Chapter 1 - 1

Chapter one



It's a wet night tonight. Rain is thumping on my window like an elephant trying to barge its way through. Normally it just pitter-patters on the glass as if there are fairy folk weaving magic in the weather, but tonight it's more like a giant wants to smash through my window and destroy the contents of my bedroom. The wind is blowing fiercely too, knocking down fences that are rotten and mouldy. There is the faint rumble of thunder and a modest flash of electric lightening.

Swirling darkness spills right the way through my pitch black bedroom as I toss and turn, struggling with the sleep that I so desperately need. The bright chocolaty hued ringlets that generally bounce around my head like some sort of crazy plant are stuck right up my ear canal, making the position I am curled up in even less comfy. Little bug things are fluttering around - it could just be my hair mucking around with my sound wave things - in the midst of gloom enveloping my normally cosy room. It's like, at night, it gets all eerie and weird, and everything normal turns into freaky monsters. My cat, Mercury, is curled up right next to me and purring contentedly, yet she sounds like some sort of killer motorcycle or something. There is a gross smell wafting around, which is probably just putrid milk or something daft like that, yet it smells like a thousand poisons just waiting to unleash their fiery tendrils.

Hi. I'm Eliza. Posh name, I know, so don't even bother trying to tease me about it. It might be a pinky, girly, icky name, but I am nothing like that. I hate pink, girly, icky stuff. It all makes me want to gag. I mean c'mon people - pink? Talk about the most disgusting colour in the whole entire world (excluding puke-green/yellow). And you'd imagine that someone called Eliza would listen to classical music or something, but in actual fact I'm in this TOTALLY wicked rock band, playing lead guitar. You'd imagine that they would love books and writing and all that, but I HATE books and writing just hurts my fingers. To put it in simple form: I am not your everyday Eliza.

I roll over again and try to think about dreamy things. It's no good though: the best I can come up with is the face of the bogey monster, and that isn't exactly the makings of a perfect, boy-filled dream, is it? It's more the makings of some freakishly abnormal horror movie-filled dream, with oozing creatures and little beasties. Maybe I should picture the face of Barry Grey, the hottest lad in my class? It's easy enough; just stick a pale face in the centre of your mind. Then add mysteriously dark eyes, tufts of funny blonde locks, a cute button nose and a perfect smile, and you're done. No spots, no blemishes, no ringlets of puss. Just a perfect boy with a perfect personality. Oh ... I forgot the huge sticky out ears. The only things that ruin his otherwise faultless appearance.

A light flickers on outside and shines through my `a b c' curtains. I sit up. Rubbing my eyes and getting rid of any unwanted sleepies, I sigh and look around my murky bedroom. The light has banished any exhaustion that was flowing through my veins, even though I know it can't be who, or what, I hope it is. I mean, why would father come back home to us at twelve midnight, 3 years, 2 months and a day since he left? Why would he return to my mother and her horrible deceiving ways? He wouldn't, because he has a shred of common sense and decency unlike that horrible woman that I hate so much and unfortunately have to live with.

The light gets brighter and brighter as I consider my options. Should I try once more to go back to sleep and then give up, or see what the light is by gazing anxiously out of my dusty bedroom window that has only ever been opened once and is absolutely coated with grime?

Guess which one I choose.

I crawl over to the end of my bed and brush the curtains out of the way with a swift flick of my bony wrist. Brushing a stray curl out of my face, I quickly pull the blinds up and squint outside. For a single moment, I think it might just be a streetlamp that has suddenly started working or someone's porch light set off by a wandering pussy. And then I notice it out of the corner of my eye. It's only for a split second at first: just a slight glimpse of shining wood, glimmering with dampness through the tormenting rain and hail. But then; the rising figure of a giant ship, the sails billowing in a non-existent wind. A sinister figurehead is plastered at one end, shaped as a naked woman holding up a pipe - that looks as though it should be smoking - delicately as though it might break at any second: mosses and grime shroud it. Finally, I spot with widened eyes: the vast circular end to a long and round spyglass which, at one end, is held up to the eye of a strange, menacing figure, and, at the other end, is pressed right up to my window, the grim black eye pupil searing straight through it.

“What the-?” I start, peering warily through the large circle and watching the eyeball blink. I have no chance to finish, however, as the ship rises right up the base of my window and crashes directly into the cold stone, outdoor windowsill, spreading rubble everywhere. The figurehead seems to blink and open its mouth in shock but I'm sure it's just a trick of the light. Letting out a shrill squeak, I dart back to the head of my bed and force some sleep into my system - where it doesn't settle. The bright light flares out and once again the street is set in complete darkness, including my bedroom.

Outside, there is an extremely loud purring sound, much louder than Mercury's was earlier. It bounces right off my ear drum and echoes throughout my skull, making my skin shudder and goose bumps appear. Gasping loudly, I shove my cold hands right over my ears but it doesn't do a single thing. Over the purring I can hear deafening voices ordering others about. A strange clunking is getting louder and, by the sound of it, closer. Scarier.

I pull my duvet completely over my head to block out life as we know it. It doesn't work as a deafening bang is heard and echoed throughout the whole street. A giant metal ball smashes right through my window and lands on the carpeted floor with a bang that would wake the dead. I leap out of bed and stare at it for a moment, wondering what on earth it is, why on earth it just smashed through my bedroom window and how on earth it hasn't crashed down to the lounge below. It's a cold metal hunk of death, just lying innocently on the floor and dripping with hail and rain. How would you feel if that suddenly landed in your bedroom, setting the curtains flapping around madly? In fact, how would you feel if a giant floating ship was hovering outside of your window? Terrified, right?

There is a low, rumbling, persistent panting. I hurl myself back into the ruffled folds of my duvet, and start madly thinking. I'm sure that whatever is now entering my room through the smashed window can tell I'm under here because the covers seem to be shaking more than my actual body. My bedroom window is gone. What will my mother say? The curtains are fluttering crazily: as is my brain. What on earth is going on here?

Someone is in my bedroom.

Somebody is stepping over the shards of smashed glass.

Someone, some strange freak, is trespassing in our property.

Some weird pirate ship person, with a rasping breath, is walking through my stuff.

“Come out; come out, wherever you are.”

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