloging a recent find. A quiver made of leather,” Anna said, her voice shifting to a professional tone. “Mostly unremarkable, until…” She trailed off, her gaze drifting to a long object on a nearby table, covered by a dark cloth, and stood up. “Until I found something etched on the inside.”

Jayden followed her to the table, his archaeologist’s instinct kicking into overdrive. “Etched? What kind of etchings?”

Anna walked over to the table and, with a swift motion, pulled back the cloth, revealing an arrow holder, a quiver. On the hardened leather were faint, almost invisible markings. Jayden squinted, leaning in closer. They were runes dotted with a few archaic symbols he couldn’t immediately place.

“Rovásírás,” Anna said softly, her voice filled with a quiet reverence. “Hungarian runes, mixed with something older, something… else.”

Jayden felt a thrill shoot through him, cold and exhilarating. Rovásírás. He had studied it, though his proficiency was not perfect yet. “Would you mind telling me what it says?”

Anna’s green eyes met his, blazing with excitement. “It’s… fragmented. But some phrases are undeniably significant. ‘The water’s turn,’ it says here.” She pointed to a cluster of symbols. “And then, ‘the serpent’s sleep.’ And a direction… ‘west of the great bend.’”

Jayden’s mind raced, piecing together Anna’s words with Dr. Molnar’s theory and his own research. The Tisza River’s ancient course. The legends of Attila, often associated with water and hidden riches. “The water’s turn…” he murmured, his voice hushed with an emerging realization. “And the serpent’s sleep… a riverbed? A dry riverbed, perhaps?”

Anna nodded, her gaze locked on the etchings. “That’s what I suspect. The ‘great bend’… it could refer to a significant geographical feature. And ‘west of’ it… this is more than just a quiver. Don’t you think?”

Jayden met her gaze. He could feel the weight of years of solitary searching lifting. “I believe,” Jayden said, his voice barely a whisper, “it might be the key. The key to Attila’s resting place.”

He watched Anna’s face, the intensity of her focus, the way her mind was already dissecting the problem, and a feeling of profound hope, a sensation he hadn't allowed himself to entertain for years.

“The challenge now,” Anna was saying, her finger tracing the line of a particularly intricate rune, “is to ascertain which ‘great bend’ and which river. Every river, including the Tisza, has shifted course over time.”

“But the arrow case… it’s dated, isn’t it? Can we narrow down the period?” Jayden asked, his mind already racing through cartographical and historical data he’d meticulously compiled.

Anna nodded, her gaze still on the case. “The craftsmanship suggests a mid-5th-century origin. That places it squarely within Attila’s reign. And the materials, the pigments used to preserve the leather… they’re consistent with burial artifacts from that era.”

“But if it’s a clue to Attila’s tomb,” Jayden pressed, “then it would have been placed with immense care, likely by someone who knew its significance, someone who wanted to protect it. Where was it found?”

“Far from the Tisza River, in the eastern part of the country. An excavation revealed a burial mound, the grave of a Taltos. Every artifact in the chamber beneath the mound was surprisingly well preserved, as you see.”

The wheels in Jayden’s mind were turning furiously. “Dr. Molnar’s work,” he mused aloud, “he talked about how the Huns were masters of deception, of creating phantom armies, of disappearing into the landscape. They wouldn’t leave a direct trail, not for something as sacred as their Great King’s final resting place.”

Anna turned from the display, her expression thoughtful. “Precisely. So, ‘the water’s turn’ and ‘the serpent’s sleep’ could be metaphors, not literal geographical markers. Or perhaps they are literal, but so obscured by time and geological change that only someone with intimate knowledge of the land, and a keen eye for its subtle shifts, could interpret them.” She ran a hand through her dark hair. “It’s a fascinating puzzle. And one that requires more than just deciphering runes. It requires understanding the Hunnic mindset.”

Jayden nodded. “I’ve spent years studying their nomadic strategies, their military tactics, their cultural practices. I have a… a feeling for them. My family is from Hungary, you see. There’s a part of me that’s always felt connected to the past.”

Anna’s eyes softened slightly. “I understand. My own family has deep roots here. We carry the history of centuries in our blood.” She gestured around the cramped office. “This is my world. Trying to make sense of it all. To give a voice to those who have been forgotten by time.”

Jayden felt a surge of admiration for her. “So,” he said, trying to suppress the growing admiration for her, “if we assume the arrow case is genuine, and the clue is encoded, how do we begin to verify the ‘great bend’ and the ‘water’s turn’?”

“We…” Anna acknowledged with a small smile, a question shining in her eyes as she looked at Jayden.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean…” Jayden mumbled. “I assumed we could be working together because…”

“Because we’re both obsessed with the past?” Anna smiled.

“Yes,” Jayden sighed, returning the smile.

“Right. We start with maps,” Anna said decisively, her focus returning to the task at hand. “Ancient maps, geological surveys, satellite imagery of the Tisza basin. We look for anomalies, for river courses that don’t match current topography, for any indication of a significant ancient diversion. And we cross-reference that with any historical accounts of Hunnic presence in those specific regions.”

She began to rummage through the piles of books and papers on her desk, her movements efficient and purposeful.

“Dr. Molnar,” Jayden said, “does he have any specific hypotheses about where this ‘great bend’ might be?”

Anna paused, a thick, leather-bound volume in her hands. “He was always drawn to the region around Szeged. The confluence of the Tisza and the Maros rivers. He believed it was a significant strategic point for the Huns, a place of power and potentially, a place for something hidden.” She tapped the book. “This is one of his unpublished journals. He was working on a comprehensive theory of Attila’s burial. I haven’t fully read it yet, but some passages are… intriguing.”

She placed the journal on her desk, sat down, and rolled her chair to reach her computer. “Let me access the museum’s digital archives. I’ve been comparing his theories with hard cartographical data. It requires a lot of cross-referencing.”

As Anna began to type, her fingers flying across the keyboard, Jayden leaned forward, watching her, a renewed sense of urgency building within him when he noticed a tiny flicker from the corner of her eye. Turning toward the wall where a painting of a nobleman hung in full 16th-century Hungarian attire. He scanned the painting and noticed a dark object at the corner of the frame.

“You know,” Anna said, without looking up from her screen, “Dr. Molnar believed that the Huns deliberately used misdirection. That the legends of vast treasures were partly a lure, to draw attention away from the true hiding place, and partly a warning. ‘Do not seek what is meant to remain hidden,’ he once wrote.”

Jayden turned and walked to the painting, taking a closer look. He pulled off a small, circular device, no larger than a coin. It was sleek, metallic, and utterly alien to his usual archeological tools. A camera. He thought of examining the device.

Anna looked up, her eyes questioning his sudden stillness. “Jayden? What is it?”

Jayden held up the device, his face a mask of striking realization. “Someone had planted this. And they’ve been watching Dr. Molnar and you.” He stared at the device in his palm, then at Anna, her intelligent green eyes now wide with alarm. “I think Dr. Molnar’s absence might be… more than just a coincidence.”

The air in the office, which had moments before been charged with intellectual excitement, now felt thick with suspicion and the cold, metallic tang of betrayal. The whisper of history had become a shout of immediate danger.

Book Excerpt - The Ancestors' Secrets #historical #fiction #magicalrealism

 A healer’s gift, a clan’s curse, and a destiny written across centuries

Ancient secrets. Forbidden powers. A destiny that spans centuries. Ilona’s quiet life as a village doctor unravels when visions and enemies awaken her hidden lineage. From medieval castles to modern battles, she must embrace her clan’s mystical legacy—or risk losing everything.

https://books2read.com/u/bM7GZ8

Dear Diary. What a day! My birthday, especially the afternoon, was all about secrets. Secrets are conducted with or marked by hidden aims or methods. The Snapdragon is a great symbol of secrets; it resembles an open mouth yet doesn’t reveal anything.

I sat on the patio and heard Elza moving about in the kitchen. Ema had locked herself in her studio and Rua wouldn’t come back to the house until dinner time, so I knew I could safely enter my little secret place without being disturbed. I hadn’t visited it for over a decade. I tiptoed into the living room, listening to the sounds, and pulled the corner of the tapestry aside that was covering the wall by the fireplace. I turned the small flower design on the mantel, and when the secret door slowly opened. As soon as I entered the narrow space, the door closed behind me in an instant.

I inched my way through the confining space into a tiny room. Elza always complained about the broom closet being too small, but I knew why. Someone, long ago, divided the closet and turned half of it into a hiding place, or rather, a spy room. I touched the small ottoman that occupied most of the space, then sat down and peeked through the slit hidden in the frame of the huge painting hanging in the living room. I had a complete view of the entire room.

As a child, I had spied on countless meetings and gatherings that Mom had forbidden me to join. I sat there for a while, remembering, but then recalled Mom’s words. I looked around and searched every inch of the room, but found nothing. I was greatly disappointed. Mom said to look, so there must have been something, perhaps a guide or instructions that she left for me to find. I searched, touched the walls, pushed the ottoman aside, and looked under it. I had found nothing, besides dust and my old teddy bear.

As I sat down, I recalled a meeting I saw when I was around the age of six. My parents had asked me to stay in my room, but of course, I didn’t obey. At first, I saw people sitting around, chatting about family and everyday things that didn’t interest me, so I must have dozed off. Suddenly, the rhythmical sound of drums woke me up. I was excited to see the adults sitting in a circle on the carpet. They were holding hands, singing. Later, they started talking about things that didn’t make much sense to me. They said the future was still uncertain, and they were discussing something about a person named Mora. They were infuriated with her, and they said she and Joland could destroy the entire nation with their meddlesome and vengeful ways if they succeed changing the past.

“We have to be very careful with her,” one said, “she’s a conniving and evil person.”

Someone else spoke, “The legend says that her lover was exiled to another timeline, in the past, but he is still alive. They can communicate somehow, and they plan to change the past in order to rule in the future.”

“Does anybody know what she looks like or how we can stop her?” a short, stocky man asked loudly.

“We only know her son, Ond, and I know that he’s trying to worm his way into the higher circles.” My father said his name with such hatred that it scared me. I couldn’t even imagine that my loving and gentle Daddy was capable of hating someone.

“We must be careful with him because he is strong, and he has powerful allies,” a man’s voice echoed.

“Yes, we have to stay on alert, and we have to be careful. We don’t know how much power Mora still has and what kind of abilities Ond possesses.”

I was a child, and I didn’t understand what they were talking about, so it didn’t interest me. Now, I wish I had paid more attention. Deep in thought, I picked up my old teddy bear and absent-mindedly started stroking his soft artificial fur. He was my favorite childhood toy, stuffed to perfect softness.

I fingered my Turul pendant and the soft horsetail string, remembering Midnight. She was a beautiful, black mare with a white, crescent-shaped patch on her forehead. I closed my eyes and imagined her soft lips caressing my face as she neighed softly.

Suddenly, I heard a soft click and saw my pendant open and then felt something running up my chest and sharp pain in my neck. The pain made me jump, and I let out a muted cry. As I touched the skin, I felt warm wetness. Alarmed, I looked at my hand and saw smeared blood glistening on my fingertip. I almost fainted when I noticed that my fingers began to glow as if a bright red light had turned on from the inside. At the same time, I felt something scurrying from the side of my neck toward my chest and heard the soft click again. My pendant was closed. It must have been a bug or a spider. The damned thing bit me! I looked down at my chest and swept my clothes madly, looking for the bug.

A sudden swirling sensation took me by surprise. I grabbed the side of the ottoman to steady myself while everything began to fade around me. Trying to find a focal point to decrease the sudden vertigo, I fixed my eyes on my teddy bear, which I was still holding. I noticed with escalating alarm that the toy’s button eyes took on a strange red glow. The plastic eyes seemed alive, and the intense luminescence kept me frozen. I’m hallucinating, this is not real. I tried to turn away, but I couldn’t move my muscles. I couldn’t even blink. I was scared, never having felt such primal fear before. My heart raced, and my breath came in little puffs as I felt cold beads of sweat on my forehead. Adrenaline flooded my body, triggered by a sudden fright, but I was afraid it might have been some poison from the bite, as well.

The strange sensation and hallucination stopped as quickly as it started. My hands felt and looked normal, and I became rational in an instant. I just sat there, feeling obtuse, wondering what had just happened. The entire sensation lasted only seconds, but it frightened me a great deal, not knowing what caused it.

I came in here hoping to find answers and only found more questions. It made me angry that I didn’t find anything. The only insight I got was being scared out of my mind. I couldn’t sit there anymore. I felt suffocated and had to get out in the open. Just as I lay Teddy on the ottoman, eased the door open, and peered out, a vague feeling pulled me back. I fingered the Turul bird pendant absent-mindedly, feeling its smoothness and warmth.

Then I realized I had searched everywhere but inside the ottoman. I grabbed the seat and tried to pull it up. There was a soft metallic click, and the top opened. Under the seat was a compartment filled with photographs and my old drawings. I smiled when I spotted the bead necklace I had made for Mom when I was six or seven. She saved it. Tears threatened to flood my eyes. I sat there touching the photos of my strong father and my beautiful mother. They were so happy, yet they had to leave me so early.

Suddenly sobs erupted from my chest. Since their abrupt departure, I had never let myself deeply feel the survivor’s guilt and truly mourn. I refused counseling and even refused to talk about how I felt. Everyone tried to get me to open up, but I wouldn’t budge. I knew it was a big mistake, yet I couldn’t bring myself to discuss it, even with Bela. For years, everyone was worried, but I fooled them by pretending to be super-strong. If only they had known... I still wasn’t ready. As usual, I got control over my emotions and diverted my attention to something physical and regained my frail emotional balance.

While I was gathering the items, I found an old VCR tape under the photos. I grabbed everything and rushed out. It just might be the message! I ran upstairs to my room with the treasures and frantically searched for the VCR in the closet I’d saved to watch old tapes. Although most of the tapes had been converted to digital files, I never threw out the old player. I hooked it up and popped the tape in, eagerly waiting for the video to start.

My heart skipped when I saw my mother’s face coming into view. She leaned forward as if she were adjusting the camera. “Hi, sunshine,” she said. The sight of her and the sound of her voice made my stomach queasy and brought tears to my eyes. “You’re watching this tape, so it’s your twenty-ninth birthday, and I’m gone. Don’t cry. It’s okay. I’m not there with you, and I know it’s unfair, but it must be this way. I love you so much. I knew about your hiding place and knew you would find Teddy and this tape. Listen carefully. I will tell you about your birthright...”

The picture turned snowy, and my mother’s face disappeared. The image clicked back, but there was a cartoon playing. “No, please, no!” I shouted, grabbing the remote. I forwarded the tape, but there was only the stupid cartoon. I fast-forwarded to the end of the tape, and Mom came back.

“Your Destiny Box contains all you have to know about our people and your future. Only you have the power to open it. Your father had to hide the box, but your instincts will guide you where to find it when it's time for you to open it. You have a great future ahead of you. Use your powers well and make sure to use them to do good. Never give in to greed or revenge, and remember that those are very powerful temptations. Your father and I are so proud of you. We will love you forever.” She smiled, blew me a kiss, and then she was gone.

Bile rose in my throat, making me nauseous. I had only one chance to find out what this Hunor mystery was about, and I destroyed it. I must have taped that stupid cartoon over my mother’s most important message before she had a chance to put the tape in the ottoman’s compartment. I’ve tried rewinding and forwarding the tape slowly, but I couldn’t see more than what I saw and heard the first time. My anger and disappointment were choking me, but I had to accept that there was nothing I could do.

I noticed that the spot where I felt the bite on my neck was itchy. I went to the bathroom to check. There was a small spot of smeared blood on my skin, and when I wiped it away, I saw a tiny puncture mark. I looked at it closely with a handheld mirror, but I didn’t see a blister; there was no redness, and I didn’t feel any burning sensation.

I reasoned that if it was a bug or spider and the poison had caused that dizziness, it would not have gone away so soon. I would be sick, or there would be some redness or burning. I feel perfectly fine, but what the hell is going on? Where is that “Destiny Box” and why is it important? I may never find out.

I had to get out of the house and do something physical to balance my emotional turmoil and frustration. Gypsy happily joined me as soon as he saw me tying my hiking boots. “Let’s take a walk in the woods, okay, old boy?” Gypsy was wagging his tail, and as always, he was a willing partner for a nice walk.

My beloved waterfall is about half a mile from the house, deep in the woods. I took my cell phone and enough drinking water for both of us in my backpack. The woods in September are beautiful. The leaves had started to change color, and wildflowers were everywhere. Birds chirped happily, bunnies hopped timidly, and chipmunks and squirrels scurried along the ground and up in the trees.

Gypsy walked by my side, his long fur flowing with every step. Occasionally, he mock-chased a rabbit or squirrel for a couple of steps, but it was just a show. He would never hurt another animal. He was a gentle giant, much like Bela, and enjoyed showing that he could if he really wanted to.

“Just a little hike up this path and we’ll be there,” I told Gypsy. He acknowledged it with a sweep of his long tail, and the look in those deep, chocolate eyes told me clearly that he would always be there for me. I patted his head and projected my thoughts to him. I know Gypsy. Somehow it made me feel calmer. Whether it was his influence or I just needed a cool head to think things over, I didn’t know.

Soon, we were there at the foot of the hundred-foot waterfall. It was a breathtaking sight as the sunshine created a misty rainbow over the falling water drops that collected in a small pool. I sat there for an hour or so, just soaking in beauty and serenity, and daydreamed while Gypsy, who wasn’t fascinated by nature’s beauty, took a doggy nap by my side.

I recalled Bela’s kiss, reliving every delicious detail of it. It played repeatedly in my mind, pouring the passionate feeling deep into my heart. What a pity that’s all I had. One second of passion, occasionally, as if I didn’t deserve more. I know I could love him as no other if he would just let me. If he could just love me back. However, he didn’t, and that was that. I had to accept it because I had no choice.

Suddenly, the man I’d seen earlier across the gallery popped into my mind. He could capture my heart. In fact, he had captured my heart... a little, no - a lot. The thought startled me. It wasn’t only his looks, but it had to be some kind of magnetic pull that radiated from him. It was as if he were a comet rushing toward me from the deepest part of the universe. For that one second, when we locked eyes, nothing else mattered. I would have followed him anywhere. Two halves met and made a whole.

Gypsy looked up when I started talking angrily. “Oh, stop it, you fool... Stop this nonsensical daydreaming. You don’t have a chance. Even if, by any minuscule possibility, he was attracted to you, what would you do? Who is he? What is he? You don’t know anything. Yeah, he’s beautiful on the outside, but what is he like on the inside? Anyway, he’s not for you - it doesn’t matter.” I scolded myself and diverted my thoughts onto a different path, so I wouldn’t fall into a deep pit of wondering and wallowing in self-pity.

To get the sensitive issue out of my mind, I recalled the feeling I had that morning, that powerful yearning to heal with my hands. “It’s an unbelievable and far-fetched idea, nothing but a wishful dream,” I chided myself.

However, I recalled Mom doing some strange things when I was a small child. She always shooed me out of the room when strangers came to see her, but I’d seen her touching those people from my hiding place. I remembered her eyes. She was far, far away as if she were in a trance, and after a few minutes, the stranger would stand up, smiling and thanking my mother. I didn’t dare ask what she was doing, because she didn’t know I was watching. Or did she? She told me to look in my hiding place and find the answers I needed. Well, I didn’t find answers, only more questions.

I knew there were some mysterious abilities in my family. I saw what my father did to scare Rua away from the liquor, and I was able to slow time around me. I suspected my mother did something to those people when she touched them. Elza was a witch, in my opinion, but I didn’t have enough facts to be sure.

Since there were no answers, I decided to head in a different direction on the way home and go across the meadow. Nature bloomed rainbow colors in the clearing, and I felt as if I was swimming in the fresh grass and flowers rather than walking. I gathered an armful of flowers before stopping at the monument erected over my parents’ ashes. I’d commissioned the life-sized, dark gray granite statue made of my mother and father embracing, one year after they died. The little clearing in the woods had always been their favorite part of the property.

I sat next to the monument, talking to them for a long time in a strange one-way conversation, “I don’t know if you can hear me or not, but I can feel your presence. I’m all right, but I miss you both so much. I have so many questions... but you can’t answer them - nobody can. I’m going to have to find out on my own, and I will, I promise.”

Gypsy must have wondered why I laughed one second and sobbed the next. He put his huge head on my lap and looked up at me with his brown, gentle eyes. The big dog gave me comfort, and I knew we were connected somehow, on a deep, emotional level. When he got up and rubbed his shoulder on the granite statue, I heard low grumbles from his chest as if he knew my parents’ burial place. He knew, I was sure of it. I stroked his back absent-mindedly.

Suddenly, I felt hot, and beads of sweat started glistening on my skin, all over my exposed body. I pulled up my T-shirt and wiped my forehead that felt as hot as burning coal. I’d never been sick in my entire life. I’d never even had a fever, rash, or tummy aches like other kids. It was just natural for me to be healthy all the time. Now I felt nauseous; my vision blurred as the pounding in my head increased, and I was hot, burning up hot. I stood up and careened a little. I said goodbye to my parents, and as I started walking, Gypsy leaned into me, trying to support me. His eyes were filled with worry as if he knew I felt sick and wanted to help me.

One step at a time, holding onto Gypsy’s back, I staggered. My muscles ached, and my entire body felt as if it contained lead. My vision became blurry, and I felt weak and dizzy. Finally, with the house in view, I stumbled toward it. Gypsy helped me as I struggled up the stairs and made it to the living room, and dropped on the sofa, exhausted, gasping for air. Gypsy gave out a low rumble, and Elza appeared in an instant from the kitchen. She took one look at me, smiled, and rushed back out. Why is she smiling? Can’t she see I’m not well? Anger and hurt welled up inside me. I wondered where the thermometer was, so I could check my temperature. I had no idea because I’d never needed it before. I sat there in a stupor, thinking about getting up and going to bed, but I didn’t have the energy to move.

Elza came back, smiling again. “Let’s get you to bed.” She got a good grip on me, helping me up. It took what seemed like forever to get upstairs, but we made it to my bedroom. Elza helped me out of my boots and clothes and then covered me with a blanket.

“Elza, I have a fever. Would you get a thermometer and some Tylenol? I think a spider bit me and I’m having a delayed reaction to the poison,” I whispered, pondering whether or not to go to the hospital, but I was too tired to think.

“Nonsense! You don’t need any of that. It is all natural,” she said, rushing out of my room. She was back within a few minutes with a steaming cup in her hand, “All you have to do is drink this tea and sleep. That’s all.” Elza held the cup to my lips.

I wanted to argue with her, but I didn’t have the energy. I was very thirsty, and my mouth felt like chalk, so I drank the tea offered and was surprised to find it delicious and soothing. I settled back on my pillow as Elza placed a cool, wet towel on my forehead. It felt wonderful. I closed my eyes, feeling Elza’s soothing hands on my shoulders.

“Will you stay with me?” I asked. My voice was weak and shaky.

“Of course, dear. Now go to sleep,” she whispered.

Do Not read this Book. Seriously!

 If you start reading

you won't be able to stop

 

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0753D2KGN

“Centuries of vengeance awaken—and one woman’s secret power is the only defense.”

Long ago, in a faraway land, the ancestors shaped her destiny. The secretive world of the ancient clan she was born into is filled with mysteries and obscure traditions. Their beliefs are unbeknownst to her, and Ilona resigns to live the simple life of a small-town doctor. But her life goes into a tailspin on her twenty-ninth birthday.

She starts to develop unusual powers, which she finds exciting as well as frightening. She struggles to find answers, but those who try to reveal the clan secrets are severely punished.

A menacing man is following her and wants to kill her. Who is he?

Punished by the ancestors long ago, Mora has waited centuries for the chance to reunite with her beloved Joland and to gain power over the Hunor clan. Revenge has kept her alive for over 1600 years.

Ilona must search for the mysterious Destiny Box that holds a message from her Ancestors while she attempts to sort out her feelings for the men in her life.

She must activate her Chameleon ability and obtain unimaginable powers. The clan Leaders and Elders are worried, knowing that she can use her growing powers for absolute good or absolute evil. But they have no choice, they’re powerless against Mora and must place their trust in Ilona.

With the help of the clan’s Time Bender, her journey will take her back in time to when her people lived as nomads, to the castles of the 14th century, as they struggle to overcome the obstacles in their path due to the evils of Mora.

She must ensure the birth of the Child in the 4th century to save the future of the Hunor Clan.

The First Red Egg and Easter Traditions

 A short fiction story by Erika M Szabo

The First Red Egg

The world was still young when the first red egg appeared. Before calendars, before religion and Easter traditions, when people still listened to messages whispered by nature.

In a quiet village at the edge of a forest, a girl named Milena raised a lame hen in her hut. The bird had deformed legs and couldn’t keep up with the flock. It was an ordinary bird, pale and soft‑feathered, except for its eyes, which glimmered like embers in the sunlight.

One spring morning, after a long winter that had taken more than it gave, Milena found an egg in the straw, a smooth, warm, and impossibly red egg. Not painted. Not stained. Red as fresh clay, red as fresh blood on a pricked finger.

The elders whispered that such a color belonged only to omens.

The children said it must be magic.

Milena simply held it in her hands and felt its warmth as if something was alive inside the shell.

That night, a storm rolled over the village. Lightning split the sky, and the great stone that sealed the old burial mound on the hill cracked open. People feared what might rise from it.

But at dawn, when the storm passed, Milena climbed the hill with the red egg pressed to her chest. She placed it gently in the broken mound.

The moment it touched the stone, the egg cracked. Not with a shatter, but with a sigh. A warm light spilled out, soft and gold, washing over the hill and the village below. The cracked stone settled, and the air was still. Whatever had stirred in the night sank back into peace.

When the light faded, the egg was empty. Only its red shell remained, glowing faintly in the morning sun.

From that day on, people dyed eggs red each spring. Not for fear, but for remembrance, as a symbol of life stronger than destruction. A promise that even the darkest storm can be stopped and a reminder that sometimes the smallest things carry the ability to make things right.

Easter Egg Traditions

Decorated eggs long predate Easter:

60,000‑year‑old, engraved ostrich eggs have been found in Africa.

In ancient Egypt, Mesopotamia, and Crete, eggs were placed in graves as symbols of rebirth and kingship.

Easter egg traditions weave together ancient symbolism, Christian ritual, and regional folk art, creating one of the most cross‑cultural springtime practices in the world. They carry themes you already love—rebirth, thresholds, hidden meaning, and ritual color—making them a perfect playground for mythic storytelling.

Why Eggs?

Across cultures, eggs symbolize fertility, rebirth, and the return of life. Christianity layered new meaning onto this older symbolism:

The egg became a symbol of the empty tomb of Jesus, its shell representing the sealed tomb and the cracking symbolizing resurrection. 

Early Christians in Mesopotamia dyed eggs red to represent the blood of Christ. This is the earliest known Christian egg tradition. 

Dyeing & Decorating Traditions

Red Eggs (Orthodox & Middle Eastern)

The oldest Christian practice: eggs dyed a single, vivid red.

Symbolizes sacrifice, resurrection, and the breaking of death’s hold.

Still central in Orthodox Easter rituals today. 

Pysanky (Ukraine & Eastern Europe)

Intricate, symbolic designs created with a wax‑resist method.

Patterns often represent protection, prosperity, or cosmic cycles.

This tradition is ancient and deeply tied to regional folklore. 

Natural Dyeing (Global Revival)

Using onion skins, beets, turmeric, red cabbage, and other plants.

A return to pre‑industrial methods that highlight earth‑based symbolism. 

Fabergé‑Inspired Eggs (Russia)

Luxurious, jeweled eggs created for the Russian imperial family.

Modern versions use paint, glitter, or metalwork to echo that opulence. 

Rituals & Games

Egg Hunts

A modern Western tradition where decorated eggs are hidden for children.

Symbolically echoes the “seeking” of revelation or new life.

Some regions use real eggs; others use chocolate or plastic filled with treats. 

Egg Rolling

Popular in Britain and the U.S.

Rolling eggs down a hill symbolizes the stone rolling away from Christ’s tomb.

Historically tied to early Christian symbolism. 

Locsolkodás (Hungary)

Boys sprinkle girls with water or perfume on Easter Monday for luck and fertility.

Girls gift hímestojás, beautifully decorated eggs, in return. 

Ticselés (Hungary)

A traditional children’s gambling game using decorated eggs.

Shows how eggs became woven into everyday folk play. 

Modern Variations

Chocolate Eggs

Now widespread in Europe and North America.

A sweet evolution of the symbolic egg, often wrapped in bright foil. 

Plastic Eggs Filled With Candy

Popular in U.S. egg hunts.

A playful, commercial twist on the older ritual of gifting eggs. 

The story behind Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary

 Bloody Mary

Mary, Mary, quite contrary

How does your garden grow?

With silver bells and cockleshells

And pretty maids all in a row.

The darkness is very real, though also wrapped in centuries of folklore and political propaganda.

According to one widely circulated interpretation, the rhyme is a veiled commentary on the violent reign of Queen Mary I of England, better known as Bloody Mary. The rhyme ties each innocent‑sounding garden image to tools of torture or execution used during her persecution of Protestants.

Mary, Mary, quite contrary

“Contrary” refers to Mary’s refusal to accept the Protestant reforms established by her father, Henry VIII. When she took the throne, she violently attempted to reverse the English Reformation and restore Catholicism.

How does your garden grow?

The “garden” is interpreted as a graveyard, filled with the bodies of Protestant martyrs executed under her rule. During her five‑year reign, hundreds were burned at the stake.

With silver bells and cockleshells

Silver bells are believed to refer to thumbscrews, a torture device used to crush fingers.

Cockleshells are thought to be genital torture clamps used on male prisoners.

These interpretations come from sources that frame the rhyme as a catalogue of torture instruments associated with Mary’s regime.

And pretty maids all in a row

Two major theories circulate:

Execution victims lined up for hanging or burning.

Or, more symbolically, the “maids” may refer to the Maiden, an early form of guillotine used in Scotland and sometimes associated with English executions.

Are these interpretations historically proven?

Not definitively.

Nursery rhymes often accumulate folklore explanations long after their creation, and scholars debate how literal these connections are. But the association with Bloody Mary is one of the most persistent and widely repeated.

What’s undeniable is that the rhyme’s imagery—bells, shells, maids—maps neatly onto the tools and consequences of Mary’s brutal campaign against Protestants. Whether intentional or retrofitted, the symbolism resonates.

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Read a Chapter Month 4

 Medical fantasy/thriller

EBOOK

Is she willing to pay the price?

Remi's chest painfully constricted as she struggled to breathe. Rushed to the hospital, she received a mysterious treatment due to a medical error, which miraculously stopped the asthma attack and restored her breathing. While she felt healthier than ever before, along with this shocking recovery came strange abilities, and this miraculous treatment may have a price that she’s not willing to pay.

“This book contains no AI‑generated writing. All text was created by the author.”

Read a Chapter

The flashing lights of the ambulance illuminated the night as it came to a stop at the entrance of the bustling hospital. The doors flew open, and they wheeled in Remi on a stretcher.

A kind-looking nurse with blonde hair approached them with a warm smile. “Hello, dear, my name is Anna,” she introduced herself before leading them to Bed B.

With gentle hands and a sense of urgency, they carefully transferred Remi onto the bed as Anna immediately began assessing her condition. She listened intently to her lungs, checking for any signs of distress.

As Anna worked, the paramedic gave his report, and she quickly started an IV line in Remi's hand. Meanwhile, a nurse's aide unhooked Remi’s oxygen tube from the tank, connected the tube to the central connection, and attached the cardiac monitor electrodes to her chest.

The heavy curtain that separated the beds was suddenly pulled aside with a loud swoosh. In its place stood a tall man with thick, salt-and-pepper hair. He swept his gaze across the small cubicle before fixing his attention on Remi. Introducing himself as Dr. Schwarz, he took note of the discarded nebulizer pipe lying on her bed before directing his piercing blue eyes to her face and hands. “Let me listen to your lungs,” he said in a no-nonsense tone, holding out his stethoscope.

Remi nodded weakly and struggled to sit up, wincing at the sharp pain in her chest. The doctor placed the cold metal against her skin and listened intently to her lung sounds, his brow furrowing in concern. After a moment, he asked, “How long have you been dealing with asthma?”

“Since...as far back as I can remember,” Remi gasped out between ragged breaths, beads of sweat forming on her forehead. “I take preventive medications and usually use my nebulizer during sudden attacks, but I didn’t have any solution and the inhaler didn’t help.”

The doctor's expression turned sympathetic as he nodded understandingly. “We'll get you taken care of,” he assured her before turning to the nurse.

“It’s my fault!” Emily informed the doctor with tears in her eyes. “Remi is staying with me while her parents are in South America with Doctors Without Borders, and I didn’t know she’s allergic to cats.”

“It’s okay,” Dr. Schwarz spoke in a soothing voice. “We’ll make her better, but I’m afraid, you need to get rid of your cat.”

“It’s not mine, just cat-sitting for a friend, but I’m going to call my other friends right now. I’m sure one of them will take the cat,” Emily said and pulled out her cell phone. “I’ll be in the waiting room,” she flashed a nervous smile at the young girl and hurried out of the room.

The doctor turned to the nurse. “Anna, let’s give her 125 Solumedrol, hook her up for continuous nebulizer, and get a portable chest X-ray as well.”

The nurse nodded and left the room. The doctor smiled, pulled the curtain that separated Remi’s room from bed C, and greeted the patient. “Hi Konrad, are you ready?”

“Yes,” sounded a young boy’s voice.

The doctor stopped for a second, thinking, and then turned back to Remi. “Do you speak German by any chance?” he asked.

Caught off guard by the unexpected question, Remi hesitated before responding. Despite having learned the language from her nanny since she was a toddler until high school, she decided against admitting it upon seeing the doctor's peculiar expression.

“No, but I speak French,” she replied.

“Never mind, I just thought... because of your last name, Hansen,” he mumbled, stepping out of the room and pulling the curtain closed behind him.

That was strange. Why did he ask me if I speak German? Perhaps he doesn’t want me to know what they’re talking about in the next cubicle. Remi wondered, listening to the conversation coming from behind the curtain.

“Are you sure you want it done this way?” Dr. Schwarz asked, speaking in German, and continued. “Don’t worry, the girl in that bed doesn’t understand the language.”

Remi heard a boy's and an older-sounding man’s voices answering, “Yes, we definitely want the treatment.” And the older voice continued. “My son is sixteen, and with cystic fibrosis and a rare blood type, finding a cure or donor is close to impossible. He might have a year left. But with your treatment, he could live a full, healthy life.”

She heard the doctor’s sigh, as he said, “I want to make sure you understand what will happen after the treatment.”

Konrad assured the doctor, “We thought it over very carefully what you said, and I fully understand the benefits. And...” he hesitated. “And I accept the obligation that comes with your treatment as well.”

“We took the necessary precautions as you instructed, and his handler will arrive tomorrow to discuss more details with us. Everything is ready,” The older man said.

“Okay, I’ll be back in a minute,” the doctor replied.

Remi wondered what that treatment was. Poor Konrad. He’s my age, and it sounds like he doesn’t have long to live. That’s terrible. Remi thought, feeling so much empathy for the boy. But why didn’t the doctor say medication or something specific? He repeated the German word behandlung, which means treatment. And because we’re in the hospital, it must be medical treatment.

***

The nurse felt sorry for Remi. Poor kid, only sixteen. She knows what it means to gasp for air. And the boy in bed C... why must young kids suffer like that? she thought bitterly, entering the med room. She pulled the drawer open, grabbed a syringe, and then took out a small box from the medication cabinet that was labeled Solumedrol 125 mg. She poked the needle through the rubber cap, drew the liquid from the small bottle, and then injected it into the other bottle with white powder in it. She mixed it well and drew the clear liquid back into the syringe.

***

Meanwhile, Dr. Schwarz entered bed C with a prepared syringe in his hand. "You never told me why a simple IV injection couldn't be administered at home," the boy’s father said, his voice laced with worry.

Dr. Schwarz sighed, his face a mask of solemnity. "As I told you," He began, "his heart will stop for a few seconds after I give him the treatment. Therefore, I will turn off the alarm to prevent any unnecessary commotion from the code team rushing into the room. Ideally, his heart should restart on its own, but there is always the possibility that it will not, and we will have to restart it. This is why I need the code team close by, and this is why I need to do this in the hospital."

A tense silence hung in the air as father and son processed this information. The steady beeping of the monitor seemed to grow louder, filling the small hospital room with an eerie sense of fear and anticipation as the doctor reached up, turned the heart monitor off, and picked up the syringe.

“Doctor Schwartz to bed A STAT!” The urgent voice through the intercom stopped his movement. He put the syringe back on the bedside table, wrenched the curtain between the cubicles, and nearly knocked the nurse off her feet by pushing the table out of the way. “Sorry,” he yelled, and to get to Bed A faster, he ran across Reni’s cubicle, yanking the curtain that separated her bed from Bed A.

Anna's hand trembled as she clutched the syringe, her heart racing. With a sharp inhale, she dropped the syringe onto the table, not caring about closing the curtain between the two beds. She didn't waste any time as she sprinted after the doctor.

“Hi,” the skinny, sick-looking young boy with an Oxygen tube coiled over his face smiled at Remi. “What a commotion, huh? I’m Konrad by the way.” He greeted Remi in English.

“Hi, Konrad, I’m Remi. Yes, typical ER buzz,” she smiled back.

“You’re not from around here,” he said. I haven’t seen you before.”

“No, I live in the Bronx. I’m just staying with my aunt for a few weeks.”

“Nice to meet you, Remi,” Konrad said. Maybe we’ll see each other again. It’s such a small town, I’m sure we’ll bump into each other.”

“Yeah, it’s small, but I love it here. The mountains are so beautiful.”

“See you around,” Konrad said when he spotted the nurse walking toward Remi’s bed.

“Are you ready?” Anna asked Remi as she reached for the bedside table and picked up the syringe. She closed the curtain between the beds.

Remi was familiar with the effects of steroids. When Anna injected the medication into her IV line, she was expecting a headrush and a feeling of warmth all over her body. But this time she felt something different. As soon as the medication entered her bloodstream, she felt a pleasant tingling in her body as it spread. She was curious and followed the spread of the drug from her hand to her arm then to her chest, head, belly, and then her legs. She felt warm, but not as much as other times.

Before she could ask why it felt different than other times, they heard another urgent intercom call and Anna ran out of the cubicle. Remi felt drawn and tired. The tingling passed quickly, and she started to feel better. Taking a careful deep breath, she happily noticed that the tightness of her chest had completely eased up, although it was unusual for the medication to take effect so fast, she was happy to feel the almost instant relief.

“Is everything all right with that patient?” Remi heard Konrad’s voice from the next bed, speaking German.

“He’ll be okay, don’t worry,” the doctor replied. “Let’s get your treatment going. Are you ready?”

“I’m as ready as I’d ever be,” Konrad said, his voice sounding cheerful but with an undertone of worry.

Remi heard the light rustling of bedsheets and the doctor’s voice. “All in. Now, we wait. It takes a few minutes before your heart stops. Don’t worry, it’s not going to feel too bad.”

Emily entered the cubicle and plopped down on the chair. “How do you feel?” she asked Remi.

“Surprisingly well,” Remi mused, taking off the nebulizer mask, smiling. “I don’t even need this anymore; my breathing is so good that I could run a marathon.”

“Thank God!” Emily sighed. “I was so worried and so sorry. It was my fault.”

“Please don’t worry, Aunty Em! You didn’t know. Cat dander is not on my allergy list because we didn’t know either.”

“Well, there is some good news. Cathy, from my volunteer group, is picking up Midnight today. She will care for the cat until Marley is in the hospital, and we’ll stay in the guest house until I arrange a thorough cleaning of the main house. The cleaning company is great, they will get rid of every piece of dust and cat dander in the house.”

Thank you!” Remi smiled at her aunt when suddenly, she felt a painful thud in her chest as if her heart flipped and bumped against her ribs. Everything turned dark in front of her eyes, and her mind sank into nothingness.

The loud alarm of the monitor made Emily jump, and she frantically scanned the screen which showed a flat line instead of the rhythmic heartbeat. She pulled the curtain open and screamed. “Help! Somebody help us, her heart stopped!”

More from the author

Alone

 A romantic dystopian love story

In eBook and audiobook

https://books2read.com/ALONE-by-Erika-M-Szabo

Caleb’s soulmate, Valerie, is gone. She’s resting under the magnolia tree. Would it be possible to find her in a parallel universe? If his father succeeds in opening the portal, will he find the same person in the alternate universe or a stranger? How far is he willing to go in finding the happiness he lost?

Will he find his soulmate, Valerie?

The Author

Meet Author Erika M Szabo

A  prolific writer 

https://www.authorerikamszabo.com

Erika M Szabo, a prolific and talented author with a fierce intellect and a penchant for exploring uncharted territories, is a woman of many skills and passions. She is known for her diverse range of writings that span historical fantasy, magical realism, cozy mysteries, sweet romance, and children's literature. Her writing style is both evocative and visceral, transporting readers into the depths of the characters' emotions with a few deft strokes of her pen.

Born in a small town nestled among the rolling hills of Hungary, Erika grew up with a deep love for literature and storytelling. She devoured books from a young age and soon began creating her own intricate worlds and characters. Her gift for storytelling is evident to all those who know her, and she is encouraged to pursue her passion.

As she grew older, Erika's thirst for adventure and new experiences led her to travel the world. She lived in various countries, soaking up their cultures and traditions, and incorporating them into her writing. Her travels also allowed her to meet a diverse array of people, whose stories and perspectives she wove into her novels.

Despite her literary success and acclaim, Erika remains a humble and down-to-earth person. She often speaks of her belief in the power of words to connect and heal, and her writing reflects this deep empathy and understanding of human experience.

One of Erika's novel series

https://www.authorerikamszabo.com/the-ancestors-secrets.html

“Centuries of vengeance awaken—and one woman’s secret power is the only defense.”

Ilona never asked for prophecy. Yet when visions haunt her and enemies rise from shadows, she discovers she was born into a clan bound by ancient secrets. Her gift, the Chameleon ability, could heal or destroy, and her choices will decide the fate of generations.

Across centuries, from windswept nomadic plains to the castles of the 14th century, Ilona confronts Mora, a vengeful woman sustained by rage for over 1600 years. Guided by the enigmatic Destiny Box, Ilona must protect the birth of the Chosen Child and face the ultimate question: will her powers serve absolute good, or absolute evil?

Blending alternate history, magical realism, and epic fantasy, The Ancestors’ Secrets is a sweeping saga of love, betrayal, and destiny. Erika M Szabo weaves a tale where past and future collide, and one woman’s courage may save them all.

Listen to part of the audiobook

More books

More about Erika