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The Curse, the Diary and the Cross: Book One:  the Curse Begins

The Curse, the Diary and the Cross: Book One: the Curse Begins

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The Curse, the Diary and the Cross: Book One: the Curse Begins

411 pagine
6 ore
Oct 26, 2012


In early spring of 1872, Donya Heidsheim stood on the banks of the Weser River looking out at the raging waters. Her father had been brutally murdered, her mother was dead from a broken heart, all she had left was unanswered questions. She would no longer pray to the God her parents taught her to love. In anger she screamed out for revenge.

Someone heard her. It appeared. Something gave her peace and a chance for revenge. Something gave her a chance to see her child again. But it all came with a high price tag.
The peaceful village of Brunstoke, Germany, surrounded by the beautiful Harz Mountains, was invaded by an ancient sect. A presence as old as the Garden uses the manipulation of lust and avarice to wrap its talons around Brunstokes nobility.

Sent from the throne of God, two unlikely companions join forces to work together to combat the curse placed on the Brunstoke familyShomer, a warring angel for the righteous, and Leb, a mystery character fight the forces of the fallen ones who try to destroy Gods seed born of faith through the Lord Jesus Christ.

Oct 26, 2012

Informazioni sull'autore

Willis R. Abshire, a retired residential and commercial painting contractor and former pastor, resides along with his wife, Vickie, in the small rural community of Ragley, Louisiana. They both enjoy reading, music, and spending time with their seven children, eleven grandchildren, and two great-grandchildren. In addition to novels, Willis also delves into short stories and poetry; he is currently researching a story on a holocaust survivor.

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The Curse, the Diary and the Cross - W R Abshire

The Curse, the Diary

and the Cross

Book One: The Curse Begins

W R Abshire

Copyright © 2012 W R Abshire

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

WestBow Press books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the

product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons,

living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012916953

ISBN: 978-1-4497-6719-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-6720-4 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-6721-1 (hc)

WestBow Press rev. date: 11/15/2012



The Tale Begins
































Part 2























About the Author

To my wife and best friend Vickie. So many times, she has been the one to encourage me when I reached a dead end road. Frustration had to fly by the way side as she would prod me along. Giving up was not an option. It was my heart’s dream to write and so, she would not let go.

Satan has cunning servants about him that hunt for the precious life with double diligence.

Charles Spurgeon


My name is Leb. It is my pleasure to bring you this story. It really began a long time ago when man decided to rebel against his creator. Adam, God’s first son, had dominion over the garden and whatever Adam wanted was his. Except for one thing. He could not eat of the fruit from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. His wife Eve allowed herself to be enchanted by Satan. Their disobedience plunged humanity into the darkness. It was upon that fall that I was fashioned to give man a witness to his failings and to the hope that awaits him through obedience. The human race must know that the Almighty Author is not a bystander, uninterested in his creation. By me, humanity has no excuse for denying God’s existence, his requirements, and his mercy.

I stand before the presence of the Almighty. I have no outward beauty, nor possess any eloquent speech. My eyes, a blue-green resonating brilliance, were fashioned by my creator to give man a link to his soul. Are they the eyes of a child full of trust? Are they the eyes of a young person filled with the expectancy of a prosperous life? Or, are they the eyes of an eternal love looking deep into the soul of man? They are all these things and more.

My face is one of an aged wisdom learned from eons of life’s experiences—choices made, good and bad. My hair is white which comes from millennia of concern for the maker’s subjects. My beauty is in my patience.

I’m not of any great stature. I have a slight stoop from the endurance of many burdens. Yet, do not let this minor deformity deceive you, I cannot be defeated. You see, my power does not come from any physical strength. My authority rests in my command of reasoning.

My existence transcends all cultures and knows all languages. In the end my reality will either bless or condemn those, who either receive or reject the truth of the existence and work of God’s redemptive work.

Many will try to reason with me, or try to convince me to agree with their lusts. They will endeavor with great effort to scatter the ashes of their sins to a wind blowing to a world where they think I cannot see or go. But no matter how far or how long they run, they cannot flee from me.

There are those whose hearts have accepted God’s offer and submitted to his Spirit. They have accepted God’s shelter through the shed blood of Jesus Christ.

I have a friend in this story— a companion of enormous stature and magnificence. His name is Shomer. He is the great warring angel, guardian to the heirs of salvation. To many we would seem an unlikely pair. Not many will get to see my friend but rest assured that he is there, as are many like him. They are the glorious ones who did not take up their lot with Satan the great deceiver. These magnificent ones follow the Lamb and do his bidding with great pleasure and intense love.

This tale is given that you might come to know the height, and breadth and depth of God’s sacrifice. So come, my friend, allow me tell you a story of the work of the Master’s great love.

The Tale Begins

A country once saturated with tales of sorcery, paganism, and the occult became the nation that produced the proclamation of the truth of the gospel, ‘the just shall live by faith.’ She was also a focal point, where centuries before, some of the greatest witch trials of all times were held—where ignorance cost the lives of many innocent people.

But lurking in this cornucopia of fables, old wives’ tales, superstitions and harmless spells, there arose a sect of hell—of deadly and treacherous spirits. Their mission was to destroy the godly remnant of those who put their trust in the Son of God. The fires of Molech, an ancient devilish rite that required the lives of innocent children, would take on different forms and new names throughout the ages. This specter of religion and enemy of the cross of Christ that mocks God’s sacrifice would mutate through generations to try to fulfill its mission—to bring shame to the Almighty Creator and his Son.

In the nineteenth century German Empire, nestled close to the Weser River in a beautiful wooded region, and laying north between the Hartz Mountains and the city of Bremen, lay the thriving village of Brunstoke. Surrounded by beautiful pines, beech, and fir trees, the community was the very picture of serenity upon first observance.


Early March, 1872

The chilly evening wind wrapped itself around the young woman as she looked out into the swift current of the Weser River. Her thoughts went back to yesterday afternoon when she had stood at the graves of her parents, Greta and Achim Heidsheim.

The brutal death of her father and the witnessing of her mother (with no will to live, and a broken heart) succumb to pneumonia, left Donya Heidsheim confused and enraged.

She turned to look at the little cottage that now belonged to her. The secure home where once she had been surrounded by love—was now an empty shell containing only memories of the familiar voices that once encouraged her.

She stared at the three Bibles in her hands—the one her parents gave her as a child and the two that her mother and father had given to each other. Wrestling with her conscience the night before had left her exhausted, frustrated and angry. She looked up at the heavens. The clouds passed by her rapidly appearing to give the full moon movement.

I hate you, she whispered as tears ran down her face and dripped onto the Bibles.

The thoughts echoing in her mind taunted her. You’re allowing hatred and deception to rule your heart. Your parents taught you truth.

I hate you, I hate you, screamed Donya as she looked out into the expanse of the Weser River. Her vision was clouded by tears. Then her mind’s eye saw him. The old white haired man she had seen many times in her dreams.

Don’t give in to this anger. Call out to God and he will give you the peace you need.

Leave me alone. Her voice took on a low deliberate guttural tone. She drew in a deep cold breath and stiffened. How many have put their trust in you and all they’ve gotten is misery?

She lifted the three Bibles and threw them into the Weser River. The books opened as they fell and the wind jostled the pages as they hit the water. Then they were swallowed up by the turbulent current.


The gentle voice startled her. She turned around noticing the silhouette of a man approaching her from the shadows of her home. She couldn’t make out his features.

Don’t be afraid. I mean you no harm. He continued walking forward allowing her to assess him. Then he stood before her staring intently.

The air around him was electrified with energy against his black clothes. His appearance captured her. He was tall and handsome, and his deep-set eyes penetrated her stare consuming her gaze. His build was not overly muscular but lean and strong. His teeth were white, his lips appealing.

Instantly she felt drawn to him. Who are you?

My name is Ganav. I serve the true god Nachash and he has heard your anguish. I am his prophet. I’ve been sent to avenge your wounds. What has happened to your father will not go unheeded. The Jesus God doesn’t want to hear you because he’s a god who doesn’t care. He reached out and held her gently in his arms as he stroked her face.

She yielded to his advance. He kissed her. His breath entered her. Inhaling, the prospect of revenge brought her a sense of peace.

He pulled back and for a moment faced away. When he turned back to face her, he held a young child. Donya, behold your son.

Young Gustave Burns, all around handyman and stable worker for Wilhelm von Brunstoke, sat down at his small desk, opened the drawer, and drew out his diary. Uneasy he began to write.

I am troubled about some unresolved events here in Brunstoke. Beginning with the death of Countess Berdina, wife of Count Gerolf and the violent death of Achim Heidsheim—along with the recent death of his wife Greta—I sense a presence of wickedness has invaded this tranquil village and choked out the soft breeze of peace. The stately castle, now owned by Count Gerolf von Brunstoke, and once the palace of godly nobility has been corrupted, I believe, by manipulation into a prison of lust, hatred and conceit.

The Christian life of purity and holiness once introduced here is being compromised little by little with idolatry, greed and fleshly desires. But thank God there still remains a small remnant within this system of those who hold to the godly principles of Jesus Christ. But those principles are no longer found in Gerolf. His life and legacy to his son Wilhelm is proving a pitiful example of godliness, emanating a venomous spirit of hypocrisy. I fear the battle will be hard.


Wilhelm looked at his reflection in the small pool of still water jutting off the stream flowing behind his father’s castle. Seventeen years old, pimply-faced, and plump-bodied, his childish features hadn’t left him. Disgusted, he threw a rock destroying the image. The desires and fantasies so common to young men beginning to wonder about life and the pleasures of the opposite sex created an appetite unfulfilled.

He leaned against the old willow tree. I would give anything if Katrina would just recognize me. All she is ever interested in is those good looking boys in the church. If I was handsome she’d notice me. But if I was, I wouldn’t even look at her.

He had no one to talk to except those women his father Count Gerolf brought home. Occasionally they would listen to him, but only to appease his father. They were miserable examples, uninterested in the confusing questions of a seventeen-year-old whose only encouragement in life had come from his mother. And now she was gone, dead.

But those women weren’t there to take his mother’s place. Count Gerolf von Brunstoke was a strange sort of man especially since his wife’s death. It appeared that Wilhelm’s father had gone crazy and Wilhelm had been left to himself.

Pushing himself away from the old willow he began walking the path along the edge of the stream. He heard laughing. He turned to face Katrina and Frieda coming up behind him.

Hello, Wilhelm.

Oh, hello Katrina, Frieda, Wilhelm’s voice slightly quivering as he fidgeted, a little embarrassed, caught between excitement and hurt, wondering if it showed on his face.

Wilhelm, I hear you really like me. Is that true?

Uhm, yes, I do.

Well, I really like you.

Katrina was beautiful, only sixteen. The way she presented herself made her look much older. Her answer surprised him. The Katrina he knew didn’t want anything to do with him. But there she was, aggressive.

She walked up to him, getting close to his face. Wilhelm smelled her sweet breath. Her dark brown, shoulder length hair, deep set dark brown round eyes, challenged him to look at her. She closed her eyes, her lips reaching for his. Wilhelm closed his eyes ready to meet her advance and … opened his eyes staring into the face of Katrina’s pet dachshund Bruno when he felt the lapping of a rough tongue on his face. The two girls laughed at him as the nape of his neck smoldered with embarrassment and shame.

Mocking, Katrina stated, Wilhelm, you pimply faced tubby. How could you ever think for one moment that I would be interested in someone like you?

They left him standing there. Another hurt, another mocking. Wilhelm looked out into the moving waters. How much more do I have to take? A small piece of wood floated swiftly down the stream and Wilhelm wished that his life could float away with the wood.

God, would you please make me handsome? Then with a rage fueling his temper he spewed out, I hate you, I wish you were dead, I wish God would kill you. I wish I could kill you. He cursed Katrina, Frieda and the dog.

His resentment rose beyond reasoning. He ran to catch up to them. They wouldn’t get away with this. All those times people made fun of him had come to a boiling point. He could barely hear their voices laughing. He arrived at the place where he thought they were. They had vanished.

There is no way that they could’ve walked away from me so fast. I should still be able to hear their voices.

Bewildered Wilhelm started walking home. His thoughts of Katrina, the humiliation, and the embarrassment were swirling around in his head. Fits of rage pursued him like a fox chasing a rabbit. He had no defense. His breathing became a struggle. His face was turning red. He looked up, the trees began spinning. The pounding began in his skull, each strike like a spark inching itself to the fuse of a bomb ready to explode. He blacked out.

The nightmare came back. He couldn’t make out the face. The stranger sat in the bed next to his mother. She was gasping for air, choking, unable to breathe. The man grabbed a pillow and shoved it over her face. She tried to scream.

Wilhelm ran in yelling, Leave my Mommy alone. The killer turned around but Wilhelm was still unable to distinguish his face—blurred. He looked at his mother. Her mouth open, no longer breathing. You killed her, you killed my Mommy. I hate you. I’ll kill you. Someday I’ll kill you.

The next morning his mother was found. Her lifeless body was removed as Wilhelm stood there watching. He wanted to speak out but he couldn’t remember the face. He had blocked it out. After being told what happened, the reality threw him into a state of shock. He drew within himself. All indications appeared that she died during the night of natural causes. But he wouldn’t accept the account. The dream was too real. Something had happened. If he would speak of it, to most it would be just a nightmare, conjured up in the mind of a child who couldn’t handle his mother’s death, a dream fabricated to place blame on someone? No one would believe him. So he kept it all to himself.

But it isn’t a dream. He awoke, the words repeating on his lips as the evening mist began to settle on his face. The pounding had eased. His skull hurt, his eyes were a pulsating soreness. The same dream constantly replayed. It tracked him like a stalker in the night, lurking in his mind, crouched, hidden behind the shadows of his thinking. It patiently stood its watch, just waiting for him to be at peace. Then it would lunge out of the gloomy recesses of his thoughts—a lion attacking a wounded prey—to torment him once more.

Wilhelm stood up and stared out into the evening shadows looking for someone to hear him, to understand his thoughts. One day I will recognize that face. I’m going to be late for supper. Oh, what does it matter? Father doesn’t care anymore about me. He’s just too busy with Donya or whoever else he can get for the night. Count Gerolf von Brunstoke seldom slept alone.

Two evenings later the two seated carriage arrived at the home of Count Gerolf. She gracefully stepped out. Turning around in his seat the driver tipped his hat and rode on. He wouldn’t come back until he was notified. Count Gerolf hadn’t arrived from hunting. Wilhelm was instructed to stay with her until the Count came back. The small cottage, built by Gerolf, along the Schlange stream, so named because it twisted like a serpent, had become a place of retreat or a brothel to bring his women.

Donya, this beautiful but strange woman, had won the affections of the Count and now she was one of his father’s regular ladies of the night. Though apparently pleasing to the Count, Wilhelm felt uncomfortable around her. But tonight something was different. Donya’s presence brought a magic, a fascination.

Her long straight black hair, piercing green eyes, olive complexion, and innate seductive glances drove Wilhelm’s imaginations spiraling. His eyes followed her, his thoughts running wild with lust as she casually walked over to the couch. Her stabbing gaze never left Wilhelm. She sat down. Her stare held him captive as if to whisper, Wilhelm, I know what you’re thinking. I know what’s in your heart. You want me don’t you?

And how have you been fairing young man? Her question broke the enslaved moment. He blushed. Could she know what he was thinking? Did she sense the craving that was in his heart?

Accustomed to those looks, she asked again toying with him, meeting his gaze with invitation. And how have you been fairing young man? But now she spoke louder more forceful.

I’ve been doing well, Miss Donya, he answered with a lump in his throat.

Are you still praying to be handsome?

Huh, what do you mean? Wilhelm’s eyes widened.

Well, you know. You prayed two days ago while walking the path close to the old willow tree bent over the stream. You also prayed a naughty thing—wanting God to kill Katrina. A little harsh don’t you think?

Well, I was angry at what she did. Besides, how do you know about what happened?

Her voice confident and matter of fact, Wilhelm, I know a lot of things. I was there.

I tried to catch up to Katrina. I was gonna tell her what I thought of her and Frieda. Then, the strangest thing… The thought slipped out. Then nervously, there is no way she could get out of my sight that quick.

Donya didn’t respond to his comment. She looked upwards at him just lifting her eyes. He felt awkward. In an inviting voice she spoke again, You just didn’t see me. I was walking along the stream bank myself meditating on my god Nachash and his goodness. I stopped a short distance from the three of you and witnessed the hateful prank that Katrina and Frieda played on you. It was certainly unchristian like of them.

Unchristian like! I don’t know about God or Christianity anymore, Donya. Nothing ever turns out right for me. All I am is a target for peoples’ ridicule. I’d give anything to be handsome. I don’t think God hears me. My grandparents were religious or at least that’s what my mother told me. She’d talk to me about God and look where it got her. I don’t believe in him anymore. I don’t think I really ever did.

You’d give anything? Drastic statement, isn’t it? Wilhelm, perhaps you’re praying to the wrong god!

The back door opened and Gerolf walked in from his hunting. Donya’s gaze turned immediately away from Wilhelm to the Count. Donya rushed over to Gerolf embracing him. Wilhelm’s face flushed as the muscles in his jaw twitched.


Sunday morning Wilhelm was sitting in church. He noticed Katrina. His eyebrows lowered when she gave him a slight smile. He vaguely remembered the sermon, something about loving your enemies. He didn’t care. His mind was preoccupied with what Katrina did to him.

He stared at her. So beautiful and yet so mean. How someone could be so vindictive.

The time spent in the pew seemed like one breath to the next, the service was over.

Wilhelm walked out with his father.

I don’t know why he even comes to church. He doesn’t live the way the Pastor talks about.

Gerolf ventured off talking to some of the men, leaving Wilhelm to himself. Wilhelm drifted off, went and sat under the huge old oak tree.

Hello Wilhelm.

Wilhelm looked up. It was Katrina. His rage rose like an unsettled stomach about to erupt.

Why are you talking to me? Do you want to tease me again?

Startled Katrina stuttered out, Wilhelm, I … I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Where are Frieda and your stupid dog? Why were you so cruel to me? Yes, I liked you but I don’t bother you. You’re gonna be sorry one day for what you and Frieda did to me.

Wilhelm, you’re confusing me. My dog Bruno has done nothing to you, tears were welling up. We found Bruno dead yesterday.

You’ve always ignored me. And now you decide to rub it in some more.

I’ve never tried to ignore you. Our lives haven’t crossed except here at church. Why are you saying these things to me?

Wilhelm’s head began to ache again, the pulsating pain around his eyes returning—pounding to a steady cadence. The blood rushed to his face and the rising anger like a vise clamped down on his temples trying to squeeze his eyes out of his head.

He was through with this conversation. You pretty girls are all alike. You must get some sort of twisted pleasure in playing games with guys like me. I don’t want to talk to you anymore. Just leave me alone.

Katrina, eyes streaming with tears turned and ran away from Wilhelm. He leaned his head against the oak, crossed his arms, a smile across his face. Revenge how sweet, every dog has his day.

Evening found Wilhelm walking along the stream alone, trying to deal with the mystery surrounding the death of his mother. Adding to the problem with Katrina, the confrontation with Frieda after Katrina ran away made matters worse.

When have we ever been hateful to you? I haven’t seen you all this past week and I can’t remember anything to give you reason to make those statements about us.

You and Katrina with that stupid dog Bruno were walking along the creek behind our home Thursday afternoon. You know, by the willow next to the pool. Katrina made like she wanted to kiss me and then that stupid dog licked my face.

I don’t know where Katrina was, but I was with my parents all afternoon Thursday. Bruno was found with his stomach split open. Did you poison him?

No I didn’t. You and Katrina are enjoying your cruelty at my expense.

Wilhelm, I don’t know what has gotten into you! With those words she turned and left Wilhelm to himself.

He stared into the pool of water. They play their twisted games and I’m just their play toy. He walked further approaching his favorite spot as a youth—the old willow tree leaning across the small stream. He smiled as he envisioned himself hanging from the tree branch dangling his feet in the fast moving current. Guess those were the days when life was simple—when mother was alive.

His walking slowed as he tried to relax, where anger left for a moment, and sanity tried to embrace him. But then the throbbing in his head began. His light footsteps created a pounding in his head like the hammer hitting the blacksmith’s anvil. He sat down. He slipped again into a daze. The tormenting images bolted onto him once more. The man’s face still escaped him. All he could hear was his mother coughing, trying to breathe. The villain covered her face with the pillow, her voice and pleas mumbled, gasping deep, trying to fight the assailant off. Then she no longer moved.

My mother is dead and you killed her. You’ll pay for this. I’ll find out who you are. God will help me, thought Wilhelm. He awoke shaking, his mouth drooling, as he spoke, God … what God, I don’t believe in you anymore. You let my mother die.

He stood, shaking, his head still throbbing. Walking further, his torments were shattered by the laughter of a man and woman. He walked carefully toward the sounds. One of the voices sounded familiar. He came upon his father and a woman. His intrusion startled them. Count Gerolf’s back was to Wilhelm. The woman partially unclothed noticed Wilhelm first, and cried out, embarrassed. Gerolf turned his face towards Wilhelm voicing loudly, Wilhelm, what are you doing here, get out! Wilhelm’s head snapped back, his body frozen in that nightmare scene.

The night stalker of his peace had now revealed himself. The fiend that had killed his mother spoke out repeating the words that shocked him to reality, Wilhelm, what are you doing here, get out! Gerolf got up from the bed pulling the pillow away from his mother’s face and started running towards Wilhelm. Wilhelm gazed over at her, eyes wide open with terror frozen on her face. Gerolf reached Wilhelm, pushed him out in the hallway, and closed the door. Wilhelm snapped back to reality. He looked at his father. He looked at the woman on the ground.

It was you!

Repulsed, he started running back towards the house. The truth showed no mercy. He stopped near the willow tree, his lungs bursting. He fell to his knees and rolled over on his back groaning, holding his stomach trying desperately to control the insanity grabbing hold of him. He tried to stand. He dropped back to his knees vomiting again and again. Finally, he reached into the creek, scooping some cold water and washed his face. For a few moments he was able to relax. He looked into the still water at his reflection as he spoke to himself in unbelief.

The murderer of my mother is my father! Why?

Infuriated, he cursed his father, cursed himself for being born, and cursed God. Screaming out to what power would hear him, The day will come when you will know the anguish that you’ve caused me. You will feel the fright my mother felt. That terror you placed in her heart, will consume you Count Gerolf von Brunstoke. Father, you … will … pay!

He ran to the small hut constructed out of a cropping of bushes off a narrow over grown path he had built as a young boy. Here no one would find him. It was his hiding place, his solace from the voices of ridicule, where he could lick his wounds and plot revenge on those who had so many times made fun of him. Here, he could fantasize about many things. But today was no fantasy.

Wilhelm lay there plotting, cursing, and remembering the events that had just transpired. Now it was all clear. He couldn’t face the reality so young in life. He had subconsciously blocked out the face of his father.

But still nobody will believe me. He’s too rich and influential. Mother was the only good thing in my life and you killed her. Then he screamed out. His fists reaching to the heavens, in defiance to God, he cried out, What kind of a God are you? The question begged an answer, but none came. You’ll never hear from me again. I will only consider myself and how to get rid of Gerolf von Brunstoke. . , he looked up to heaven and screamed, and you. Exhausted he fell asleep.


Wilhelm opened his eyes. He studied the old man sitting there, his face an expression of concern as he looked intently at Wilhelm. The aged gentleman didn’t seem to be in any hurry to speak. Where did he come from? His eyes were a bluish green, his hair white. For a moment Wilhelm was captivated by the energy surrounding the old man who continued gazing at him but not speaking. Irritated, Wilhelm spoke. Who are you? I didn’t ask you to come here. I only invite people here I trust.

Wilhelm, you’ve never invited anyone here. The old man spoke confidently.

You talk as if you know me. Everybody knows stuff about me and I can’t understand how they get the information. Have you been walking these woods just like Donya? Have you been following me, to make fun of me like Katrina and Frieda?

"Wilhelm, I’m always with you, you know that? I’ve always tried to keep you on the right path in life. But you constantly push me aside to entertain the emotions that best suit you for the moment. Once a thought is in your mind you don’t weigh out the matter to see if what has come to you is true or false. You feel inferior to others so you hide in your little world of hate and desire for revenge as though all these little matters and hurts in life are to destroy you. They can

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