heard someone mention both Gabriella and my name. I strained to hear, without turning to avoid attention. I recognized Rita Sharma and Lucy Healy’s voices — two well-known gossip queens from my year. I caught only scraps of the conversation as I struggled to tune in. “Gabriella…so gorgeous…why…Eden?” said Lucy. “Well… new…doesn’t know…weirdo…” replied Rita. “Did…hear? Apparently…weird herself…Stacy…you?” “No what…” I pretended to fumble for change in my pocket and ushered a few people in front of me, so that I could hear better. It worked.
“So, Stacy told me that she came in about an hour before school started this morning to work on her Media assignment. Anyway, she gets to the main entrance and Gabriella’s there, just standing on her own and staring into thin air, like she’s in a trance.”
“No way.” “Seriously. And Stacy said she was talking to herself too!” I drew a sharp breath and held it, wanting to make sure that I didn’t miss anything.
“Then the weirdest part of all is that she starts shaking, like she’s having a fit. Stacy ran over to help, but as soon as she did Gabriella stopped. Then she turned and ran right out of school like she was being chased!” Rita gasped. “That’s mental! How random?” “Yeah, I feel better about how pretty she is now; the new girl is a mental case!” They both started cackling like two bitter Witches. I turned around and shot them both a dirty look. A bad move. “Who the hell do you think you’re death staring loser?” Lucy demanded.
“Yeah piss off geek!” Rita barked. “Oh and don’t think for one second that even a nutter like Gabriella would be interested in you. You’re a nobody mate.”
My mouth dropped open. I hadn’t realised that my unpopularity had spread to pretty much every corner of the school. Now it seemed that even the plain, middle of the road gossip girls were subscribing to the Alex hate campaign. Other people in the queue who had witnessed our exchange started sniggering. I turned away feeling worthless and angry at myself. Why do I feel so protective of her? I brought that on myself.
I resumed my waiting.
Later that evening, I lay in bed, staring at the photograph absently, whilst the soft thud of TV bass floated up from downstairs. The rest of my family were watching some feel good Steve Martin film on Sky. They’d invited me to join, but after the misery of the day and the headache I still couldn’t shake, all I wanted was to be alone. So I’d explained that I had coursework to finish and instead wasted a bit of time on the pc.
Dad’s picture was worn from all the time it had spent in my hands. The edges were lined with creases, collected over time like wrinkles. I’d discovered it about seven years ago in the attic of our first house, whilst rooting around for something or other. I’d spotted it wedged between a floorboard and the insulation in the far corner. As soon as I’d picked it up, I knew it was of my real father. Something in his eyes had seemed familiar to me — seemed warm. In the picture, Dad was sitting on a set of stone steps in a grand garden. His wavy brown hair hung around his strong face and his emerald eyes shone out at the camera. He was cradling a baby in his arms. Swaddled in blue, its tiny pink hand stretched up and cupped his chin. Dad looked happy. On the back, someone had written:
Peter and Alexander aged 1. August 1995.
Two months after the date on the photo, he’d popped out to get a newspaper. A speeding car had ensured that he never made it home again. They never caught the driver.
Mum was a closed book when it came to the subject of my real dad. She got misty eyed and left the room if I ever brought him up. Beyond the details of his death, all I knew for sure was that his full name had been Peter Eden. A surname Mum had insisted I keep even after she became Mrs Wilson.
I kept the picture a secret. Somehow I knew that Mum would throw it away if she found it — just like she must have done with all of the other memories. I mean, who gets married and has no mementos?
“Night Dad,” I said.
Tucking the picture back under the mattress, I switched off the bedside lamp. Eyes still wide, I watched the shadows dance in the pale moonlight that shone through a crack in the curtains. As time passed, my mind wandered to Gabriella. So she had planned to meet me after all, I thought, a wide smile creeping across my face. Then I thought about what Lucy and Rita had said. Dull anger began to burn in my stomach over their comments. I had no idea why I was so protective over the new girl. After all, I’d only known her for one day. It seemed clear that someone as incredible as her didn’t deserve to be the subject of ridicule by people as mediocre as Lucy and Rita. I’d been right though; something was different about Gabriella. To me she seemed totally unlike everyone else…unique somehow. A divine jigsaw piece forced to fit into the wrong, worn out puzzle.
I was still imagining her and what it would be like to kiss those soft red lips, when my eyes began to grow heavy, and I felt the contented waves of sleep wash over me.
I was standing in a graveyard. The moon was full; its milky light cast an eerie glow on the area. A damp fog hung low and thick in the air. There was no sound at all. No animals or insects. Not even the rustlings of the nearby trees. Everything was deathly still. It felt wrong.
All around me were rows of tombstones. They looked to have been there centuries — their loving messages lost to the ravages of time. In the middle of it all stood a decaying crypt. Its aging stone walls were fronted by a large wooden door that hung on thick iron hinges. There was no handle. Above, the word MOONSTELLA had been carved deep into the stone.
I felt a cloying fear in my throat. The crypt didn’t look like the resting place of a dearly departed. It looked like it was hiding something.
A deafening crack shattered the silence. My heart spasmed. Instincts took over and I dived behind a large black headstone.
The noise was coming from the crypt.
CRACK!
This time the noise was louder. I saw with horror that it was the door making the sounds. Something was pulling it fiercely from inside, creating deep splits on the wood.
CRACK!
The door shuddered and large splinters burst from its wounds. My breath snagged in my throat. I was too scared to exhale. Whatever was inside grew agitated and the shuddering became frenetic. The door rattled and twisted on its thick hinges as it strained against the tremendous force.
CRACK!!
Finally with a protesting groan, the door gave way and buckled, disappearing inside the crypt.
The unnatural silence returned for a few moments. In absolute horror, I watched as a colossal figure appeared in the doorway, shrouded in darkness. A metal clad foot emerged into the moonlight. The grass that it landed on instantly turned black and wilted to the ground — devoid of life. At that moment a thick cloud swept across the moon, plunging the graveyard into darkness. From within the black mire, the figure barged its way through the opening. I could hear the dull thuds of rubble dropping from the wrecked hole where the door had once stood. Then silence again. Nothing but my pulse jackhammering against my temples and my own ragged breath.
When the cloud passed and the pale moonlight returned, I strained to catch a glimpse of the creature.
Nothing.
I let my tense body relax. It hadn’t seen me.
For a few more minutes, I stayed huddled behind the tombstone, creeping my head out every now and again to make sure it wasn’t lurking anywhere.
It’s gone.
I turned to stand…and screamed.
The creature was right next to me.
4
I woke up screaming. Sat bolt upright, eyes wide, staring at nothing. The bed-sheets stuck to my sweat- soaked skin. Matted hair clung to the sides of my face. I stopped screaming and sat quaking, my breath coming out in short rasps. The bedroom door burst open, giving me another scare.
