The Myschae - Prologue/Chapter 1

I’m in a strange room; it’s filled with a darkness so think and pressing I can’t distinguish its features, but it somehow seems familiar. I’m standing in one spot, afraid to move in case I bump into something. My breath is coming in quick gasps; and I can’t repress the feeling of terror. I feel like I’m suffocating, as the overwhelming forces choke me from all around. A loud creak and a scratchy, deep voice break the silence. “Yes. She is the one.” I hold my breath in panic, hoping I won’t be discovered. There’s something dark and foreboding in that voice, and I know that if I’m found things won’t go well for me. The voice is growing quieter and I have to strain to listen. “It will work quite well on the simpleton in mind; I am sure to be successful.” Silence. Then, the voice speaks once more, in a whisper, having received no answer. “Soon…it will be soon…” I can barely make it out, and as I lean forward to where the speaker seems to be coming from, I lose my balance and fall…just as I feel the dark floor yawning up to meet me I suddenly find myself on my bed, gasping in awestruck horror. It had been my most vivid dream yet.

Chapter 1

EDITED:

“Well, I have to catch my taxi or I won’t make my flight,” I hear my dad calling as I hurriedly grab some jeans and throw on the first T-shirt my hands grasp. “Coming!” I yell back, flustered. I hate to admit it, but I’m a little nervous that he’s leaving me alone again. I haven’t told him about my creepy nightmares – I don’t have time to go to ‘therapy’ for my problems, and that’s what most single dads would do. At least, mine was bound to do that being a hard-working business man and all. Ever since mom left…

“Melody!” Dad’s impatient shout breaks my train of thought and I grab my backpack and a brush before running down our soft, tan carpeted stairs two at a time. I drop my backpack by the door and am enveloped in a huge bare hug from dad. That’s one thing nice about him; even if he’s in a hurry, or wearing a suit, he always still has time to give me a hug. I return the hug, asking, “How long are you going to be gone?”

“About a week. But I’ll try to make it back in five,” he adds. My face must show my downcast spirit. I have a lot going on, and beside my friends, dad was the only person in the world I cared about. Since I had grown up with him alone, I’m rather a ‘daddy’s girl’, and even though I’m fourteen now, I still need a parent some of the time. At least one parent.

“Hey,” dad murmurs shaking me gently, “Mrs. Hingham will be coming by every afternoon to make sure you’re doing OK.” I nod. Mrs. Hingham’s our next door neighbor. She’s a nice old lady, rather quiet since her husband’s death last spring, but she always brings cookies or food to ‘help out’. It does help; I have enough to do with school, choir, and tennis to be worry about making meals everyday, which I’d had to do since I could walk. Well, not literally, but you know what I mean.

Anyway, Mrs. Hingham is nice and all, but she doesn’t really care about me. She’s sweet and kind, but I’m only another number on the list of people she cares for. She babysits, brings food, and cleans for half the people on our street. It ‘gives her something to do.’

Back to the present, which seems to be becoming harder and harder since my disturbing dreams. “You feeling OK, sweetie?” Dad sounds concerned. I force a smile. “I’m great!” I lie, trying to sound upbeat. “Love you.” He looks me in the eye, so I know it’s not just ritual. “Love you too, Songbird,” he mutters gruffly, using my special nickname, before he turns to pick up his briefcase and head out the door.

After he leaves, I walk quickly to the kitchen, brushing my hair as I go. The buss will be here in a few minutes. I find a plate of donuts, dad’s special good-bye treat, and grab one, munching it as I zip up my leather boots. These boots are the envy of my classmates: black, with a slight wedge heal, and tassels running down the side by the zip. And real leather. A loud honk sounds outside. The bus is here.

“Remember to stay away from that book, Melody,” Mr. Linden, my history teacher tells me as I leave his class. It’s my last class of the day, and all I have to do is check out some books from the school library for my dumb Civil War assignment. Mr. Linden’s kind of a creep. He’s a new teacher, started last semester, and nobody really likes him. He’s tall, with icy blue eyes that look mean - I swear they could practically stab someone with their venom- salt and pepper hair, and he’s thinner then a rake. The worst thing is the way his eyes never seem to settle on anything for more then a few seconds. They’re constantly flitting about the room, the way a fly darts around. And sometimes when he looks at you, you’ve gotta wonder if he actually sees you. His eyes glaze over and…ugh! The thought is freaking me out.

Anyhow, you can imagine I was a little, “Eh,” when he started asking me to remain after class, one day, a few weeks ago, and almost every day since ‘reminded me’ about some book, called the…Myschae, I think it was. He really didn’t explain much about the book, other then going on about it being ‘extremely dangerous’ how so, I’d like to know. The whole thing’s a little weird. Why would I care if some random book is so-called dangerous or not? And if he’s so worried about it, why not just tell dad? Dad’s the librarian book dude after all, not me. I told him that, but his excuse was that dad was going to be gone for a week and some jibber-jabber about the Myschae being even more ‘dangerous’ when he was gone. Or something like that.

And here he is again, creeping on me. “Ignore it when you come across it, my dear, or you will regret it.” He says it in a false voice, sugar coated but with a threat behind it. And who is he to call me “my dear”? Sheesh!

“Don’t worry about it, I won’t be touching it, so you can chillax.” I can’t resist an undertone of sarcasms, and barely restrain a laugh as I notice his tiny brain trying to perceive it. Suspicion glares in his awful, terrifying eyes, and for an instant he seems to tower taller then ever. I fake a smile to set him at ease, and with a casual swagger saunter down the hall.

Turning the corner I bump into Randolph Connors, one of the most popular boys in school aside from the fact that people sing him “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer” morphing the well-known Christmas song into “Randolph the Brown-Eyed Hottie” on account of his chocolate brown eyes.

He’s on the football team, tall, muscular, blah, blah, blah. Supposedly half the girls in school are in love with him, but I just can’t see anything in him to impress. In theory he’s handsome enough, with his famous eyes and matching curly brown hair, which gives him an irresistible little-boy appearance that is rather dashing… but really…I dunno. He’s not that nice. No. Take that back. He’s nice, but has no real character. All he talks about is sports, parties, and making fun of teachers. Bo-ring.

I suddenly realize I’m standing looking up at him, thinking this, and he probably thinks that I’m gazing at his beauty. Embarrassing! I glance away, feeling a blush heating my face. He grins, and steps aside with “Ladies first,” and a pretend bow. “Thanks,” I mutter, feeling my flush recede somewhat now that the encounter is over. Whew!

I forget about Randolph as I step into the school library. If you hadn’t guessed, I’m a bit of a nerd – I love my books. The tall shelves and scent of books basking in the light from the huge windows lining one length of the room calms my frayed nerves, rubbed raw from last night’s disturbing dream, dad leaving, Mr. Linden, and now Randolph. I heave an enormous sigh, which sounds loud in the studious silence.

Rosie Berne, one of the school librarians, is at the counter. She greets me pleasantly, her huge blue eyes sparkling merrily, and I reply, before quickly escaping down an aisle. Rosie is one of the sweetest people on the planet, but she has a tendency to talk, and talk, and talk. She acts likes she’s my aunt or something. Not even kidding. I do like having someone older then most of my friends –yes, I consider Rosie a friend- to talk to once in a while, but her jabbering can get a little nosy sometimes. She’s smarter then Lu, my bestie, being old and all, well, not old, but in her thirties. Besides, she likes to listen, instead of butting in, when I want to talk, and she generally doesn’t give terrible grown-up advice.

She’s actually dating my dad – well, not technically – but it’s bound to happen sooner or later. They are totally into each other. At first I was a little harsh on Rosie; I mean, she’s the first woman dad’s been interested since mom left when I was two for no reason, and I felt a little jealous of the attention being drawn away from me. Now I realize that I want dad to be happy, and as I said, I really like Rosie. So, if the two get together, well great, although I think I’ll always feel a little sad mom never came back, like she said she would in the note she had left the day she took off.

I walk down the aisle quickly, letting go of my thoughts as I scan for books on the Civil War. Don’t ask me why I’m learning about that again. I learnt it in seventh grade, for Pete’s sake. Oh well. Looks like all the good books are nearly cleaned out; the other kids must’ve been here already. Suddenly a strange sensation passes through me. It feels pleasant, but gross at the same time, like I’m happily full, then nauseous all at once. I rub the back of my neck, perplexed, and begin making my way back to Rosie, to ask if she has any more books on the Civil War kept in a back room.

The feeling comes again, and I wonder if it’s food poisoning. I stifle a grimace, and breath easier after it passes. Rosie is looking at me in concern; she must have spotted my discomfort. Luckily she doesn’t say anything. “Hey, are there any more books on the Civil War?” I ask, cheerily. “I’ll go see,” she replies, gesturing for me to follow. I can’t help thinking that if I hadn’t spotted any, she wouldn’t either, but I follow obligingly, watching her short figure sway gracefully as she walks.

She stops at the section I had just viewed, and humming a catchy little tune, taps her finger against the board of the bookcase. She runs her finger across the rows of books, and coming across a thick, scary-looking album, she pulls it out expertly, and thumps it into my waiting hands with a triumphant grin. I give her a shocked grin in return, partly mock, partly real, as I flip through the pages quickly. There are pictures, and interesting-looking captions. It doesn’t actually look too dry or boring. “Thanks! I totally missed that,” I say, feeling somewhat sheepish.

Rosie nods, then heads back to her desk. “You know where I am if you need anything else.”

“Yep,” I reply, feeling distracted. Something just doesn’t feel right; I’m not sure what it is, but I know the library has never made me feel so uncomfortable before. Weird. I go back to the shelf where Rosie found this book, and scan it, looking for something, although I’m not sure what – I already have a good Civil War book. I walk down the rest of that row, and turn the corner into where the ancient, rare books are kept behind glass. Don’t ask why I’m here; I’ve already looked at a lot of these books, due to dad’s position has head librarian of the school, with schooling on old books, and rebinding and all.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been standing here, before I notice a book that I had previously missed. Strange how I had missed it all the other times I’ve been here. I peer at its title. It looks to be in another language, for its called “Myschae”. Why does that name sound so familiar? Pondering why I find it familiar is too much work, so I let that thought slip and instead think about asking Rosie to check it out for me. Something tells me I shouldn’t, but the temptation is too strong.

“There’s a book I’m interested in behind the glass,” I say, knowing she’ll understand I mean the old books. At my words, Rosie lets out an audible gasp, and turns pale. Why, I don’t know. She’s never shown surprise at my previous requests. Is she OK? Rosie still hasn’t said anything, and I’m just about to repeat my request, when she murmurs shakily, “OK, honey. I-I’ll be right there.” She turns from me, and I have the feeling she needs to recover…from what though?

As Rosie checks out my books, she’s very quiet and withdrawn. What’s wrong? I silently ask with my eyes, but she only avoids my gaze. “Thanks,” I say as I grab my books, still wondering about her strange behavior. As I leave the library, I here a quiet, “Be careful, darling,” but when I glance back, Rosie’s leaning over her desk, writing. I shake my head, thinking I really must be sick. First weird nausea, memory problems, and now imagining voices? Not to mention my messed-up dreams!

I just sat down on my bus seat, when Mr. Linden’s words rush back to me: ‘the Myschae is a very dangerous book that you must avoid.’ Had I just checked out the very book he told me to stay away from?