The Man In The High Castle Book Novels & Stories

It is barbaric. Silently, I wonder if our Goddess feels their pain. Feels the sins of her people each time they decide to take fate into their own hands. I force my eyes open, not ready to smell the scent of burning flesh. Goosebumps prickle my skin at what I was about to witness, and a cold chill crept down the length of my spine. Ignoring the nauseating feeling, I head in the direction of the Priest’s office. Dusty books line the built in bookcase along the far wall. Everything abandoned, just as the church had been. Pulling the sixth book, I hear the wall click to the left of me.

There was the old anger at Castle for dismissing me, and now a newer, colder anger at him for killing the man who had given me life. Then I learned the worst part. The ex-FBI man Rowan had worked with, he was the same man Castle had killed. At least, that’s what I had been told at the time. The man had been pronounced dead, and all signs pointed to Castle being the executioner. Years later I learned the man had not been as dead as everyone believed. When I learned who his son was, everything locked into place for me. Castle had fallen for the son of the man my father worked with. He had loved the child of an enemy. It felt like betrayal on top of betrayal.

At that moment, Isolde stepped forward, wrapping her hand gently around my shoulder. Her voice rang clear and unwavering, “My husband has always been, and always will be, Caspian Ashford.” The moment the words left her lips, Thayer’s expression twisted with disbelief and fury. “Isolde! You! Have you forgotten our past?” I turned to him, coldness coating every word. “Past? What past? Thayer, I’ll say it again—this isn’t a place for you to make a scene, nor a place to climb onto someone else’s achievements.”

I sat in the chair nearest the door because sitting nearest the door felt like the right instinct, and I waited, and the house waited around me, and nobody spoke. Then the front door opened. The man who walked in was tall, not as tall as Damien but close, with lighter colouring and a face that shared certain features with Damien's the way different editions of the same book share a cover. You could see the connection if you were looking for it. The jaw, the set of the eyes, the particular way he held himself like he had grown up being told he was important and then at some point stopped believing it. He was maybe thirty. He was wearing a jacket that had been expensive once and was not anymor

Every time he speaks it makes my insides melt a little more with nervousness. He turns to walk out, then turns back, “ Are you comfortable?” Just wishing he would go now so I can gather the last of my self respect and bury my head under the covers for the rest of the day. I reply, “yes, thank you”. That seems to appease him and he smiles that lovely smile of his and turns and leaves me to ponder on how I actually got to be here, on an Alaskan mountain, during the biggest snow storm of the century, with a woman doctor and her sheriff husband, and this enticingly good looking Alaskan mountain man, without my sister?

THE MAN IN YELLOW

I immediately halted when I entered the living room and saw an unfamiliar man sitting on the couch across from where my parents. "Charlotte language!" My mom scolded making me pout and quickly apologize. "I'm sorry, mom." I stammered and grabbed the diary from my brother's hands and glared at him. I looked at the man from under my eyelashes too nervous to look him in the eye, I saw my dad gesture towards him form the corner of my eyes. Right, greet him! Sorry, sorry.

“Why are you telling me all of this?” “Because I want you to know that I accept you and trust you.” He trusted me. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll report all of this?” “I’m Mario Castillo.” The man held his head high. “I’ve got nothing to be afraid of.” He spoke with open arms. I admired his confidence, but George Torres was not someone to underestimate, and neither was I. I was here to destroy him, and George was willing to do anything to advance Maddens and to get back his only daughter.

In the picture, Harold was listening intently to a doctor in a white coat, while Jacob sat obediently beside him. Susan's face was only half visible in the corner of the frame, but she was smiling brightly. The caption read. "I thought I'd hit rock bottom, only to realize a new path was waiting just ahead. I'm so lucky that you're always here." I thought I'd be angry when I saw the post. Yet, to my surprise, I felt nothing. It felt like I was observing two strangers who no longer had any connection to me. I liked the post and commented, "Such a lovely family. Congratulations."

She pulled a volume free, a worn copy of The Sun Also Rises he’d read in high school. She descended the ladder with a natural grace, the book in her hand. When she reached the bottom, she was close enough for him to smell the clean scent of her shampoo. She held the book out. “Hemingway. So brooding. So… repressed.” A smile played on her lips. “Was that you in high school, Oliver? Brooding and repressed?” “Maybe,” he said, his voice rough. She stepped closer, using the book to gently push against his chest, backing him up until his shoulders met the cool wood of a bookshelf. “And now?” she breathed, her eyes searching his. “Are you still repressed?”