RMS Storymakers Issue 6

Storymakers

crafted by the talented students of the RMS community. Be prepared to grip the edge of your seat with our collection of haunting Gothic tales from year 9, or marvel at the poetic homage in our Poetry Remixed section. Oh, and don’t miss out on the captivating short stories at the start in your excitement to get to the other two sections!

Each piece in this magazine is a testament to the boundless imagination and literary prowess of our students.We hope you enjoy immersing yourself in their worlds as much as we have.

ShortFiction

Enjoy this brief but delightfully eclectic collection of short pieces penned by students from across the senior school. From whimsicaladventures to heart-wrenching dramas, there’s a little something for everyone.

Pandora’s Star

Nooneisallowedtoopenthejar.

I have vivid memories of being a young childandlettingmycuriositygetthebetterofme; just one small peek I would think. As my small handswouldreachtoopenthejar,Iwouldheara distantcry.AcryfromtheGods,myfatherwould tellmeafterhehadjustsnatchedthejarfrommy grasp.

I would cry and ask him why I couldn’t take even just a small peek at the jar. He would refuse to tell me until my 18th birthday which onlyfurtherdeepenedmycuriosity.

As time passed, sometimes crawling or sprinting past my quick yet subtle glances, my curiosity faded in and out. It would falter and I wouldforgetaboutmyjaryetothertimesIwould find myself gnawing at the possibility of what could be inside. Whenever I tried to ask, my father’sbrowwouldfurrowandhewouldclearhis throat, only to remain silent and stoic. The only timehisexpressionwouldshiftwaswhenIwould tryandopenthejar,hisfacedarkeningasarange ofemotionsstirred.

When I was seven, I created a game. I’ve alwayslovedgamesandthiswasmyfavouriteone of all. After I had been left to sleep, I would quietly tread downstairs and hold the jar. I wouldn’topenitbecauseIhadheardthewhispers, whispersofgreathorrorsandgreatdespair.Tales ofmonstersthatwouldeatyouwholeandshake yourdreams,stirringyouawake

tosurpriseyouwiththeirunwantedpresence.The one that scared me the most was the tale of the lady of stars. She used to protect them, making suretheyfoundtheirway.Onedayamanoffered hergreatamountsofmoneyandeternalfreedom and, consumed by her greed and hunger for the beyond,sheaccepted.Themanwasoutragedthat she would sacrifice her trusted position and banished her to Tartarus where she would be trappedforever,drivenmadbyisolationandenvy. Shepromisedtochange.Themanbelievedheras hesawtheeffectshispunishmenthadonherand freedher.Thirstingforrevenge,shewouldknock onpeople’sdoorsandconvincethemtodowrong. Oncetheylistenedtohershewouldtrapthemand they would be forced to carry on her legacy, conveyingthemessageofevilandwrongdoingto innocentpeople.

WhenIaskedmyfatheraboutthosetales, he told me not to worry and that if I was good, nothingbadwouldhappentome.Poweredbymy determination to find out what was in the jar, I kept silent and nodded my head. Now, as I am looking out of my window at the night sky, the stars formulate patterns and answer the world's greatesttheories,Ithinkaboutthejaragain,how even the thought of it ebbs away at my dignity. ‘Onesmallpeekcouldn’thurt,’avoicecallsoutto meinthedark,asmallwispofvoice.Turningmy headtosee,Icatchaglimpseofasmoke-likefigure

prancing around the garden. The wispy limbs branchoutinalldirectionsastheyelegantlybend and twist around in a dance. I pry my window openandpokemyheadouttoseethisfigure.We lock eyes through the garden and I am transparent, its eyes knowingly pierce through me.Thiscreaturefeelseverysmallbreathofmine and every thought that flows through my head. The figure moves towards me; every inch feels a mile.Everysecondayearthatyouwishawaybut neverleaves.Itstops.Eachmovementandbreath we share slows to a standstill. I cannot fight my curiosity, it’s what brings me down. My father always told me that if I could not best my curiositythenhowwasItobestanythingelse. Itdoesnotspeak,itonlystaresyetIknow exactly what it’s telling me: ‘Your curiosity does notbringyoudown,itonlyliftsyouup.’

I tilt my head, it tilts too. Every movement, every look and word unspoken conveys entire novels. In order to discover, you must let curiosity thrive within. I have met this before,itknowseverythoughtIhave.Itcarriesan ability to translate every breath and movement intowordsIwishIcouldsay,butneverwill.The creature prances away, glistening as it fluidly movesandtwists.MybreathhitchesasIpickup the jar. Every thought, every tear, every burning desirelayshererightinsidethisjar.Onepeektruly willnothurt,itwilljustteach.

My fingers close around the lid, my movementstops,everythingstillsasIopenthejar. I bring my eyes to the jar, there is nothing. Somethingstirsfromthegarden,Ilookupandsee eyes glowing from the moonlight. As my gaze movesdownIseetheeyesarecompletedwitha smile,agreatbigonethatstretchesfarandwide, sharpteethgazingatme.MyheartdropsandI

feelsicktomystomachasIhearashrillscreamin the distance. I cannot find it anywhere and it makes me scared that I cannot find the cause of this gut wrenching feeling. Something is awfully wrong.TheworldfallsdeathlysilentbeforeIam blinded by a scorching light. When my vision comesback,myfearisfurtherconfirmed:creatures fly out of the jar singing and chanting their merriments.Bloodcurdlingscreamsandlaughsare releasedintotheair.Iseebodiesofpink,blueand blackalltwistingwithineachother.Idropthejar anditshatters,IthinkitslicesmylegbutIcannot tell through the sound and that sickness in my stomach.Ihavedonesomethingverywrong.The creatures,theremustbeatleast200-300,rushout into the night sky as they release cries and speak horriblethings.Thegroundshakesandsplits,the sky rumbles. The grey clouds groan and weep as they shake frantically, I turn around to see my father. His face horrified, he speaks no words. Instead,theyareplasteredonhisface,thewordsof disgustandhatredformandIamwhiskedaway.I shriekandcrywhilstIthrashandclawatwhatever has stolen me away. My head feels tight and my eyesheavy,Iamnowmadeoflead,Iamnowstill andunmoving.

My eyes open to see a pitch black illuminated by hushed voices and bright lights. I cannotdecipherthevoicesfromthedistanceIam at.Iseeaboy,helooksyoung,noolderthanfive yearsoldandhesmilesaswemakeeyecontact.I smiletooandhisexpressionshifts,hecriesandI feelapaininmymouth,myhandsrushtocradle my jaw and I am stabbed by something. I realise the consequences I am yet to face and I am horrifiedandashamedthatIletmycuriositybring medown.MyonefatalflawhadcostmealifeasI remembertheoneruleIwassostupidtoignore. Nooneisallowedtoopenthejar.

ByRubyNeale

Stumbling past identical tress, fighting againstmyachinglegs,Iseeit.Iamtired,alone, lost.Ihavenoonetocallandnowheretoturn.I seeit.Itisalone,andtrappedandhurt,withsharp green eyes that pierce through mine and fur of auburn brown. It sees me. I have always been taughtnevertoapproach,tokeepmydistance.I amafraid,butitlookssoharmlessandIwantto help.

Gingerly I step closer, jumping slightly with each twig that snaps and each leaf that cracks.Iseethecreatureupclose.Itisabsolutely beautiful.Terrifyinglypure.Kindlystaringatme withitscrueleyes.Idropmycanvasbagandtake outmylastpropeermeal;Ipeeloutthehamfrom the inside of the bread and I offer it some. It’s hurting and I need to help. Ravenously it wrenchesthehamourofmyhands,tearingitto shreds. It…smiles at me? It pushes its wet nose intomyhandsasthoughsayingthankyou.

Iadjustmyself,feelingmorecomfortable initspresence.It’shindlegistrappedinametal beartrap,theteethsinkingintothecreature’sleg. Holdingontightly,Iamabletopryitopeninno time,itwasn’tthathard.Thecreaturedoesn’t

move to lap up the blood but instead it stares…expectantly?Itearoffpartofmyshirtand wrapitaroundthegapingwoundleftinitsflesh.I removemyhairpinandsecurethebandageusing that.Itdoeesn’tmovetothankmethistime.Itjust stares.

Ibegintofeelafraid;IfellikeIamnothing in its unwavering gaze. On my knees, I turnstupid,Iknow-towalkaway.Mybackwastoit, yet I could still feel its gaze piercing through my skin.ThenIfeelitsteethpiercingthroughmyleg. Ifallflat,feelingitholdontighterandtiger.Ikick. I scream. I throw anything near me but it’s grip onlygetstighter.Itisabletogetontopofme,it attacksmyface,mybody,anythingitcanreach.It tirees of me quickly though and I hear it skulk away.

I hear the birds above my head, the trees swayingfromsidetoside,thecreaturegrumbling asitleavesmeasIfoundit.ButIcannotseeit.I cannotsemybag,ortheidenticaltrees,orthetrap fromwhichIfreedmyattacker.Icanonlyfeelthe blooddrippingdownmyface,andIstumbleback.

Myleggetscaughtinthemetalbeartrap.

ByEliHunter

IcanonlyremembergoingtoLochNess once,andthatwaswhenIwaslittle,like4or5.I canrecallmyselfbeingonaboatwithmyfamily, exploringthelake.Iwasclutchinginmyhandsa redwalkietalkie,andsowasmytwinsister.Even thoughwewerefairlyclosetoeachotheronthe boat,welovedtochatwitheachotherusingthe walkietalkies,whichatthetime,werequitenew.

The boat was drifting smoothly over the lakeuntilafairlylargeripplehittheboatwhich causedmysister,Daisy,todropherwalkietalkie intothewater.AsI’msureyoucanimagine,we werequiteupset,especiallyme.Thewalkietalkies werenowabsolutelynouse.OrsoIthought.

Jump forward a few years: It was just aboutaweekagowhenmyMumtoldmetoclean out my cupboard. As reluctant as I was, I knew shehadavalidreason.Itwasastraightupmess. So I did so, only to find the remaining walkie talkiefromseveralyearsago.Ididn’tknowwhat to do with it, because it was useless on its own, butforsomereasonIdidn’twanttothrowit

away. so I just put it in a box of random stuff undermybed.

Thatnight,IwasjustfallingasleepwhenI heardlowgrowlingnoises.Iwasterrified.Iwasso scaredthatIdidn’tevendaretogooutofbeduntil I had a good look across the room to make sure thattherewasnooneotherthanmeinthere.Once

Iwasoutofbed,Ilookedunderthebed,asIwas certain that it was coming from there. But there wasnothingthere.ItriedtoreassuremyselfthatI wasprobablyjusthearingvoicesinmyhead,butI didn’tgetanysleepthatnight.

Thenextmorning,Iheardtheexactsame thing. I was deeply troubled by this. Absolutely convincedthatitwascomingfromunderthebed, Ilookedunderthebedagain,onlytoseenothing. And then it hit me. The walkie talkie. The loch ness.

No, snap back into real life. It’s a myth. Justamyth.

ButIguessI’llneverknowforsure…

ByZofiaThornhill

Loch Ness

Explore the fusion of innovation and homage in these next pieces, as our students craft their own masterpieces inspired by the vibrant tapestry of modern poetry.

AndifIspeakofparadise, Ispeakofthesmelloffreshflowersonthebreeze, Ormyfamilysitting aroundatableplayinggames, Whotoldmetoalwaysstayclose, Sotheycan'tstealthoseideasthatIhave, IfIspeakofparadise, Ispeakofthesugarsand, Theoneswhichswallowyourfeetandmakeyourelaxed, Ispeakofrelaxationthatyoucan’tgetanywhereelse, Idon'tspeakofthecomfortthathomebrings, Butofthecomfortandhappinessofadventure, Thewayyoufeelwhilstdoingnewthings, Thatadrenalinerushattheendofitall, Andifyourworriestryandcatchupwithyou, grabalightsmallorbig, andletthelightshinethroughandrelaxyou, That’swhatmyparadiseis.

Basedonthepoem‘APortableParadise’byRogerRobinson

ByBronwenMorris

Grandfather’s Table

Anoldman,filledwiththejoyofliving, Puthiskeysonthetable

Puthisboxofpricklypearsdownonthetable.

Heputhisrifledown.

Thesoundofhiswifecookingand Watchinghisgrandkidsplayingoutside.

Thenhispaininlifecametohim.

Thefeelofmovingcountriesandnotknowingthelanguage.

Ofgettingkickedoutofhishomeandlosingeverythingand Startingfromscratch, Startingafamilyinanewcountry.

Sowhenhewasofferedtomoveback

Toforgive

Andlearnthelanguage

Movebackwithhiswife

-TobehappyagainThisisagoodtimeinhislife.

Nowlifeissittinginfrontofhim

Heishappywithit,eventhroughthepain. Itisthemostbeautifultablehehaseverseen.

ApoemaboutmyCypriotgrandfather

ByGeorgiaShali

,basedonthepoem‘TheTable’byEdipCansever

Wecomefromplayingtruth/dareontheGarthinthesummersun

Wecomfrommarchinginlines-allinsync

Wecomefromwalkingupgianthillsanddownendlesscorridors

WecomefromcheeringourHouseteamandthesuspenseofwinners.

WecomefromreadingShakespeareandwatchingLeonardoDiCaprioinclass

Wecomefromessaysforhomework,collaboratingforprojects

Wecomefrom creative lessonswithourowndecisions.

Wecomefromracingforthetrain…thenwaitingforthebus…

WecomefromplaidskirtsandshowsTOOtight

Wecomefromlimitlessdreamsbutlogicalbrains

Wecomefromacingtheclass-butfailingthetest

Wecomefrom:dives,startsandtumbles;fromsomersaults,twistsandturns

Wecomefromfreezingicerinksfor6ampractices

Wecomefromlongbikeridesandfastmatches-netball,hockeyandfootball

Wecomefromenjoyinginterestingbookswhilststrokinghappypets

Wecomefromaworldofnatureandaworldofmyth

Wecomefrombustlingcrowdsoutsidethetranquilityofourminds

Wecomefrommemoriesofcrashingwavesatthesandyseaside.

Wecomefrombabyfriendshipsthathavelastedourlifetime:frommeetinginnurseryandneverlettinggo

Wecomefromfriends’houseswithsleepoversunderthestars

Wecomefromfriendshipsthathealandsomethathurt

Wecomefromfightingwithsiblings,thencryingwhentheyleave.

Wecomefromthenoiseofabigfamilyandthecomfortoftheirlove

Wecomefromasmallhomewithabigimagination.

WecomefromFridaynightdinnersandcandlesbeinglit

Wecomefrombaggytrousersandtopstootight

Wecomefromaseparationoflanguagesandlearninganewone

Wecomefromachurchinthemorningandprayingallnight

Wecomefrom:

EnglishbreakfastsandSundayroasts;fromchickennuggetsandsaltchips;frombiryaniandBIGsamosas.

WecomefromtravellingtheWorld-andreturninghomeagain.

Basedonthepoem ‘IComeFrom’byDeanAtta

Step into the shadows of Year 9’s imagination with this haunting selection of Gothic tales. Prepare to be spellbound as our budding authors delve into the eerie and the macabre, creating stories that will send shivers down your spine.

Death Unexpected The

ByLucyRayment

Sittinginhiscar,debatingifheshouldgoout intothemuddyfloorandthethunderingweather, hegotoutofthecar.Thewindshotpasthimand slammed the car door shut. He started to walk towardsthedesertedchurch.Outsidethestrange church,thefloorwasmurky.Toweringtreesblew inthewind,theleavesfelldowntotheground. Hestoodtoglancethroughthetallstainedglass windows; he couldn't see through the windows fromthegrimesittingonthem.CRACK.What wasthat?

Jim felt hesitant, but he still decided to enter. His footsteps echoed through the abandonedchurchashepushedopenthecreaking door. The air inside smelled of dampness and decay. Just as he took another step forward, anothersuddengustofwindslammedtheheavy woodendoorshut,leavinghimwithindescribable fear.Heventureddeeperintothehauntedchurch. Thesoundofthelightsflickeringmadehimjump atfirstuntilhegotusedtoit;thefearinsidehim slowlywentawaywhenhegotusedtoitaftera while.

shivers down Jim’s spine as he realised he wasnotaloneinthisunholychurch.

The creature slowly started to creep forwardstowardsJim,itshandsandfeetmakinga scrapingsoundontheancientwoodenfloor.The moonlightwasglowingandlituptheroomthen he saw the huge, monstrous creature looking directlyathimremindinghimofahugeanimal. He started to back away from it. The creature started getting quicker and quicker towards him, Jim felt alone as he was running trying to find a waytoescapethecursedchurchwhilstbehindhim the creature was still following him making a growling kind of noise and scratching his long claws. As he finally saw the big tall doors feeling relieved, his chest felt less tight, his mind was excitedtogetout.Heallowedhimselfamomentof freedomfrombehindthedoor,thrilledtoseehis family again. He slowed down to get out. He twistedthehandle.Thedoorwaslocked.Hisheart dropped;hewasaloneandhopeless.

Theflickeringcandlesmadeeerieshadows ontheancientstonewalls,andtheairseemedto beinfusedwithanunsettlingstillness.Thepews stood in silent rows, their dark wood worn and polished by centuries of worship. As Jim cautiouslymadehiswaydownthenarrowaisle,he couldn't stop the feeling that unseen eyes were watching his every move.Something was moving aroundinthedark;hecouldn'ttellwhatitwas. Suddenly,alowgrowlechoedthroughthe darklonghalls;hisheartquickened.Agrotesque creature emerged from the shadows. Its eyes glowed like burning fires, and a vile head. The creature'sgrowlsfilledthesacredspace,sending

Thenextday,Jimwasnowheretobeseen. Peoplewereworried,wherewashe?Thevillagefelt emptywithouthim.Peoplewentoutsearchingto findhim-itwasnotlikehimtonotcomehome. His family were afraid. When they heard he had been to the abandoned church, some of the villagers decided to see if Jim was there. They pulledintothechurch,theysteppedoutofthecar into the freezing stormy air feeling terrified of whatcouldhavehappened.Creepingtowardsthe ancient doors as they stood outside of the door abouttoentertheygotasmellofdecaying.When they slowly pushed open the creaking door there he was lying on the cold floor with blood everywhere.Hewasdead.

ByMelaniaChukwu

“Oi! You little urchin, move it! No one wantsyourbusinessround‘ere,”shoutedamardy policeofficer.

It’stheautumnof1859andRobinPorter wasonherwaytoherstreetcorner.Itwasquiet;a goodplacetosleep.Thegirlwasclothedinalong raggeddress,withalldifferenttypesofstainsonit -makingheraromaunpleasantatbest.Sheworea facial expression that was used to the common lookofhaughtydisdain,andofpeoplelookingat her like she was inferior and irrelevant to the world.Herdarkeyebrowsmouldedintoafrown asshesweptherjetblackcurlsoutofherface,to sitdownandcountherearnings.

“Oneshilling.That’sit?Corblimey!”She said in her candid, captivating, cockney accent. Thewindwashowlingasorrowfulsongasshesat upwithastraightbackandgotdressedintoher thinkingface.Sherememberedwhathermother usedtosaytoher:“Moneyisatool,butyoucan’t fix every problem with it.” The urchin’s burnt siennacolouredeyesformedatear,asshesniffed andwipedthemaway.Robinlostherparents10 yearsagoinatrainwreck;thetraincrashof1849 was infamous and awful. All passengers but her andthetraindriver-CorvusCartersurvived,but he had disappeared, and was nowhere to be found.Shehadbeenthinkingaboutgoingtothe sceneofthecrimeforawhilenow,andthought thatifshedid,shecouldfindoutthetruthasto whythattraincrashedallthoseyearsago.Thisis her chance.This is her chance to find out what reallyhappenedonthattrain.Thisisherchance touncoverheridentity.

Having had a revelation, she got her recycled potato sack, containing her worldly belongings,andhauleditontoherback.Robin

spotted the post carriage, and leapt onto the back of it and crept into it, melting into her surroundings. 24 hours later she had arrived. As she went towards the train crash site, she darted between the people in the streets; a few vendors who were calling, chasing and catching people; dogsthatwereroamingthehustlingandbustling streetsofLondon;theposhpeopleintheirfeather hatsandsilkdresses,stridingliketheywereontop of the world. Her eyes scanned the streets as she sawasmallalleywaywithabigoaktreestanding next to it. Robin felt a shiver breeze down her neck, and gulped as she stepped forth onto the path.Sheheardacrowcawassheopenedthegate tothepath.Themustycrustyscentofdeathwas surrounding her, as the goosebumps sprinted up her arms. She walked cautiously through the woods. Robin has had a crumpled piece of newspaper which held the article of the train wreck, and its whereabouts. Robin inspected it daily with an intense expression, trying to see if there were any hints as to what happened, and foundnone.

Thegirlapproachedthesceneofthecrime, she had a funny sensation, as if someone was following her... Meandering mysteriously, Robin turnedaroundandsawahoodedfigure.Sheslowly walked towards it, hearing the leaves crackle beneathher.Sheapproacheditandwaspetrifiedas shesawtheterror-strickenfigure.

Robindidn'tknowwhereshewasgoingor whatshewasgoingtodobutshehadtogetoutof there. She fell over a fallen branch. Her cries of painandmiseryechoedaroundthewoods.

“Ofcoursethisisabadidea,”Robinsaidto herself, “Why would I do this? No, just pull yourself together, and do what you came here to do.”Theurchinquietlycreptawayfromtherotten branchesandwalkedslowlyinthedirection ofthecrash.Shecouldseeitnow!There were four carriages with bushes of foliage surroundingit

The Macabre Birdsong

fromallangles,andablanketofcobwebsresting onit.Instantaneously,sheturnedaroundandsaw the hooded figure. Robin yelped and tried to crawlaway,butitkeptwalkingtowardsher.She didn’thaveanywheretogo.Shewastrapped.She closed her eyes, thinking that this was the end. Thisiswhereshedies.Thehoodedfigureoffered her a hand. Robin looked incredibly puzzled, as sheobviouslythoughtitwasheretotakeherlifebutclearlynot.

“Quickly, put this on,” he said as he offeredheracloakthatcloselyresembledtheone thathehad.Theyounggirldidasshewastold, maybe because he knew what he was doing, or maybebecauseshehadn'tbeenkilledbyhimjust yet.Hespokeinanassuredvoiceandsaid, “Theraven.Theraven.”

“Whatraven?”askedtheconfusedgirl.

“The raven. She knows. The raven. She knows.”

“Whatdoyoumean?”

“Theravenofthebaretree.Theravenof thebaretree.”

“So, there’s a raven on a bare tree. What aboutit?”

“Youjustdon’tunderstand!Itwasfoolish ofyoutocomeouthere.”hemuttered.

“Sorry,andwhomightyoube?”

“CorvusCarter.”

“Ohmy,you’rethetraindriver?Thetrain driver of the crash of 1849. 10 years ago. When myparentsdied...”Robin’sfacewaspaintedwith asolemnlook.

“Ah,Imight’vepresumedyouridentitythesecondsurvivorofthewreck.Nowyouhave tounderstandyoucan’tbehere.Theraven.The raven. The raven. The raven will come. It will comeforusboth.Itwillflythroughyouandend you.Likethepassengers.”

“Wait,you’renotsayingthatastupidbird causedthecrash?Buthangon,howareyouhere then?”

“Isawitcomingandjumped.Ishouldn’t have. I should’ve helped. I could’ve helped. And now people are dead because of me!” Corvus welled up and sniffed, wiping the look of self loathing off his face. “It’s not too late for us though - we can go, go now! Robin didn’t seem fullyconvinced,butwentwithhisstory.

The two heard a caw. Corvus sharply turnedaroundandtookRobin’sarm,andranfor it.Hewasfamiliarandassociatedwiththecallof the raven. Robin was panting, afraid of death. It flew past her and turned to look at her as she released a scream from her mouth and the raven flewintoher,and….

ByAnonymous

Haunted The

I had just moved into my new home; it was bordering a stunning, quaint British village, called Rosewood, and was newly built on the remnantsoffarmlandthathadbeenabandoned since the ‘50s. I was sceptical, the house looked almosttoogoodtobetrue,buthereitwas:,fresh paint,shinysurfaces,andspotless,althoughIhave tosayitlookedblandagainstthebeautifulBritish countryside.Myson,Barney,wenttoplayinthe garden excitedly while I started with the unpacking.

Tiredandbored,Ilookedupattheclock: “4:13” it read. Darkness was beginning to creep into the sky, and so I decided to get Barney to come inside. “Barney,” I called out into the garden,butinreplyallIheardwassilence.Acold chill overtook my body as I entered the frosty garden. Barney wasn’t there. I continued to call for him, my voice growing more and more desperate.Tearsbegantowellinmyeyes,butjust thenBarneycamerunninguptomefromthegate tothefarm,cryinghysterically.“What’swrong?”I asked.

“I saw a man,” his lip trembled. “There wassomethingwrongwithhim,hehadbumpsall overhimandbloodalldownhisshirt.”Thescene soundedhorrific,butIwassurehewasmistaken, sixyearoldsoftenare.Nonetheless,Idecidedto researchthesymptomsBarneytalkedabout,one websiteinparticularcaughtmyattention.Itwas aboutsmallpox.

IknewitwasextinctbutitfitBarney’s

descriptionperfectly.Anyway,Idecidedtoignore what he’d said; after all Barney did have a big imagination. I got him to sleep and decided to headuptobedearlymyself.Iwasexhaustedafter the long day of moving and it was visible on my face.Freshsoftblanketsswallowedmelikeclouds on my new bed and I felt at ease drifting off to sleep.

Screaming. A loud, sharp piercing shriek made my blood curdle and shook me from my sleep.Isatup,soakedinsweatandmyheartracing, andlookedaroundtoseetheclockblaringatme “01:13”. Deafeningly, the screaming went on; squealinglikesomethingwastakingitslastbreath. Shocked and confused, I peeked out of the windowstoseeanimageI'llneverforget;thelights oftheoldfarmer’sslaughterhousewereflickering andthestenchofbloodwaftedthroughtheroom. Isatthereforwhatfeltlikehourswaitingforthe noisetofinallystop.Idon’trememberwhenitdid.

RaysoflightpiercedmyfacegentlyandI satup,feelingthecrinkleofmysheetsagainstmy skin. Grogginess weighed down on my eyes as I slowly remembered the events from the previous night.HowcouldIhavegottosleepafterthat?I know I wasn’t just dreaming. “I’ll check the farmland later,” I thought to myself and decided nottomentionanythingtoBarney.Fatiguedfrom sleep deprivation, I dropped Barney off at school soIcouldgetstartedonmydetectivework:what hadhappenedlastnight?

Harvest

Hurriedly, I stumbled through the fields of the farm until I found the battered derelict slaughterhouse from which I heard that horrid scream. I paused - did I really want to do this? “It’sprobablynothing,”Ithoughttomyself,andI stepped forward to open the door with my trembling hands. It let out a low creak as it openedslowly,abouttofalloffitsrust-destroyed hinges.MybreathquickenedandIfeltachillgo through my body as I saw a fresh pig's corpse lyingonabloodytable,acleaverstuckinhisneck. AgaspescapedmylipsandIscannedtherestof the unimaginable scene: more carcasses were scattered around the room, although those ones didn’t look as fresh. Cobwebs hung from the ceilingandpaintwaspeelingofftherottingwood. My shaking hands closed the door hastily and I begantogobacktothehouse.Questionsflooded into my mind: “Was there someone else on this farmlastnight?Therecouldn’tbe-right?”

AfewdayshadpassedandIwaslayingin my bed, a tempest outside rattling the window, desperatelytryingtogetin.SinceI’dseenthepig nothingelsetoostrangehadhappened,although theominous,dilapidatedfarmbuildingsmademe feel uneasy whenever I saw them. Over the past fewnightsIhadn’tbeenabletosleep,there’dbeen toomuchonmymind.Restlessly,Iturnedover onto my side and that’s when I heard a melody thatwouldhauntmeforever.Somehowthrough the thickness of the wind and the rain I could make out the sound of whistling coming from outside.MyheartwasracingasIwhippedopen the curtains to see a tractor driving sluggishly alongthefields,itlookedasthoughitwasbarely functioning. I noticed it was the sort of tractor theyhadinthe‘50s,andthepersondrivingithad aclearredstaindowntheirshirt.MaybeBarney wasn’tmakingitupafterall.Ishivered.

I needed to know what was happening, I wouldn’t be able to rest until I figured out what hadbeengoingonrecently.“Rosewoodwouldbe theperfectplacetofindoutmore.Maybesomeof the villagers would know something that would easemymind,”Ithoughttomyself.“Andanyway, Ihaven’tbeentheresinceImovedin,itwouldbe nicetogettoknowthearea.”

After trudging through fields and muddy footpathsIfinallyarrivedatRosewood,although bythentheskywasbeginningtolookgloomyand overcast. I decided to go into a beguiling cafe standingsquishedbetweenshops.Maybesomeone in there would know something? The intricate doorknobwascoldtothetouchandasIstepped intothecafeIcouldfeelsomethingwasoff:every villagerturnedaway,eventhewaitress’facewentas white as snow and her nervous eyes avoided meeting mine as they darted around the room. Whispers floated throughout the cafe, just quiet enoughthatIcouldn’thearwhattheyweresaying. I toyed with my hair uneasily, sat down on a rickety chair, and called the waitress over. Tentatively,sheapproached.

“What would you like to order?” She askedinaquietvoice.

”Justacoffee,”Iasked,plasteringafriendly smileonmyface.SheshuffledawayquicklyandI satthereawkwardly.

AftermycoffeehadarrivedIfeltalighttap onmyshoulder;Iturnedaround,startled.

“Ihavesomethingtotellyou,”agruffvoice utteredfrombehindme.

“Whoareyou?”Iaskedinreturn,thiswas the only villager so far that wasn’t avoiding me. “MayI?”Hegesturedtothechairsittingopposite me.

“Yeah, sure I guess,” I said, annoyed he hadn’tansweredmyquestion.Hesatdownnext tome,“thehouseyou’restayingin,Idon’tknow howtotellyouthisbut,well,”hesighedandthen continued“Everyone’salwaysbeentooscaredto liveonthatfarmland,thefarmerdiedinthe‘50s whentherewasasmallpoxoutbreakinthevillage and since then anytime someone’s gone near it, weirdthingshaveoccurred,there’srumoursit’s hauntedbyhis restlessspirit,trying toprotecthisland.”

Goosebumps coveredmyarms.

“Smallpox!How horrible!I’msoglad thatdoesn’texist anymore,”Isaid.My mindwentbackto websitesI’dread abouttheatrocious illness.Surelythis wasn’ttrue,itwas probablyjustpeople makingupghost stories.“That’swhy everyoneisavoiding you,wedidn’tknow howtotellyou something’swrong withthatfarm.”I wasspeechless. “Thanksfortelling me,goodbye,”I managedtosay beforeabruptly placingdownmycoffeeandgettinguptoleave.My stomachwasinknots.

collapsingroofandtheweathervanewasswinging inthewindcreatinganeeriemelodyofcreaks.But thethingthatbotheredmethemostwasthepair ofruggedbootssittingmiserablyontheporchand a trail of footprints leading to them. They were coveredinfreshmudandIhadn’tseenthemhere before. My hands flew to my chest and my pace quickened.

Swiftly, I left the cafe and headed back home.Ineededtobebymyselfandthinkallofthis through. I was going insane. Wind howled as I tookthewindingfootpathhomepastthedeserted farmhouse:ravenswereperchedominouslyonthe

Islammed thedoor,panting andsanktomy knees.Thoughts rushedthroughmy headasItriedto piecetogetherwhat wasgoingon. EventuallyI managedto convincemyselfthe storiesweresilly rumoursanditwas alljusta coincidence.

Tryingmy hardesttokeepmy composure,Isetoff topickBarneyup fromschoolwithan uneasyfeeling growinginmychest. Concealingmyfear thebestIcould,I walkeduptothe schooltosee

Barney’steacherlookingconcerned.Theypulledup his sleeve to reveal his arm was covered in tiny bumps.“Wenoticedthismorning,”histeachertold me,“We’renotsurewhatitis,I’vecertainlynever seenanythinglikeitbefore.”SuddenlyIthoughtof thewebsitesI’dread,whatBarneysaidandwhatthe mantoldmeatthecafe.Itwasallcomingtogether now-smallpox

ByMerryPreston

Growing up, I never believed in ghost stories, or the tooth fairy. It's funny how when you're little you almost become vulnerable and easytomanipulate,butnotme.Itwaseasyforme to get out of those fantasies. Some may say I didn't have a proper childhood but I say I just thinkImaturedearlier.

I was moving into my new home, hopefullythisonewillbetheone.Ihadtoleave myoldhouse.Don’tgetmewrong,itwasperfect ineverypossibleway,untilmywifedied10years ago.Iguessshewaswhatmadeitsoperfect.She was an amazing, confident, intelligent, beautiful woman. I had to leave the house though, every partofthathouseremindedmeofher.Sometimes whenitgotalittletooquietIcouldstillhearher laughter,orwhenIsmeltthegorgeousfragrance of the elegant flowers she had planted in the garden it reminded me of her presence. It made me feel like she was still there, still there beside me.Itmademyheartachetothinkabouther.I couldn't go through that pain anymore, she wouldn't have wanted me to. I was now in my newhouse,readyforanewbeginning.

AsIstoodoutsidethehouse,Ilookedat all the brown boxes laid out across the porch. Theywerefilledwithsomanyoldmemories.It's funnyhowsomethingsopreciouscanjustbelaid out in plain sight. I didn't want to go into the houseyet,Ijustcouldn't.OnthewayhereIsawa coffeeshop.IthoughtImightaswellgotherefor breakfastastherewasnothinginthefridgetoeat. OnmywaythereIwasadmiringtheview,looking around at where I had just moved to. Many passersby were staring down at their phones. Peopleinthisgenerationjustcan'tenjoythelittle things in life. When I got to the coffee shop I could smell the cinnamon bun aroma from outside.Iwalkedinandgazedatthemenuuntil somethingcaughtmyeye.Shewassittingthere,

lookingsoperfect.I'veneverseenanyonelikethis since,well,sincemywife

Ididn’tknowwhetherIshouldhavegone uptoher.Shewasjustsoperfect.Shesatattable 502. Every day she came here for the same cappuccino: two pumps of vanilla syrup, almond milkonly.Shedespisesnon-veganthings.

Iknewsomuchaboutheryetsolittle.It seemedlikeIwasastalkerbuteventuallyIstarted cominghereeverydayjusttoseeher.Ithinkshe caught on. I would get glances from her. Not a disgustedlook.Almostasubtleglanceoflove. We would come every day at 9:00. Some daysIworkedupthenervetoopenthedoorfor her. As a chapter of my life finished, a new one opened, and she was the key. I felt so complete withher.

But yesterday, she didn’t come. I didn’t know why. What happened? my mind was filled with questions. I asked everyone who came here regularly where she had gone, they had no idea whoshewas,orwhatIwastalkingabout.

Iaskedthecafeworkerifhehadseenher around.

‘Who?’heasked.

‘Thegirlattable502.’

‘Noonehassatatthattablesincethelast customerdiedthere,10yearsago.’

Isawherjustyesterday,Iheldthedoorfor her. She looked so real. She smelt so perfect, like elegantflowers.Hersoftsilkyhair.Itwasallinmy imagination. Until I realised that she wasn’t a random woman that I had encountered. She was mywife.

Trying to get away from my past was bringingitclosertome.

ByAnonymous

The Girl at Table 502

ThereisanOperaHouseinParis,named afterthepastkingofFrance,LouisAlphonsewho mysteriously died there many years ago. He had beentheKingofFranceforonlyoneyearbuthe had sung at the Opera House under the pseudonym of “Simon Dukakis”. He had loved

IbeganthinkingaboutPaulDukas,oneof myfavouritecomposers,whowasoneofthejudges fortheaudition,whichmademeveryexcitedbut atthesametimeverynervous.Iwasalsothinking about the story behind the passing of the King, LouisAlphonse.Suddenly,mytaxiarrivedoutside

OperaHouse The

breakfast in a hurry and took a taxi to the opera house,soIcouldrehearsethere.Iwalkedoutinto thestreetandheldmyhandoutinexpectationofa taxi.Theicecoldbreezemademyhandshiveras winter had begun early and the bitter chill had already gotten deep inside me. The bright yellow taxipulledupbesidemeandIgotinside.Ibegan torehearsethesong,thewordsflowedthroughme andIcouldfeelthemusicthroughoutme.

Iwastryingtomakesenseoftheimageinfront ofmewhenaladyapproachedmeanddirectedme towardsoneoftherehearsalrooms.Ilookedatmy watchandrealisedthatIonlyhadtwentyminutes untilIhadtogetuponstage.Mychestbeganto beatatahigherrateasIenteredtheroom,itwasa verysmallandoldroom.Ithadayellowishtinton the walls, with cracks coming down from the ceiling. I placed my music down on the old woodentableandbegantosing,atfirstfalteringly, butthenconfidently.

I could hear quiet soft footsteps moving towardsthedoor,andIheardagentleknockfrom the wooden door. ‘Come in,’ I said, and a lady ended and informed me it was my turn to perform. I slowly stepped out of the rehearsal room and onto the stage. I remembered there werethreeveryimportantandwellknownopera singers, who held my career in their hands. In additiontoPaulDukaswhocomposedthesongI was going to sing today, the judges included Adeline Monet who had been singing at this Operahouseformanyyearsand‘Aiméferrsuchae’ whowasoneofthegreatestofalltime,andoneof myidols.‘Beginwhenyou'reready’,Paulsaid.I took a deep breath in and a deep breath out, I gently placed my feet apart, and began singing. The sound of my voice echoed throughout the stage.Isawthejudgesweretakingnotesintheir books and I was singing away confidently. The words flowed out of me, and I could feel the rhythmflowingthroughme.Ibegantofeelthat everythingwasgoingtogoverywell.However,as I finished singing, the image from the painting camebacktomymind.Irealisedtheimageofthe maninthepictureborearemarkableresemblance tothemaninfrontofme,PaulDukas.

verykindandcomplimentaryinhiscommentsand informedmethattheywouldbeintouchoverthe coming days with the outcome of the audition. However,hesmiledandsaidhelookedforwardto continuing“ourrelationship”.Ithoughtitwasa very odd comment to make, but I thanked him andwalkedoutoftheroom.

Iheadedtotherehearsalroom,packedup mythingsfromtherehearsalroomandheadedfor theexit.AsIwalkedpastthereception,Istopped andaskedtheladywhohadoriginallydirectedme totherehearsalroom,whothecharacterswerein thepaintingthathadattractedmyattentionwhen Icameinearlier.Sheinformedmethatthesinger was Louis Alphonse, who sang under the pseudonym of “Simon Dukakis”. She did not knowthemanbutthewomanwasaladynamed Madeline Bouchet who had been involved in the circumstancessurroundingtheKing’sdeathmany years-shewashismistress.Ifrozetothespotand could not move. The lady asked me if there was something wrong. I muttered something incomprehensible and skirried quickly from the building.

ManydayslaterIreceivedaletterfromthe OperaHouse.Ineveropeneditandhavenotsung sincethatday.

ByIndiaKelly

Paulthankedmeformyaudition.Hewas

GUARDIAN

Thebellhadjustrung.Itwas4o’clockon Fridayafternoon.Theendoftheschooltermhad arrived and Mary couldn't have been more pleased. The Sun had gone down and the moon was rising. The road to Mary’s house was dark, dimandnotsafeforan11yearoldtowalkdown; Yet Mary wasn’t fearful, Mary was unusually brave unlike other girls her age. This unique talentwasusefultoher.AcertainboyinMary’s classseemedtohaveaproblemwithlittleMary. None could understand why, as Mary was anythingbutannoyingorirritating.Shekeptto herself and didn’t want to bother anyone. Howeverhestillheldagrudgeandwouldn’tleta day go by without making Mary feel miserable and full of sorrow. The upcoming winter break meant Mary wasn’t going to be bothered for 3 weekswhichmadeherfeelrelieved.

It was the fourth day of Mary’s winter Holidays. She had completed every piece of homeworkshehadreceivedthepreviousweek,she had rewatched her favourite tv series and had bakedmanybatchesofcookiesandcupcakes.So when the fourth day arrived Mary was lost and unsure what to do with herself. Outside the weatherwasbriskyetwithawarmjacketitwould be bearable. Her mother suggested a short walk would be a fulfilling activity. Mary grabbed her redwellingtonsandherbluecoat.Shegentlyshut thedoorbehindherandthenhershortadventure started.

After strolling down her high street she came across an alley. Mary’s bravery meant she didn’t contemplate whether this path was safe. Aftermeanderingdownthenarrow,welllitpath, Marywasbored.Shescannedtheareafor

anything remotely interesting and worthy of her attention,whenshecameacrossasmall,unstable gate. The gate was growing moss and had rust layered over the metal. Behind the gate were tall oak trees that were protecting the graves and coffins that lay beneath. Mary was drawn to the cemetery.Hercuriosityledhertoopeningthegate. Assoonasherbodywasfullyinthegraveyardshe feltasifsheescapedhertownandwasinawhole newworldoffreedomandpeace.

The air was fresh and the path which led past the graves and to the other side of the cemeterywasmuddyandsquelchy.Eachgravehad a different story and life. There was a bench laid underagloomylookingashtree.Maryskippedher waytowardsthebenchandsatthere.Maryfelta slightcomfortinthegraveyard,likeshebelonged, likeshebelongedexactlyinthatspot.

SomethinginterruptedMary’sview,nota soundbutasight.Atowering,slender,youngman was leering over a coffin around 50 yards away. Marywasquestioninghowthecoffinhadescaped thestoneaboveit.HowevertheweatherinMary’s townwastorrentialandastormwouldoccurmost weeks,soclearlythestonehadshiftedrevealingthe coffin. The peculiar man stepped away from the grave and headed towards Mary. Mary was confused why he would be walking towards her. Fewmomentshadpassedandnotsinglefootstep was heard, even when the young man was just seconds away. Then the man approached Mary saying,“Goodmorning.MayIaskwhatayoung girl like you is doing in such a sorrowful place?” Marywascomfortablewiththemantalkingtoher.

SHADOW

Sosheresponded. “Well,Iquitelikelisteningtothecrows cawing and the leaves rustling through the breeze, it’s peaceful.”

Herepliedwithagentlesmileonhispaleface,“Istrongly agree,mayItakeaseat?”

Marydidn’thesitate,infactMarywassogladthatanyone hadanyinterestintalkingtoher.

After minutes of talking non stop to the friendly gentlemen,Maryfeltcomfortableenoughtospeakabout hertroublesatschool.Morespecificallytheboywhowas treatingMarylikeshewasanoutcastandafreak.Theman wassurprisinglyunderstandingand hesaidherelatedto that feeling. Unfortunately their conversation was cut short as a dark, grey cloud emerged out of nowhere coveringupthesunandbringingadelugeofrain. Mary jumpedoutofherseatwhenthefirstdropofwaterlanded onherforehead,whensheturnedaroundtolettheman knowshehadtosayhergoodbyes,hehadalreadydeparted. Itwasasifhehadvanishedintothinairwithnogoodbye whatsoever.Marywasn'tworried,shejustgatheredthathe wasn’tenjoyingtheconversationasmuchasshewas.This didupsether,howevershewasusedtoothersnotenjoying hercompany.

The run home was depressing. The streets were empty and the roads were flooded. When Mary arrived home,hermothergrabbedhersotightthatMarystruggled tobreathe.Hermotherwasindistress,crying,screaming. Itwasasifabelovedfamilymemberhaddied.Howeverthe casewassimilar.Mary’smothergulpedandthengaspedso thatshecouldspeak.“Aboy,aboyinyourclasshasdied Mary,died.”

Marywasstunned,sostunnedshealsostruggledto speak.Althoughshedidreply, “Who,mother?”

Hermotherrepliedinstantly,“Henrydear,itwas Henry. Now I know you too never had much of a relationshipbutitiseversotragic;animalattackthepolice think,abearpossibly.AlthoughIthinkmurder,abrutal murder.Apparentlyhewasdrainedheadtotoeofblood,as wellasmarkedwithhorrificbitesdugdeepintothesideof hisneck.Eversopeculiar.Ihaveneverheardanythinglike it.”

ByMarinaKalms

“Dinner!” yelled their dad. Lily was alreadysittingatthetablelookingblanklyather foodbutwhenMiawalkedthroughthedoorboth Lily and their dad’s head turned to see Mia wearingasparklycroptopandminiskirt.“Not anotherparty,Mia?”herdadsaid.

“Yeah,couldyoudropmeoffat7please?” shereplied.Herdadletoutasighbutsaid,“Sure but you need to start focusing more on your schoolwork, you're doing your A-Levels soon.” Her smile grew and she yelled, “Thanks dad, you'rethebest!”

Later that evening Mia walked through the door as the alcohol on her breath spread a pungent smell across the room. “It's midnight. I askedyoutobehomeatleastanhourago!”Her dadsighed.Miashruggeditoffandtreadbackup stairsnotlettingoutasingleword.

Aftershehadwalkedupthestairsherdad noticed something in the pocket of her jacket, a letter of some sort. He reached out his hand, grabbing the crumpled envelope. He paused, ‘ShouldIbedoingthis?’hethought.Herippedit openandsawthatitwasaletterforhim.Heran backupstairsinanger,throwingtheletteronthe ground.Itread:

DearMrJohnEvans,

Unfortunately we are writing to inform you that your daughter will be suspended from school for one week. We are appalled at her behaviour as she had a fight with another pupil and the other pupil left the fight with a broken collar bone. We do not expect this kind of behaviourbyaSixthFormstudent.Weexpectover her time off school she reflects on her actions. Duringthistimewewillbesendingherallofthe catch up to do and I hope you will also give her consequences.

FromMrsPeltino Vermontschoolforboysandgirls.

M B R A N O X

At the table the morning after, all you couldheariscutleryscrapingontheplatewithan earpiercingscreech.“Ihavetogotoworktodayso youwillhavetolookafterLily.Thethermometer is in the cupboard under the sink; if you could check on her at some point. Oh, and make sure you get all of your work done,” said her dad. “Mhm,”mumbledmia.

As he drove away for work the house suddenlyfilledwithaneeriefeelingasiftherewas somebody watching her every move. Every single timeMiaputherfootononeofthestairsherheart seemed to pound faster. But what was wrong? It wasjustanordinarydayathomewasitnot?Asher handreachedouttoopenLily’sdoor,thetension intheairseemedtogrowandgrow.Theroomis dimly lit by a flickering lamp. Eerie shadows blanket the walls as Lily lays there asleep like a vampireinacoffin.Thereisatinglingsensationin herfingersasshemovesovertoLily'sbedtotake hertemperature.Themomentherhandstouched Lily’s shoulders, she jolted awake, her eyes wide open as if she had just seen a ghost. Before she couldgetawordoutofher,coldpalehandspulled Miacloserintoawarmembracewithanicecold sting.“Howdoyoufeel?”Miaasked.

“I’m okay,” Lily replied in a timid voice, hernecklaceshininginthebeckoninglight.

“I'mjustgoingtocheckyourtemperature, thenIwillletyougetsomerest”.Miasaidwitha smileonherface.Pullingoutthethermometer it read37°C.“Yourtemperatureisnormal.I'mjust goingto calldadandlethimknownottoworry.” Shewalkeddownthestairstograbherphonebut the signal had completely gone so she couldn't contact anyone. She ran back upstairs to see Lily staringattheceilingwithnothingleftinher,like

shewasempty.Miawanderedroundherroomfor a bit but something seemed off, something she just couldn't quite put her finger on. A book, wornleather,brownwithstainsonthepagesasif theyhadbeentheresincetheancientEgyptians, was just lying there in her room Mia didn’t recogniseit.

‘Everything you need to know about monsters’readthefrontcover.AsMiachuckled toherself,sheflickedthepages.Basilisk,cyclops, minotaur.Thefurthershewentonthemoreshe gotsuckedin;hereyetwitchedasshecameupona pagewithabookmark.

Umbranox:

Theumbranoxisamythicalcreaturesaid tohaveoriginatedfromaforbiddenpracticemade by ancient cults. The beast is said to be able to manipulateemotions,suckallofoneoutbutadd loadsmorein.Thecreaturemovesaroundinthe shadowsofthenightunlessitreplicatestheformof anotherbeing,butifinyourheadthereisonlyone waytogetridofit.

That was all there was, a deep stain concealingtherest.Acoldbreezesweptoverher shoulder. Her shirt mildly swung at the flaps whensheputthebookdown.Sheleftthe room andwenttoherstostartherwork.

A scream loud enough to shatter glass erupted from downstairs. Mia ran down at the speed of thunder but there was nothing. It was

reachedfromeartoear.Miascreamedatthetopof herlungsasLilystartedtoriseintotheair,stillin thesamepositionwithperfectposture.

“Help! Please help!” Mia screamed, her heartpounding,herbonesshakinginsideherskin, panickingsheranaroundthehousetryingtofind anythingthatcouldhelpher.Anideapoppedinto hermind,butshedidn'thavemuchtimetothink sosheslammedopenthebasementdoorhopingto find something. Nothing except for darkness shrouding the corners of the room. Muffled screams rang in her ears as she turned around to see her sister tied up in a small corner. In that moment of horror, Lily's voice echoed from the darkcornerofthebasement,“Mia,youshouldn't havereadabouttheUmbranox.”Hereyesglowed with a dazzling light as Mia struggled to get to grips with what was happening as she rushed towards Lily, desperately trying to untie the restraints.Lily'ssmileremainedunsettlinglywide asshewhispered,“It'stoolate,Mia.Iamnowthe Umbranox,andIfeedonyourfear.”

The room seemed to get darker, and Mia felt a chill envelope her. The book's warnings echoed in her mind as Mia faced the horrifying realisation that the Umbranox had manipulated heremotionsfromtheverybeginning.Ahaunting laughter surrounded in the basement, blending with Mia's desperate screams. The last thing she heard before everything went black was Lily's voice, now morphed with the darkness of the Umbranox,saying,“Welcometotheshadows,Mia.

ByOliveMitchell

Reading Recommendations fr

.Ms Davies.

.Ms Simmonite.

om the History Department

.Ms Eccles.

.Ms Eccles.

Storymakers

Please be aware that the book recommendations are made by KS4 and KS5 pupils and as such may not be suitable for younger years.

All images are used with the permission of the owner and, unless credited, are sourced from free stock photography.

All stories, poems, and other writing within are the intellectual property of the stated author and should not be used or reproduced for any purpose without permission.