Wednesday, May 15, 2013

The soul thief ... by Lia, aged 12

The house stood out like a leafy tree in a barren desert. It had an eerie feel about it. The driftwood walls resembled ivory spears, strong and fierce, yet weathered as though they had fought many battles. The house belonged to Him. He, the one I detest more than any other. This is all I know, all I have to hold on to. These flashes, these memories that come from nowhere. I do not know the beginning of this story so we will have to start in the middle.

The middle begins here. With me. Right now. I know this is not the end of my story yet I know this isn't the beginning either. There must be a reason. A reason why He put me here, in this book.

It's a nice book. Soft brown leather binding, yellowing parchment, and there are words too. Words written in blood. Words that just appeared, just then.

There is also a picture. A picture of the house I described. The house I saw in my flashes, traces, fits, whatever you want to call them. The words written in blood read:

Dear unfortunate one

To leave this book is simple. Print your name in blood.

But once you leave you will be cursed, cursed with misfortune.

Until you free me from this book.

You must make Him, yes Him,

Free all the other souls,

Good day.

The writing vanishes.

I sit here wondering what to do next. I think I'll leave and free all the other souls. I write my name in blood. It tingles a little, but my name is fairly short.

I'm not sure how it happened but I am now flailing around like a demented monkey in a puddle of mud. The start of my misfortune, I guess. I look up and see the house. Yes. The house. The one where He lives. I still haven't worked out who He is yet, but I shall soon find out.

I knock on the door. Will someone answer it? Part of me wants Him to, the other half wants to hide in the corner.

Footsteps. I hear footsteps. And then I hear a creak and then the door opens.

An old man stands in the doorway. A fairly normal man aside from the long white scar that reaches from the left side of his forehead down to his neck. It's a long, uneven scar. A knife slash probably.

He stares at me. His eyeballs piercing me. He looks me up and down and lunges with a snarl.

I grab him and say "How about a cup of tea then?"

A cup of tea, really, what was I thinking?

"Yes, OK" he agrees. We walk into his kitchen. It's filled with books, books, books, books everywhere. Books full with souls.

I find his kettle and begin making tea.

"I can't help it," he says. He sounds weird and determined. He literally looks in every book in the kitchen until he finds what he's looking for.

He mutters a few words and the books begin to shake and quiver. Then it stops. Surprisingly simple. A little too simple actually.

Huge stampedes of people are running into the kitchen, fists raised, yelling loudly, a look of anger etched upon their faces.

"Stop!" I yell. "Stop, he's innocent." Everyone is frozen, staring at me. "He's crazy, he doesn't know what he is doing."

A little girl, with rosy cheeks and long blonde plaits, comes forward from the crowd.

"Thank you," she says.

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