Author's Note From TurboWiz70-Hey everyone! Turbo here! I hope you guys are excited to read this! Cliffy and I have had so much fun working on this collaboration so far and we can't wait to see what you guys think! We have a lot in store for you, so buckle up and enjoy the ride! Read, review, enjoy!

Author's Note From Cliffhanger Girl-Hey guys! You are in for a real treat, and I hope you're preapred for the awesomeness of a story that Turbo and I have been working on. I've done several stories, and I must say, this is one of my favorites I've ever writtten...and that couldn't have happened without the collaboration with Turbo. So please, read, review/alert/subscribe! :)

Twitter: TurboWiz70 and TheCliffyG

Rated M: Themes and Language

Trespasser will be updated every: Saturday


Trespasser

Chapter One: Scarred Face

CLARE POV

"Come on Clare, why don't you pull your head out of that book for one hour and play with that soccer ball your father bought you for your birthday?" my mother asked me, breaking my eyes away from the latest sequel of my favorite author's edition, Stalker Angel. I placed the flimsy-paged book on the coffee table while slowly making my way over to the kitchen.

"Why? So I can pretend it's his head?" I asked, crossing my arms over my chest while glaring at my mother, who was baking a cake for the Fitzgerald's, our new neighbors across the street.

"Oh, honey, just give him a chance. We're all new to this divorce thing and we're both trying to start over on a fresh slate." My mother continued to shape her cake as I said, "I'll go out and play with the ball, if you give me thirty-five bucks for the third volume of Stalker Angel. It already came out, but I can't afford it yet. The babysitting job failed, only because your co-workers kids are animals."

"I think it's best if you stay away from that dark writing, especially that one guy...what's his name…?"

"Ari Gold," I reminded her in exasperation, for what must've been the millionth time.

"Yes, that man must have crazy thoughts in his head, and I really don't think it's appropriate for a girl your age to read," she commented on the author's writing, as if she's actually read the volumes, like I have, in grave detail. His works were immaculate, and plus the fact that his fans gave him the name "scarred face", so that probably threw my mother off a bit. Rumor has it he is a teenager, which is why I believe his writing is so relatable.

"Mom, his website says he's sixteen," I whined.

"And that makes it even more disturbing," she argued, facing the mirror in the hallway, "What kind of person thinks of stuff like that at sixteen?"

People with imagination, I thought inwardly as she zipped up the side of her new dress, grinning at her reflection in the mirror.

"Besides that, Clare, you know about the internet and strangers; just because some website, that he probably doesn't control, says his age, doesn't mean it's true."

"But if it is true, and we are the same age, then his writing is fit for me," I voiced aloud this time. My mother paid no attention to me as she returned to the kitchen to grab her cake, then said, "I'll give you the money for your book thingy if you play soccer with the new neighbor's kid; his name is Mark, but everyone calls him Fitz."

"That's not fair," I pouted, groaning in annoyance as she waved the money in my face, teasing me. My hand couldn't grab the tiny wad of cash fast enough as I commented, "His name sounds like a stale chip."

"Clare, honey, please just be nice to these people. I met his father in the grocery store earlier and he told me his son was enrolling into Degrassi next week. He's going to be a junior, just like you. Maybe you can start over too; maybe this can be your new beginning, Clare! New school year, new friends, new…boyfriend."

This is what she always did to me, dragged me into these awkward situations – away from my Stalker Angel reading, might I add – while she attempted to talk off the single father's head.

Knowing that there was no point in debating with her, I bent down to grab the soccer ball by the door before trailing behind my mother, who was already approaching our new neighbor's door with that big, fake, cheesy smile on her face. My heart sunk into my stomach when a middle-aged man, around my mother's age, opened the door.

"Helen Edwards! It's so nice to see you again. You look beautiful, as always, I presume. And who might this little one be? Clara, was it?" I glared at him, making sure that, if I could, my eyes would burn holes through his head as I spat, "It's Clare, actually."

"Right, right," he excused himself for a moment, only to call out Fitz's name. I rolled my eyes, growing impatient and bored with this boy already. My foot tapped unintentionally, but I stopped, hearing Mr. Fitzgerald's voice call out, "He'll be right out, Clara. In the meantime, Ms. Edwards, why don't you come inside and we can dig into that cake of yours? I'm sure that vanilla frosting of yours must be in grave tact."

"Oh, that sounds delightful," she chirped, as I turned around, bile creeping up my throat from that intense flirtation. I crossed the street and placed the ball on the ground, only to begin kicking it off my garage door. My anger getting the best of me, as I threw my leg back and kicked the ball with all my might. It bounced back to me and I stopped it with my foot.

I had accepted the fact that my parents were now divorced and all that jazz, but the idea of my mom flirting with someone else made all my frustrations come alive, and this was not for the first time. Wanting to take it all out on something, I gave the soccer ball another good kick; so good, in fact, I'm sure it would be screaming in pain if it wasn't an inanimate object.

"You know, if you keep that up you're going to bust a hole through your garage."

My body shook for a quick second from the foreign voice. I turned my head, to see a blue-eyed boy, whom was wearing no shirt, and was eyeing me like I was his prey.

"Would it kill you to put a shirt on? I mean, it's almost a hundred degrees out, I get it; but, you don't see me walking around outside with no shirt on," I spat, kicking the ball once more, loving the echoing clanking noise I was creating.

My eyes widened when Fitz picked up the soccer ball, while saying, "Skipping the introductions then? Fine by me. So, tell me a little about yourself, Clare. We both know you don't want to kick around a soccer ball like two-year-olds all day."

"Actually," I snapped, ripping the ball out of his hands and placing it back down on the cement, "I was paid thirty-five dollars for a new edition of my favorite author's short story series. In exchange for the money, I have to be outside with a shirtless, smug, hormonal teenage boy all day."

"Oh please, Clare, you know you can't resist this. When you first looked at me, I saw that look in your eyes, you were ready to pounce." He gestured to his bare torso, and I giggled, resting my hands on my knees for support. When I looked up, to see Fitz confused as to why I didn't comment on his 'hot bod', I composed myself, then responded, "I only go after guys who express a personality, and you, my friend, are not one of them."

Fitz's confused expression plastered on his face made me sigh in disappointment as I rubbed my temples. Boy, this kid was dumber than I thought.

"I like guys for their personality, Fitz; not for their looks or sex," I said, as he chuckled, "I have lots of personality, Clare. You severely underestimate the old Fitz-inator. I like to w-work out, see movies with gorgeous girls like you, and word on the street is I'm very good in the sack."

His elbow roughly nudged into my side when I didn't respond quick enough for his liking. I sighed loudly before saying, "Listen Fitz, honestly, we're on two totally different pages in two completely different books. Just because our two single, desperate parents interact, doesn't mean we have to. I've been doing quite fine on my own since my last boyfriend and I love every minute I get with myself."

This guy was a complete douchebag; his actions, along with his so-called "personality", disturbs me to a whole new level. But, if this guy's dad makes my mother happy, then I guess I will just have to withstand his jock-like, immature behavior.

"You're not much of a talker," Fitz noted as I kicked the ball against the right side of the garage, causing it to roll around Fitz's feet. I growled in frustration, as I watched him kick the ball over my fence . . . where it would bounce into our creepy neighbors' yard.

"Go get it," I ordered, pointing to the yard as the heat was starting to get to me. I shook my head, raking my fingers through my knotted, short curls. The faint stars blurring my vision had quickly disappeared as I continued to blink rapidly.

"Isn't that kind of work a woman's job?" he asked, as the blood in my veins was beginning to boil in anger. He had clearly not heard about this family yet and, evidently, it was my duty to explain it to him.

"No one ever goes in the Goldsworthy's yard, mainly because the mansion from the outside looks haunted, and no one has actually got a good, up-close view of the family. So please, Fitz, just go and get the ball. Do something useful for once in your life, would you?"

Yes, maybe a bit extreme, but I did not want to step foot on that property unless I had no choice.

"Let's make a deal," he said, and by the devious look on his face, I knew my side of this bargain was going to be close to impossible to hold up. "I will get the ball," he continued; I nodded, egging him to go on and put this unneeded suspension to rest, "if you have sex with me."

Oh, tough choice. Rolling my eyes, I stepped away from the horn dog and moved towards the iron fence.

"Hey-where are you going?" he called out to me, clearly not expecting me to have the guts…to be truthful, though, I did not expect it either.

I opened the Goldsworthy's gate and shouted, "I'd rather be sucked into a haunted house, and never come back, than let you put your dirty, grubby hands on me."

My heart raced uneasily as I searched for the stupid soccer ball, my eyes scanning each area of the yard to the best of my visions ability.

Once Fitz finally stopped talking, the realization hit me like a ton of bricks. I was currently standing in dangerous territory. I swallowed the growing lump in my throat when I caught sight of several other abandoned basketballs, baseballs, and such.

The rest of the front yard was like something out of the horror movies. The grass was dead and covered in leaves – which was odd, considering it was still summer – and the creepy, dead-looking tree that was off to the side made me a bit more on edge. My pace was slow as I looked for my ball, but I could not resist but look up at the house as well. It wasn't too big; in fact, except for the shutters over the windows and the litter of leaves, twigs, and debris on the porch, it would've been remarkably similar to all the other houses on the block.

I hardly spent a second more sightseeing; I just wanted to find the ball Fitz kicked into the yard and get out of there before someone noticed that I was here. After five seconds, I noticed my ball sitting innocently in the leaves a mere three yards away from me.

"Oh, there you are," I smiled, making my way further into the yard, to pick up my soccer ball.

I knelt down to grab the ball, relieved that no one – or nothing – noticed me. At least, that's what I thought . . .

My plan was to grab the ball and get out of there as quick as possible, but, seconds later, I knew that it was not going to be an option.

My hands instantly froze, my body tensing up, as I heard the crunching of leaves. My palms began to sweat, causing my grip on the ball to slip when my eyes gazed upon two, black patterned sneakers before me.

I was at a loss for words.

All at once, the haunting stories of the family behind my house raced through my mind. I remembered the one KC – my ex-boyfriend – told me; evidently, the teenage boy who lived in this house thrived on teenage girls and lived for the thrill of dragging them into his dungeon by their hair while they struggled. He told me that legend has it that he would bite their necks and drain them of their blood while he laughed at their pain.

Then, I remember the story my best friend Adam told me; he said that the teenage boy would cover his face with a mask, only because he didn't want the girls he tortured to remember what he looked like because then he would be caught in the act. I also recalled that Adam had said that this boy could smell fear from miles away, like a vampire.

I smiled a bit, seeing how unrealistic that sounds…until I realized how I could be one of those girls.

My head hesitantly moved upwards, my body still motionless as I glanced up, to see a shaggy, black-haired boy, with piercing green eyes, shown only through a mask, in which his face is hidden behind.

Who was he…and more importantly, what was he going to do to me?

END OF CHAPTER 1


So *insert awkward cough* how'd ya'll like it? :)

We promise it gets much MUCH more intense as the story progresses...

Love you guys,

Cliffhanger Girl and TurboWiz70

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P.S. Reviews are always welcome, but keep them to constructive criticism at the most! :P