The cemetary always looked darker than the rest of the world. The crying stone angel statues looked omninous in the moonlight streaming throught the old trees. Incredible, the way something that is meant to look so beautiful can look the complete opposite with a change of lighting.

Tom and I wandered slowly among the cracked headstones. This cemetary is over two centuries old. It is hidden deep in the woods behind our town. Tom and I have visited only once before. Tonight we came to write.

Tom and I are 14-year-old authors. We're planning on writing a book together. The Great Adventrue, by Tom Carlisle and Bethany Smith. We found a brilliant name here last time: Carlton Carson. He 's a detective in our book. We've come here tonight because it is easier to write when you are experiencing something, at least for us.

"Beth, how about we settle here?" Tom says as we approach the base of a giant tree. I nod and sit down, leaning against the trunk. I look up at an angel across the way.

It looks old and worn. It has its bent face in its hands, crying over a grave. A sudden movement as Tom gets our supplies out draws my attention away. When I look back, the angel's face is looking our direction.

"Tom. That angel. The angel moved."

"Beth, no, it didn't. You're just seeing things."

"No, it was hiding its face a moment ago."

"Beth, there's lots of angels here. You're looking at a different one."

I shake my head in frustration. "No, I'm not!" I look at him. He's looking at me with a "she's crazy" expression. I look back at the angel. Its head is in its hands again.

I revert my attention to my notebook. But words are not coming. I can't get that angel out of my mind. I'm sure it moved. I decide that a walk will do me some good.

I stand up. "I'm going to walk around, I'll try to keep close by."

Tom doesn't even look up from his work. "Careful. Mist's coming in."

He's right. As I walk down a row of graves, the mist grows. Soon I can see only a few feet in front of me.

I stop to look at a headstone. I hear a noise like stone rubbing against stone behind me and jump around. There's an angel there that I hadn't noticed before. Its face is cupped in its hands just like the rest of them. I blink. The angel's looking straight at me.

I look around and then back to the angel. Its arms are at its sides now. I blink again. The angel is closer. I blink a thired time. Then I screan. The angel's hands are outstretched like claws and its mouth is open, exposing sharp, pointed teeth.

I hear running and Tom is suddenly beside me.

"Tom, keep looking at the angel."

"But what happened?" He sounds scared now.

"I don't know. But everytime I blinked, the angel moved."

We stand there, staring at the angel, alternating turns for blinking. I hear a noise to the right of us, but I don't dare turn and look.

Suddenly I see movement out of the corner of my eye and Tom is just... gone. Just disappeared into thin air. In his place is another angel.

"Tom! Tom!" I cry out. I get no answer, as I knew I wouldn't. I start backing away from the angels slowly. My eyes burn from not blinking and the coming tears.

As I'm walking I trip over a metal object. It's a shovel. I pick it up and stand. Three angels stand in front of me. I hold the shovel out like a weapon. "Right then," I say, feeling slightly ridiculous. "What have you done with my best friend?" I get no answer.

I resume backing up until I hit the fence. But I realize, too late, that I am on the back edge of the cemetary, nowhere near the exit. The angels are suddenly surrounding me. I don't see any way out. "Well? Anyone gonna give me an answer? Right, well, if I'm gonna die anyway, what's the harm?" And with that, I swing the shovel in my hands wildly, hardly keeping a grip on it as it collides with the first angel. I actually take a finger off. Their faces are snarls, mouths showing teeth again, clawed hands.

I keep smakcing the angels, work my way out. Once I think I'm free, I turn and run. As a last minute idea, I hold the shovel up. It actually has a bit of shine. In the reflection, I can see the angels. They can't move.

I run through the gate and don't stop until I reach home. I creep in through the unlocked back door and down the hall to my room. My house is silent but for my racing heart and labored breathing.

I collapse onto my bed. Tom. He's just... gone. But where to? What happened to him? What did the angels do to him? I start to cry and don't stop until I'm empty inside. My best friend is gone and there's nothing I can do.

I wake up before my family the next morning. Well, rather, I get up first. Sleep never came. I go sit ina tree at the park across the street. The tree where Tom and I always sit.

The sun is just a soft glow on the horizon, slowly burning away the mist, revealing a new day. A day where there is no Tom Carlisle. Later I'll have to see his family. What on earth am I supposed to tell them?

I drop down and walk around the block. When I get back to the house, a young man is waiting at the front door.

"Hello," I say as I approach. "May I help you?"

He looks at me and nods. "I'm looking for a Bethany Smith. I have a letter for you."

"Oh," I say ion surprise. "Who- who is it from?"

"My great uncle, Tom Carlisle."

I jump from shock. "Ex-excuse me? This really isn't funny." What a cruel, cruel joke. How do people already know?

"No, no, really, it's from my uncle. He gave it to me five years ago, just before he passed away. He told me to deliver it here, on this morning, to Bethany Smith. My uncle was always very wise; I would never question his actions."

I'm at a loss for words. I don't understand what is going on. "I-I-I don't understand..."

"Here, take it. Perhaps once you read it, it will make sense. I"m Jim Marks by the way."

I take the yellowed envelope he is handing me. It is old, but well-preserved. "Thank you, Jim."

"I'll be on my way then," he says.

This man has some connection to Tom. He knows something. I have to talk with him. "Won't you stay for breakfast?"

"Oh, thank you very much," Jim says, "but I have a plane to catch. Thank you though."

"Oh, yes," I"m disappointed I won't be able to talk with him. No matter how odd it is, he knows Tom. "Well, thank you. Have a safe trip."

"Thank you. Goodbye, Miss Bethany." He walks to a blue rental car I hadn't noticed before. As he drives away, he waves. I wave back.

I look down at the envelope. My name and address are written in a script that looks an awful lot like Tom's. I walk over and climb our tree again. At first I just sit and examine the envelope. Then I open it and read.

Dear Bethany,
If you receive this when I plan for you to, and I trust my great nephew Jim a great deal to get it to you, it will be the morning after we met the angels in the cemetary. What a strange night.
When the angel touched me, I awoke in New York in the 1930s. I was sent back in time. I've had since then to find out what happened. After five years with no luck, I met someone who had read my notices and knew exactly what we had encountered.
The angels are a race of creatures as old as the universe itself. Their defense mechanism is turning into stone. As long as eyes are on them, they cannot move. When we blink, they're fast, very fast. The man called them the Weeping Angels.
The angels most commonly kill you by sending you back in history to live out your life in the wrong time period. That's what happened to me. I miss you, every day. My best friend Bethany Smith. I hope you found the shovel I left in the cemetary. I figured if anyway was smart enough to use a reflective surface, it would be you.
I married and had a family, and I love them with all my heart. I just wish you had been there as my children grew up. You could have been Aunty Beth, like you always wanted to be.
I had a great life. The first few years were incredibly tough, but when I met Missy, my life brightened. Oh, you would have loved MIssy. She was a reader and a writer, too. She died three years ago. Not a day goes by I don't miss her. I'll be joining her very soon.
I'll be long gone by the time you read this. I wish I'd seen you one last time. But always remember the years we had together. They were the best of times.
I hope you'll still write The Great Adventure. Grace the world with your magnificent writing. Bring your light to maximum power. If for no other reason, do it for me, your best friend. I know it will be brilliant.
Do me one more favor, Beth: have a fantastic life.
Love,
Tom.

My face is soaked in tears. So Tom is really gone. Forever. My best friend, sent to live in the wrong part of history.

I sit in the tree for hours. Mother calls me in for breakfast, but I can't come in. I can only sit in that tree, clutching Tom's final words to me close to my heart. I will never be in that cemetary again. I will never be the same. I will always miss him. But I will write that book. I will write the best story I've ever dreamed up. And it will be dedicated to Tom Carlisle, who will forever be my best friend.