Who's that runaway boy that lives in the abandoned barn?

That's Oliver Milton Kramper. But he is not a runaway, nor is he a boy. He is the oldest man in the world. He looks just like every runaway boy in the 80's would look, poor, destitute, and dirty. But he has his blanket, his canned tuna, and his stock picks. He probably knows more about surviving than anyone on earth because he's been doing it for so long.

He wasn't always a boy. He's been a boy before, over and over again. He lives to a good age in one body and travels to the next one, repeating it when neccesary, if the situation is needed. It was needed this time. His new father was an abuser and his mother was a coward. He left the small town in Ohio and moved to an abandoned barn, near an invalid woman. Pretending to be the nice boy next door, he did household chores for her, living in her barn, free and unbothered.

Until he meets her and things take a turn for the weird. She was also an immortal, but not like him. Where he had spent his time growing smarter and wiser, she had been becoming more and more dark. But he never knew that when he fell in love with her.

For fans of: Anne Rice's Vampire Chronicles, Stephen King's Pet Sematary, and Clive Barker's Books of Blood.

Content Warning: This novel contains explicit wording, content, and profanity, supernatural evil, self-harm, rape, abuse, and murder. Please read with care.

Author's Note: As with all true horror stories, the goal is to survive to the end. I find that there is hope at the end of every tunnel, but getting there is often a horrifying and bloody mess. That being said, this is a true horror story.

Book Excerpt: The air was cold as it whipped up the sides of the hill and stung my nose as I held my dead wife to my chest. My oldest son James and I had come up to the top of the small hill among the ravines to bury her, so that she may overlook the beautiful land of her people. The muddy streaks left on my cheeks and neck from the tears and the trek blended into my collar as I slowly rocked back and forth, clinging to her this one last time. James, a few feet away had his head turned, facing the cloud scraped sky. He was ashamed of me, I knew, but the grief had overcome me at last. I had shown my weakness to him, and he would never forgive me. His face was set to the east, his head down, but even from my vantage, I could see his shoulders shaking. He would never show it to me, however, and I am sure that he blamed me for this.We had brought a spade and a shovel on our small mule drawn cart, and a small white cross to place at her head. She was clothed in her Sunday dress, her only real dress, the one I had married her in eight years ago. My heart broken within me, she had been the wife of my youth. She was Crow Indian, dark skinned and dark haired, like the night. I had loved her as the sun loves the moon. She bore me five beautiful sons, each one more comely than the last. Now, James, our firstborn, turned to me. He looked like his mother's father. High cheeks and hair like a horse mane. He had no more tears on his face, but the puffiness in his eyes betrayed him. He hid his pain well, as I could not. His grandfather would be proud of him.He took the few steps down to me, near the spot where we would bury her. "Come Father, she returns to Old Man Coyote, we should help her on her journey." He handed me a shovel. He was already a man.