SWAN VALLEY - HORROR STORY - BREDEVOORT VAN DEN BERGDeep in the shadowy forests of early New Netherland, a forgotten secret lies buried. This historical supernatural thriller begins when a Dutch colony on the edge of the known world vanishes without a trace, leaving behind only scorched ruins and a single, ominous coin. This is a gothic horror story with a landscape that whispers in a terrifying tongue. As the fate of the survivors becomes entangled with an ancient mystery, they discover a deep memory in the land.This is haunting and suspenseful historical short fiction, an atmospheric narrative that blends literary fiction with paranormal terror. Witness the nightmares of the past, and be drawn into a sinister quest for truth.This book is for fans of ghost stories, historical horror, and literary suspense. "e;In the first sun of March, the metal sang. It was not the living gleam of gold or the shine of a kettle. It was the dead, grey sheen of lead and tin, blended into an image as large as a giant's shoulders, atop a post taller than the ripest corn. Upon it, in raised relief, stood the coat of arms of the West India Company: two splendid ships, surrounded by curling letters and a crown. A merchant ship and a warship. For Tamanend, eldest son of the Siconese leader, it was something else entirely. He had watched the post for a week. He had seen the midday sun heat it, the rain wet it. His sharp eagle eyes had studied the edge of the sturdy metal where it protruded from the wood.He waited until Hosset and his men had left for the southern fields, their spades over their shoulders, to scar the earth for a second season of failure. When the fort was quiet, except for the two guards at the main gate, Tamanend approached. He was not stealthy; he walked straight, his face expressionless. His tomahawk, with a head of sharp stone, rested in his hand. He looked at the plate, at the post.He wedged the tomahawk behind the metal, against the wood. One sturdy jerk, a groan of nails being drawn, and the entire coat of arms fell into his arms. It was heavier than he'd thought. The coolness, the weight of civilization, he carried in his arms. Then he turned and walked, the plate against his chest, away from the post, away from the fort, towards the ripe bushes where the eyes of his people waited for him.Then his scream tore the sky.Hosset was called back, his face a mask of disbelief that changed to boiling rage. He stood before the bare post, his hands loose.The next morning there was movement at the forest edge. The Siconese leader, Tamanend's uncle, stepped forward, his face a snow-covered landscape of seriousness. Behind him were two warriors. And before them, on the cold ground, they set something down.It was not the metal plate, but the bloody head of Tamanend. The eyes half open, the mouth silenced. The cut at the neck was clean. There was little blood. It was an offering. A confession."e;