The door creaked as it opened, centuries of solace meant that the entire house was unhinged by any movement, weary from an eternity of waiting. A thin veil of dust rained down upon Jethro, and he ruffled the particles out from long charcoal hair, watching them slowly drift through the musty, stale air, glittering in the late afternoon sunshine. And for a brief moment, all was quiet, and it almost felt as though time was at a standstill, waiting as the specks made their downwards journey. Then, from an unseen corner came the scurry of a rat, hurrying in the darkness, and the moment was lost. Almost regretfully, Jethro crept cautiously down the hallway, fending away real and imaginary cobwebs that caressed his face and neck, sending a cold chill through every bone in his body. His irrational fear of the dark certainly did not aid his situation, and with every movement he saw, just beyond his vision, movement in the shadows, whispers and secrets crawling in the dark, watching him. His eyes swept the area glinting green through the infinite black, pupils fully dilated, straining in the dark to see. Determined to continue, Jethro turned his mind from his fears and thought of his purpose, why he would ever come to such a derelict mansion. This sort of thing was more suited to his best friend, Darius. With a sigh which resonated sadness and regret, Jethro strode forward, but not to confidently. He knew that Darius had had his mind set on coming to this house, he knew that when he last saw him, when anyone last saw him, he was talking of nothing else. Jethro also knew that Darius had asked him to accompany him there, Jethro had refused. And now, Darius was missing, gone without any clue as to why he would disappear...
The corridor opened into a large, high ceilinged chamber, glass chandelier tinkling precariously overhead and elaborate furniture and furnishings lay scattered about the room. Jethro gazed at the bizarre scene, frightened but curious. An assortment of seemingly harmless items lay on a nearby desk, and it seemed as good place as any to look for any clues or suspicious objects. Wading through the mess on the floor, Jethro felt a sudden pain in his left foot. He looked down to see he had stubbed his toe on a fallen stone angel. Looking more carefully, he could see that the angel had its face buried in its granite hand, weeping. He glanced to the desk – and froze. Twisting back to see the angel he stared at the hands. They had moved! Now only one hand held its bowed head, while the other pointed, thought Jethro, straight at him. His breathing haggard, Jethro looked around for any possible weapon, but his eyes glanced at the angel once more, and there it was, head slumped in both hands, just as it was before. Shaken, he turned back to the desk. Lying, dust-covered amidst other things, was a small leather-bound book. Embossed on the cover in intricate letter read, 'A Journal of Impossible Things'. By now, Jethro had almost completely forgotten his previous fears, and he carefully lifted the book from the desk, and wiping of a thick layer of dust, he opened to the first page. It was a confusion of black ink drawings and scrawls of words; faces, objects and descriptions all melting into one another, creating a fusion of blacks, whirlpools of strokes and lines. Fascinated, Jethro flicked through the pages, enthralled by the beauty and wonder the pages offered. And the drawings were so fantastically impossible, creatures and planets from beyond the wildest of imaginations, jumping out from the pages with inconceivable light and sound. Eagerly, he turned page after page wondering at the delight the book brought.
Suddenly, a chill swept the room, making Jethro shiver, despite the musty warmth of the house. Uneasy, he checked his watch. It was only five in the afternoon, but already the sky was turning dark and the coolness of night was creeping closer. Still unsettled, Jethro gave the book one last glance before shutting it and shoving it into the depth of his school bag, and moving to leave the room. At the hallway door, he turned back once more, just to see that eerie angel statue before he left – but where was it? He peered into the darkening black, emerald eyes searching, but it was nowhere to be seen. Falsely reassuring himself that the angel was concealed by the coming night, Jethro turned and strode down the corridor, unsure as to why his pace had quickened. The front door was open, and he almost ran out not bothering to close the door behind him. As he swept down the overgrown path, scratching his legs on thorny bushes, he heard the echoing slam of the door behind him, but he kept going, getting out of the garden, as far away from that house as possible. As soon as he passed through the large iron gates, Jethro stopped, and leaned against the corrugated twisting swirls, catching his breath and settling his nerves. Exhaling loudly, he swung his leg over the bike and pedalled off down the winding road, his mind already elsewhere; but as he passed the boundary of the gardens he did wonder, because when he arrived it was considerably earlier in the day and lighter, but he didn't remember a stone angel standing just outside the abandoned house...
Later that night, confined to his room for his late return home, Jethro lay on his bed upstairs, indulging in the pictures and stories from his new-found journal, as his parents sat down-stairs with large hot cups of herbal tea, worrying about their son's reaction to the disappearance of his closest friends. Jethro occasionally placed down the journal and listened to a few words of their conversation, but he found is so idle and boring compared to the adventures that the journal had to offer. It was almost never ending, story after story, the pages ran into each other as the night slipped away. Jethro realised, sadly that he was reaching the last few pages, and proposed to save them for the next night, until he saw the angel. Painted in the same black ink, but undoubtedly the same angel as the one standing outside the abandoned mansion Jethro had visited and maybe the same one he had stubbed he toe on. His heart rate rising, he leaned in closer to look for a description and saw only underneath the drawing four words. Just four words. In painfully recognisable handwriting. 'the angels got me', wrote Darius. Jethro froze, he knew it was Darius; he could pick out his handwriting easily, but how? Did this confirm that Darius had visited the house, and discovered the book too? Jethro's face scrunched with concentration; all that dust, surely if someone had been inside the house recently then there would not have been dust above the front door...
A scratching sound drew Jethro sharply out of his thoughts; it was coming from the book, from the open page showing a weeping stone angel. And just underneath those four daunting words, new words were forming, in strokes and sweeps, as if being drawn by some invisible hand. The letters and words formed faster now, as if the writer was getting desperate, but Jethro could not distinguish the letter nor read the words, for they appeared to be a jumble of shapes. Abruptly, the writing stopped, and before his eyes, the shapes melted into letter and the letters arranged themselves into words. Jethro leant forward and peered at the short passage which read;
'Beware the weeping angels.
They come when you can't see
Only when you are not looking
Impossible to fight stone you know
Can't kill or hurt stone
Of course stone can't hurt you
But then you look away, then you blink
And oh yes, it can.
If you can see them, they are locked into a stone form
But look away, and they become a living nightmare
They are fast, faster than you can imagine
There's no running away
Remember if they are coming for you
You mustn't let them out of your sight
Don't Blink. Don't even blink
Blink and you're dead.
Don't look away, don't turn your back
And don't blink.
Good luck.'
Jethro threw the journal down onto his bed. It lay open on the freshly written page. The words screamed out of the page. Dazed, he crossed to room and opened his window; and there it was. In his garden, solid as granite. The weeping angel had come for him. His heart hammered in his chest and his eyes darted back to the open pages, 'don't look away,' he quickly looked back towards his garden and opened his mouth to scream, but found he couldn't. The stone angel stood before him, hands reaching out to his neck, uncovered eyes pits of darkness, staring him down. Already his eyes watered, but he was rooted to the spot, unable to move, his body racked with fear.
Don't Blink.
An itching started in his right eye but he held his gaze.
Don't even blink.
Emerald and black. He stared and stared.
Blink and you're dead.
His eyes stung but still he held the open. The Angel mustn't win.
Don't look away, don't turn your back.
He couldn't stay like this forever; he was only prolonging the inevitable...
And don't blink.
Tears were forming, hazing his outer vision, his had to keeping fighting, he wouldn't give in, he couldn't...give...in....