Galilee

A page-turning horror, mystery, thriller and suspense novel in the tradition of Dean Koontz. Galilee is a story about the horror that can befall a small fishing village when no one is piecing together the signs!  Fresh out of seminary school, young Father Hickey is very excited about being assigned to his first parish, The Church of Saint Peter. The church is located near the small coastal town of Narragansett, Rhode Island, in the small fishing village called Galilee. When he arrives, he finds the only other priest at the parish has died three days before his arrival.Who knew leaving a gateopen would cause so much chaos? Over the next three nights, terror reigns overthe small fishing village of Galilee. How will Father Hickey deal with the battle between good and evil that now rests in his parish? Will God send help to him before it's too late?

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

GALILEEBy D.L. TraceyiUniverse, Inc.Copyright © 2009 D.L. TraceyAll right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4401-8651-6Chapter One "$58.85 farther," the cabbie yelled in a typical thick Irish Boston accent, bringing the old yellow station-wagon-gone-cab, to a bumpy sliding halt on the slush-covered gravel road overlooking Point Judith Bay. The cab ride from T.F. Green airport in Providence to the small fishing port of Galilee located in the costal town of Narragansett Rhode Island had been a long cold tiring ride in the cold early morning hours. Winters in New England are well known for their bone-numbing winds whipping off the Atlantic Ocean like a cold razor sharp knife ripping through outer clothing cutting quickly to the bone marrow. New England winter storms are known for their wicked drastic drops in the temperatures to well below freezing in the blink of an eye. It got so cold that you could taste the icy cold as you labored to breathe in. And this, cold February morning was no exception to any of these basic New England winter rules. The warmth from the cab heater never quite made its way through the smoke stained plastic partition to the back seat making the hour cab ride seem even longer and much colder to the young priest. Looking out the frost crusted and yellowing smoke stained covered windows of the cab. The priest could barley make out in the distance anything except the Point Judith lighthouse as it swung its beacon out to sea off in the misty distance of the awakening early morning gray sky. Hey, Farther, $58.85 the cabbie yelled again, in a horse raspy sounding voice over the crackling blare of an early morning radio talk show. That was turned up as loud as it could go the priest thought. Fumbling for his wallet out of his back pant pocket the priest yelled back over the blare of the radio, where is the church? The cabbie never quite turning around to face the priest nodded through a thick cloud of bad smelling cigar smoke off to the right at a small stand of trees and bushes. The priest turned too looked at his new home. The church of Saint Peter came into the priest view as the swirling snow came to quite rest. Built in the mid-1800s, the small church was built of red brick with a slate black roof to withstand the harsh winters and the frequent Nor" Easters that swept in off the Atlantic Ocean. Like runaway weather, trains smashing into the coast all winter long. The church was first used as a school and was part of the parish poorhouse located on the grounds of the church. On Sundays and other christen holidays it was used as a church. Some time around 1900, the school was closed and a full time parish was established. Not what I was hoping for the priest thought for his first assignment. Seven very long years of seminary school. Top of his class in every study there was. What was the Arch Diocese placement board thinking when they assign him here? Opening the door of the cab the priest was greeted a stinging hello by a howling gust of wind tearing his black umbrella from his grasp sending it on a bumpy ride back down the slush-covered street. Damm, mumbled the priest stuffing three twenty dollar bills into the plastic bill slot in the cab partition window. Yelling to the cabbie above the howling wind and radio noise, "you can keep the change". Climbing out of the cab the priest was once again greeted by a gust of stinging wind. This time he could taste the salt on his lips and stinging his eyes. Raising his arm for some protection from the driving wind, he gave chase to his wayward umbrella as it bumped down the street. The black umbrella had come to an abrupt halt lodging itself in a pile of slush and dirt on the side of the road. As the priest neared the black umbrella, once again the stinging wind howled and threaten to take the umbrella once again on a bumpy ride further down the slush-covered street. Lunging for the wayward umbrella the priest lost his footing on the slippery gravel street and fell with a loud thud on top of the umbrella crushing it beneath him, his glasses falling off his face in the fall. Pulling himself to his knees the priest retrieved his glasses from a pool of slush. Wiping the slush from his glasses, the priest put the water streak glasses back on. Looking off to his left through the swirling snow and rain the priest could just make out a small gray haired man in a black overcoat standing in front of an old wall made of rocks with a metal gate at the end farthest from the church. Hands in his pocket a gray scarf hung around his neck swaying slightly in the wind. The old man had a slight smile on his face as he shook his head in amusement. Must be Father Gilday the priest. Great first impression the young priest thought. Struggling to stand up the priest waved to the old man. Just then, the priest heard a car door slam. Turning the young priest watched as the yellow cab was driving away. His two old black suitcases left in the middle of the slush-covered street. Make mental note to self the priest thought. Never use that cab company again. Turning around the priest noticed the old man had vanished. Must have gone back inside the church where it is warm. Guess he had enough of the Father Hickey for show for one day he thought to himself. Picking up his umbrella the priest went to retrieve his two suit cases filled with all his worldly possession from the slush-covered streets. Retrieving his suitcases, the Priest awkwardly started to drag his two suitcases towards the walkway of his new home. Suddenly a mother cat and three kittens scurried across his path tails up in the air disappearing into the stand of trees to his left. Well at least they were not black cats, the priest said with a slight smile. The walkway had been shovel in the last hour it seemed to the priest feeling the fresh rock salt crunching under his feet as he walked towards the church. The cold ocean breeze of the Atlantic stung the priest nostrils as he fought for breath lost from his less than graceful fall. The early morning glare of the rising sun made worse from the reflective snow made seeing while walking almost impossible to the priest. So much so, that he almost walked into a statue. Located in the middle of the church walkway. It was almost too late when the priests more sense than saw something in front of him. Stopping abruptly and dropping his suitcases. The priest shielded his eyes from the glare of the morning sun. Taking a moment to let his sight adjust he scanned the statue. After a brief moment, the young priest immediately knew who the statue was. Poor Saint Peter the priest thought aloud, looking at the old granite statue on the snowed covered walkway the young priest smiled. Saint Peter tried to walk on water and fell in. Surely, Jesus had a sense of humor in making Simon Peter the saint of all fishermen. Kind of like sending me here to this little crappy outpost of the church, the priest said to the statue of Saint Peter. Yes, but You Saint Peter are now the gatekeeper of heaven. What was the hierarchy thinking? I spent seven very long years in the seminary. Took every scholastic honor they had at the seminary school and then some. All that hard work just to be assign here to this parish, the priest though as he looked at the statue of the saint. The young priest was quickly brought back to reality by another group of five or six cats in various colors passing in front of the statue. Picking up his suitcases the priest gave a reluctant sigh. As he continued his slow slippery journey on the church walkway. I hope the cats know where we are going, the priest thought as he followed the cats towards the living area quarters around the side and to the back of the church. Off in the distance the sound of wood being chopped broke the morning silence echoing thru the crisp morning air like static electricity. Still following the parade of slow moving cats on the ice covered walkway the priest approach a snow covered porch that he hope led to the living quarters of the church. The smell of wood burning filled the cold morning air. Hope there are two bedrooms in there the priest said half aloud to a group of three calico colored cats sitting lazily on the porch railing enjoying the early morning sunshine, the priest mind started to wandered back to the early years at the seminary. Thinking back to his first few years at the school. Remembering his first roommate Paul Lang who snored so loud due to some sort of nasal condition that if he did not get to sleep first there was no rest that night due to the loud non-stop sawing like snoring. Then his mind wandered to the later years at the seminary and the late nights where his roommate Father Ward a much older priest who had a very bad drinking problem. Sometimes after one of his many long drinking stints, Father Ward would come back to the room. Getting naked, he would try to climb into bed with him. How many times did I have to fight that man off, the priest thought to himself? A sea gull screaming in the distance sky overhead brought the priest back to reality of the moment. Shaking off the memories of Father Ward and some very bad nights. The priest stomped his feet on the wooden porch to get the slush off his shoes. On the porch were two very old rocking chairs one on each side of a wood stove that gave off a warm glow and the sweet smell of wood burning inside of it. Hope there are two bedrooms the priest said again to the two lazy cats as they climb onto the rocking chairs to be near the warmth of the stove. Knocking on the door, the priest took a step back. Looking off to his right the priest notice that behind the old rock wall he had seen earlier was a small graveyard with maybe twelve or so grave markers in it. In The middle was a small white granite bench with a worn marble cross-stood behind it. For mourners to sit and pray no doubt the priest thought. In the back far left corner of the graveyard there appeared to be a fresh grave with no marker yet. Next to the new grave was a large pile of brush and stones partially covered in a crusted snow. Looking beyond the graveyard Point Judith came into view in the cold early morning light. Looking out over the bay the priest watched as the small fishing fleets head out to sea for a long cold day of fishing. The sound of the Point Judith ferry horn scream loudly in the distance as the ferryboat left for its first trip of the day to Block Island just a few miles off the coast of Rhode Island. Chapter Two May I help you sir? A female voice said from behind. As the startled priest turned around almost tripping over his two bags, he came face to face with a small older woman with a very thick Polish accent. Standing slightly back in the door entrance trying not to leave the warmth of the house. Once an again the old women said May I help you sir? Gathering his composer from his near fall the young priest spoke as he untangled himself from his luggage. Yes, Yes, My Name is Father Hickey may I speak with Father Gilday please? With a startled look on her face, the women stepped back and with a motioning of her hand to come inside. Oh, Father Hickey we were excepting you a few days ago. Please Father come in the woman said turning around and almost running back into the living quarters of the church. Picking up his bags the priest followed two cats and the women into the living quarters of the church. My name is Maria Szymanowska I am the housekeeper here. Motioning to the young priest to come into the room further. Please wait here Father Hickey and I will get my husband he speaks better English than me. Grabbing a jacket and pushing past the priest, the women hurried outside to find her husband leaving the young priest to survey the room. As Father Hickey started to look around the room, he was in. There must be a church rummage sale going on here today. The priest thought to himself. The room was littered with boxes half packed and clothes plied on tables and furniture all around the room. Over in the far corner of the room closest to what appear to be the entrance to the kitchen a small television sat on a chest of drawers. Many pictures hung on the far wall. An old checkered couch a wooden rocking chair two swag lamps and a few small tables rounded out the room the priest was standing in. The sound of frantic feet crushing the snow outside came closer to the church. Turning towards the sound the priest watched as the door open and a giant of a man entered the room from the porch. Clad in a heavy grey woolen parker with a huge hand out stretch. The giant spoke. Good morning, my name is Jedrek Szymanowska. The giant said in a thick Polish accent. As he pulled, back the hood on his parker with his other hand. My wife Maria and I are the caretakers of this parish. The giant said as the young priest reluctantly held out his hand to the giant. Father Gilday excepted you three days ago. The giant said as he took the hand of the young priest almost crushing it in has grasp. Yes, I know replied Father Hickey as he struggle to get his hand back from the giants grip. The plane trip from Kansas had run into some bad weather and that caused a few delays said Father Hickey. Thinking back to the two-day stop in Chicago and sleeping in the airport terminal. The Seminary had given him just enough traveling money for food and the plane ticket to Wichita Kansas for a family visit and then back to his first parish here in Rhode Island. Well, the giant man said we have some bad news for you. Father Gilday passed away four days ago. Tears coming to his eyes as his voice broke down. Looking to his wife for comfort in his pain, she came over and held the giants hand. Father James from the Providence Archdiocese came down and did the burial services yesterday. He asked that you call him as soon as you get here. Yes of course, where is the phone Father Hickey replied still reeling from the news of Father Gilday' death. It is right over here in Father Gilday's office, replied Maria with a sweeping motion to a door in the back corner of the room. Father Gilday office was small and cluttered with books overflowing from the bookshelves that lined the wall into piles on the floor and stacked near the couch. There was an old black leather easy chair in front of a fireplace. A small fire in the fireplace gave the room warmth. Father Gilday heard confessions in here Jedrek said half to himself and half to Father Hickey as he handed over a slip of paper with a phone number on it. Guess this is your office, now he said with a sigh pointing to a phone on the old oak desk that sat in the corner of the room with two windows on one side facing the graveyard. Sitting down in a large leather chair behind the desk, Father Hickey reached for the phone. Walking in from the kitchen Mrs. Szymanowska brought in a steaming hot cup of black coffee and the local morning paper. Father Gilday liked his coffee with the paper to read in here every morning. I like my coffee with cream and sugar Father Hickey said trying to return the cup. Yes, but Father Gilday liked it this way. As black as my robe he would say that is how I like my coffee. Turning around she hurriedly walked away towards the kitchen. I guess I will drink it black, Father Hickey mumbled to himself as he started to dial the rotary phone. The call was quick and to the point. Someone from the Archdiocese would be down before weeks end. With another major Nor Easter, snow storm hitting the coast of New England this week. It would not be wise to travel until it had passed towards the end of the week. So, just sit tight and do your job as you were trained any questions just ask Mr. or Mrs. Szymanowska they know the routine of the congregation pretty well and could be a big help just ask them. Hanging up the phone, Great Father Hickey said aloud to the room. Now what am I to do? The giant man was standing quietly just outside the office, door waiting for the young priest to finish his phone call. Excuse me father. My wife and I are heading home now. Will you need anything else today Father Hickey? Home Father Hickey said with a puzzled look on his face leaving. Yes, my wife and I come three times a week to clean the church and take care of the grounds. If it snows, I will come and shovel the walks one hour before the mass. Will you need anything else today the giant asked again? No, I suppose not but I am not sure what I am supposed to do here. Well, the giant man replied Father Gilday had Mass everyday at 9:00 heard confessions on Thursday and blessed the fishing fleet every Saturday morning at six o'clock. Our phone number is in the rolodex on the desk my wife does your shopping on Monday for the week. The keys to the church car are in the top drawer of the desk, you can sleep in Father Gildays room. My wife has changed the sheets and cleared out both of the closets and both of dresser drawers. I guess it is your room now. The giant said. The realization of what he just said sinking in. We will be back early tomorrow to tend to the grounds and clean the church. My wife will finish packing Father Gilday things then. (Continues...) Excerpted from GALILEEby D.L. Tracey Copyright © 2009 by D.L. Tracey. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

About the Author

D.L.Tracey  Most folks in my life tend to know something about me but never all of me. I tend to keep my life in the compartments of life at the moment. My youth of growing up in Weymouth, my service and college years, homeless years, being a single parent years, married twice years and my life as it is now in Texas. Even now my friends of the past have no idea of my present and my friends of now don't have a clue of my past. Dad, Author, pilot, Marine, and small businessowner tend to round out who I am these days. And so, my story begins; Donald Lee Tracey was born in Quincy, Massachusetts in 1957, the second son of Donald and Jane Tracey. Donald attended grammar school in Weymouth Massachusetts andthen North Weymouth High School, living with friends at times and on thestreets of Weymouth Don dropped out of high school in 1974 two years short ofgraduation.  Working two jobs Don worked sixteen-hour days six days a-week and was finally able to save enough money for his first apartment on Winter street in Weymouth where he lived for the next year. ​In December of 1975, Don enlisted in the United States marine Corp. Went off to Marine Corps Recruit Depot Parris Island, S.C. for thirteen weeks of intensive marine training. This is where Don first found his talent for writing. Don kept a personal diary of day-to-day life in Parris Island called Short Stories fromthe Island.  (More to follow) Many of his stories are set in his home state of Massachusetts.

Reviews

News