Chapter 1: The Locket

A Chapter by Mathew Nicolson

Sam Hutchinson was found sprawled on the floor by his son Paul. He was dead.

The doctors couldn’t find a cause of death. His heart seemed healthy enough; there were no serious injuries, or any trace of poison. The only thing that was wrong with him was slight burn marks on his chest, forming a triangle.

Three weeks later, Sam’s sister Eve, and her children began sorting through his stuff, as he hadn’t left a will.

“Why didn’t he leave a will?” Rebecca asked her mother, while in their car.

“I thought he had,” she answered. “He kept saying he’d leave Billy his toolbox. I suppose he just never got around to it.”

The car pulled up at the house and they got out. Paul and Billy were already there. Paul had gone to live with his mother Ann, who lived on the other side of Manchester. He still hasn’t recovered.

“Uncle Sam has so much stuff, it’s no wonder he didn’t leave a will!” Billy exclaimed, as they walked into the hallway. “And Paul doesn’t really care what we take, as long as we leave any photos. And… we can’t touch the bedside cabinet for some reason. Uncle Sam never let him near it.”

“We’ll have to move it at some point,” Eve said. “Paul said he’d deal with it.”

“Why?” Rebecca asked.

“I don’t know.”

Rebecca examined a picture on the wall. In it was a dark and ominous looking castle. At the front stood a female angel dressed in a luminous white dress, holding the body of a man with an arrow stuck into his chest. She’d always found it a little strange.

“It feels wrong, looking through Sam’s possessions. Like we should respect them.” Eve said quietly. She still missed her brother lots; it was obvious.

“Paul said he would give a lot of it to charity; it’s what he’s have wanted,” Billy said while somehow looking through an empty laundry bucket.

“Where’s Auntie Joice?” Rebecca asked, curiously.

“Well I’m surprised she even sent a card…” Eve sighed.

“Oh.”

Eve started talking about how charity was a waste, but Rebecca lost interest. She drifted over to the stairs, and slowly climbed them.

REBECCA.

She opened the door into the guest bedroom. That was where she used to sleep, when she stayed over. It was exactly the same �" dust filled, full of cobwebs and smelled like dead roses - probably because of the dead roses.

REBECCA.

She wandered out of the room, and sat down at the top of the staircase. Sam’s bedroom door was closed, with the “DO NOT DISTURB” sign on the handle as usual.

“Rebecca?” Eve called up the stairs. “Can you give me a hand lifting some boxes please?”

NO!

Paul walked into the hallway through the front door.

“No, it’s ok I’ll do it,” he said to her quickly.

“Ok… but come and help us in a minute anyway…”

REBECCA!!

She’d never been into Sam’s room before. Now he was dead, maybe it wouldn’t matter…

But she couldn’t. Sam always forbade anyone to go inside, even Paul.

GO IN REBECCA, GO IN!!

She went in.

The door open slowly �" she thought it would be locked. Inside, it looked just like any other room in the house - plain creamy wallpaper, wooden floor and a window that wouldn’t open.

The only sound was the clock ticking. Rebecca looked for a clock on the wall, as she wanted to get home before it got dark. She hated being outside at night. That was when her Dad had-

COME TO US REBECCA!

The bedside cabinet! There was a small clock on there. She picked it up.

“That can’t be right,” she mumbled. One o’clock was two hours ago, which was when she’d caught the bus home.

But then she noticed that none of the hands were moving �" it was broken. But why was there still ticking?

The ticking was coming from inside the cabinet.

“Rebecca? Rebecca?” Eve called, getting quieter, and quieter, until silence. Except the ticking. The never-ending ticking.

She felt faint. The room was going further and further away. Rebecca pulled open the cabinet and grabbed everything out. She knew immediately what was causing it; she could feel it - a golden, triangular locket. She picked it up - it was warm. She hung it around her neck, clipping the golden chain.

GOOD.

In a house, many miles away from Manchester, an old man sat by a fire, as usual. There was a knock on the door, which was odd; nobody ever visited him. He got up and opened the door. There was a tall man in armour standing there. He drew a sword, and swung it forward. The walls were splattered in red. The man looked inside, then turned and casually walked away.

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