This is Chapter Two, hope you enjoy.
EDIT: Just to let you know, I am still working (slowly) on my Character Development.
EDIT 2: I am reposting the chapters in smaller parts to make it easier to review.
Chapter 2
“Saturday, 10th October, 2009
This has been one of the strangest days in my life. When I went out to the meet 'the Friends' I was kidnapped, and taken to some offices somewhere. I think there must be something wrong in these peoples heads... but it's strange, because they seemed perfectly normal.
They told me about this... thing which they call the Darkness. You're not allowed to say it's name, or – this is what they said – you will die.
They must be mad, because they say that It created the world. They said it tortures people until they die, then bring them back to life. They said that magic exists. That's just crazy – isn't it?
On the other hand, Leom knew my mother. He didn't mention my father, but he said that Yasmin was one of them. Do that have something to do with why she committed suicide?”
James threw down his pen down with a sigh. Why was everything so complicated? It had been his own idea to start a diary. He knew people said it helped them deal with problems, to get it down on paper. So far though, it hadn't helped James at all. It just made him think of more questions that couldn't be answered.
“It's so complicated! What am I supposed to believe? You can hardly call that whole thing about my father natural. There's also that episode between me and Andrew. I wonder if he remembers what happened? It must be so weird having brain damage. I wonder if you realize that something's wrong with your brain? Ugh, that's a horrible thought.
I suppose if this diary is going to work, I need to see what I believe in. I've been brought up as a Christian, so naturally I believe that the most. Hannah and Mark never take me to church that often though. We only go to all the major religious events like Christmas and Easter.
Alice said that It is God and Satan at the same time. That's not possible is it?
All of the Friends seemed to really believe what they said... it was like it was their life. It's completely unbelievable though.
They do say though, that in every legend there is a seed of truth. Is the Beast a legend? I suppose it is for some people.”
James twiddled with pen, staring up at the ceiling for a moment. This was mad. Why was he even considering that this story was true? It was obviously complete rubbish.
Not it's not, a voice said in his head.
Of course it's rubbish. There's no logical way it can be true! said another.
Maybe you should forget logical.
James shook his head. He needed to clear his mind. He picked up a book on his bedside table. It was Crocodile Tears by Anthony Horowitz. It had come out on the day of the Accident. Maybe that was why he had bought it – he certainly hadn't read any of the other books in series.
He was half-way through it already, so he quickly found where he had got up to and started reading.
He was soon wrapped up in the adventures of MI6's teenage spy, and resolved to buy the rest of the books in series. He put the book down with another sigh, wondering what it would be like to actually be a spy. That was what gave him the idea.
He got up and walked over to his computer. It was already on, and the screensaver was playing. He paused for a moment, watching random pipes move their way across the screen. Then he moved the mouse and logged into MSN. He had just remembered what someone had said at school.
He double clicked on the name Gareth Roxon after seeing that he was online.
Hey Gareth, he typed in. After a few seconds Gareth replied.
Hey James.
Do you know where Patrick Weed lives? he typed.
Why? was the quick reply.
Just wondering...
He lives on the other side of town. 21, Ivy Street.
Thanx. James smiled to himself.
Why on earth do you want to know that? Gareth asked.
I was just wondering. He was on the news and everything, and you said he was local. GTG now. Bye! James hurriedly typed the last few words, then signed off. He didn't want any more awkward questions. There was also the fact that he was rubbish at lying.
He grabbed his school backpack which was lying on the floor where he had dumped it the night before. He picked up the torch of his bedside table and turned it on and off to check the batteries. He put it in the pack. He checked to make sure he still had some mints in it, before slinging it over his shoulder. Then, he walked to the door, took one more look around before turning the light off.
Running down the stairs, he yelled that he was going out for an hour or two.
There was no reply.
He closed the front door behind him, and walked to the bus stop. He checked the time table and sat down to wait for a bus.
Half an hour later, he was feeling less sure of himself. He was looking down Ivy Street. Number 21 looked exactly like the other houses. Yellow bricks, square house. Small front lawn with withered plants. The only difference was the yellow tape which want all the way round the boundaries of the house and the police car sat waiting opposite.
The front door was red. James frowned. Surely he shouldn't be able to see that from here? He also hadn't thought that the police would still be here. He stood watching for a moment. There was a million ways this could go wrong, but he couldn't turn back now. He started walking forwards just as he took the first step forward, he felt a tap on his shoulder.
“James!” someone hissed. He turned round sharply, and found himself looking up at Gareth Roxon. “What are you doing here?” James asked, bewildered.
“After you MSNed me, I had this feeling that you were going to do something stupid.” he replied with a smile. He had black hair that always flopped all over the place.
“Well, you could say that,” James said looking over his shoulder at number 21. Gareth followed his gaze. “You're not...” his jaw dropped open.
“Not what?” James asked defensively. “I just came for a look.”
Gareth looked apprehensively at James. “Just for... a look?” he asked. James nodded. “Yes. Just a look around.” he told him, then started walking back down the street.
Gareth ran after him. “But you can't!” he cried, grabbing Jame's shoulder. “There's police there. You'll get arrested!”
“Oh well,” James still seemed calm and just shrugged Gareth off. He was actually feeling far from it, and all he wanted to do was turn and run. No you don't, he thought to himself. You want to finish this once and for all. So do it! He heard a sigh behind him and more running footsteps. He tensed, waiting for Gareth to try and stop him again. He didn't. “If you're going in,” said the boy behind him. “Then I'm coming with you.” he seemed to be trying to convince himself it was the right thing to do. James wasn't listening anyway, so it didn't matter.
As he approached the house, everything seemed all wrong. Nobody was moving in the police car. The yellow tape was torn at the gate, a small round object was lying on the ground. Some instinct told James that it wasn't meant to be there.
Every nerve in his body was telling him run away, get away from this place. He carried on walking. As he neared the police car, he could see that nobody was in it. Presumably they were in the house. Then he stopped. The front door of number 21 was wide open. That was how he had seen it was red from the other end of the street.
He sniffed. Something smelt. Bad.
James was sweating now, and his fists were clenched. To make it worse, it started raining. Pitter-patter, pitter-patter. He was sick of the sound. His mind was taken away from the rain though, when he saw what it was doing to the front door.
It must have been painted just that day because as the rain hit the paint, the paint started running down the door. Already he could see that the door had originally been green.
One question entered his mind; Why had it been painted? Patrick Weed had been dead for almost a month. James had a feeling he wasn't going to like what he saw inside the house.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see Gareth nervously looking from side to side. His face was white, and he looked as if he was about to be sick.
James made up his mind then.
He walked to the house as if he had every right to be there. He walked through the puddle of paint, and walked into the hall of the house.
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