(Matilda's POV):

Several weeks goes by with no success from any of us. Already two tickets have been found. And one of them strikes me personally.

"Not surprised," I grumble when I show Charlie and James the Friday morning newspaper on our way to school.
"Nutty for Wonka: Daughter of Local Nut Tycoon Becomes the Second Golden Ticket Winner."

"Who found it?" Charlie asks.

"Found it?" I scoff as I look up at Charlie.
"She didn't even do any work to find it."

"Read on," James urges me.

I sigh and turn back to the paper.

"Ten year old Veruca Salt, daughter of local nut tycoon Nigellius Salt, has found a shimmer of gold; the second golden ticket. When asked about how she managed to find the ticket, she replied 'My daddy brought in bars by the hundreds of thousands. He had those pathetic factory ladies shell them.'

"When asked if there was anyone she'd like to thank for helping find the ticket, Veruca replied, 'My cousin Matilda Prescott. She kept telling me that SHE was going to meet Mr. Wonka first. She's always gone on about how she wants to show him this notebook of hers. It's a petty thing full of stupid candy ideas. I don't remember any of them. None of them are any good.

'But I would like to thank her for being so arrogant and greedy. She said she'd do anything to meet him. Well, Matilda. I guess your greed and arrogance backfired. Because I'm going to meet Mr. Wonka first. And he'll love me and my mink coats more than some girl with a stupid notebook. Guess you should've listened to your mother and prettied yourself up. Then you'd have one of these.'

"She began to flash the ticket around.

'Since when does knowledge get you anywhere? It's rubbish. Your mum's right, you know. The only things that are important are looks and money. But thank you, Matilda, for not having your priorities straight. You can't always have what you want.'"

"Hypocrite!" I yell into the rubbish.

I throw it down to the ground in disgust.

"She never does anything herself," I grumble.
"Except scream for what she wants. I bet even THAT requires someone to scream for her when she's too lazy."

"Why are you so against this girl?" James asks as Charlie picks the paper up and hands it back to me.

"Well, like it says in that paper, she's my cousin," I sigh as I take it from Charlie.
"She's the one I was talking about a few weeks ago."

"Oh."

Suddenly I begin to get the shivers. I huddle up and look up to find we've stopped in front of the Wonka factory gates.

"Oh no," I gasp as a chill runs up my spine.

This time I don't even need to grab the bars for it to begin. I soon hear squeaking for help; almost human and yet it's not.

"Come on, Matilda!" Charlie urges me.

I try to, but something keeps me glued there. I soon see a silhouette in the distance. Or is it a small speck? It seems to grow. And grow. And grow. Into the size of a-

"Squirrel?" I ask in disbelief.

Then comes another small speck. Then another. And another. The specks seem to come and grow by the dozens and very quickly at that. It's almost as if they're running from something. Or someone.

I soon see another figure. This one's much bigger than the others. In fact as the squeaking becomes much more rapid and fearful, the grown specks seem to shrink in this figure's presence.

The sky begins to grow darker as the larger figure moves closer and closer to the gate. I feel myself shrinking, so I attempt to resize myself and hide my fear. As it gets closer, I begin to see what I can only guess is its eyes. It scans the terrain and as its eyes move towards the gates.

My nose begins to twitch when suddenly I feel a tug on my arm. I swear I can hear a squelch as my shoes are pulled from the puddle of Goodness-knows-what. Immediately all is silent, save for the scratching of the fall leaves on the sidewalk as the wind gently pushes them like a mother bird pushing her chicks from the nest. Except the birds seems to be hinting at something that I'm missing from the puzzle of it all.

"Matilda, why didn't you move?" Charlie asks me.

I don't answer. I'm too shocked to speak. Oddly enough I should be used to it, what with having experienced much more intense day terrors than this one. After a while, I shake it off.

"I-I don't know," I confess.
"Come on. We'd better get to school or we'll be late."