A/N: Yeah, I know it's not that good, but it gets better in the later chapters. Cut me some slack people! Review to at least tell me how to improve! And it does get better every chapter – it's more of a record of my ability. Read: none.
Chapter Two:
The book called Moon Children was one that I had found when scanning a garage sale with Dad on Saturday. He liked the old antiques that had maybe once been family heirlooms and the such, and he often said that these things "had a century of memories behind them". I just felt sad that the person selling had to give all these away, especially if all they wanted to do was move house, which is what this old lady wanted to do. Mrs Bennet had been in our neighbourhood for as long as I could remember, and had always taken a special interest in me.
She wasn't exactly normal most of the time, she loved to catch people on the street and whisper to them about vampires and witches, and techniques to ward them off, and sometimes she would give me this weird, piercing stare as though I was from another planet, and she was often caught muttering strange words under her breath. This unnerved me often, and when I discovered that she was moving away, I at first thought it might be because of me, and was even a bit glad. I instantly berated myself for that thought. What had I ever done to poor old Mrs Bennet anyway? Nothing I was sure, but even so I still couldn't wipe away that little smudge of guilt that I in some way might have been the cause of her departure.
While Dad was exchanging childhood memories with Mrs. Bennet, I took the chance to peruse the aisles of dusty shelves, and browsed through the aged books and little porcelain artefacts. Was there nothing of Mrs. Bennet's that was new? I kept on though, in the hope that I might find something that was worth keeping. And then, nestled in between two large, hulking botany books, I saw it. It seem to be almost part of the shelf on which it sat, the rich mahogany of the colour blended in exactly with the wood on the shelf. The book hung back in the shadows, as though it had never been picked up and was anxious about being read. As my curious hand reached for it, it seemed to shrink further out of my reach – but of course that was impossible – until finally I grabbed it. As I laid my fingers on the weathered old leather cover, I felt run through me the strangest electric current, as though someone had hooked my fingers up to the power socket and flicked the switch, and a cold shiver went down my spine.
I knew at once, without even reading the title, that I would come to own this book. It's just a power they have over you that you can know without reading it which book is for you and when you find it, you must have it, no matter what. It was like that for me, and when I read the title, Moon Children, it sent another bout of convulsive shivers down my back. I went to the counter with this book in my hands, and asked if that book hadn't been reserved.
The girl at the counter was 15, and she looked down at me cheerily enough, and said that no, the book was mine for just 10 dollars. So I payed with the little pocked money I had, and went over to my father to show him my prize. When I saw Mrs. Bennet and showed her my book, she gave me one of her strangest stares, then, seeing the title of the book I was holding, went a white as a sheet. She muttered to herself, "Not my fault. Not my fault if I tried to warn her away, I knew she would get it in the end, tried my best, not my fault".
When I looked quizzically at her, having heard everything she said, she gave a quick goodbye to my father and rushed away, muttering unprintable obscenities that were quite unfit for a lady of her age. "Well, said my Dad resignedly, "I guess that's our cue to leave. Come on Rose, get in the car and we'll get home so you can tell Mum all that's happened. I know your dying to." He was right on that score. I was eager to get home and show her my latest find, but even more eager to discover the strange allure of Moon Children. The title gave away nothing, and I was raving to lock myself into my room and study it further.
Unfortunately, it was Sunday before I got to really have a good look at the book. I was assigned little tasks for the rest of Saturday afternoon, penance for escaping morning chores to go to the garage sale with Dad. I also had to keep studying for my various tests, as every second I wasn't studying was a second later that I couldn't discover the secret of Moon Children. I kept sneaking little glances at it out of the corner of my eye, and now I could see it for real. I was excited, all right.
As I shut myself in the enclosed comfort of my room, a familiar sense of security washed over me. My room had always been one of the few places I felt truly safe. When I was little it was a place to snuggle into bed at night, safe in the knowledge that my teddy was there and the nightmares would stay away. As I had gotten older its role has changed, becoming more of a refuge from the chaos of the rest of the house that my disorganised mother had never quite got around to organising, whereas my room, with its bare white walls and pale blue bed sheets remained clean, the only exception being in the times of extreme rest and relaxation. I always seemed to have time for cleaning when I was really stressed.
As I lay on the navy blue sea of carpet, I scrutinised my new curiosity, trying to pick out a flaw in the delicate brass clasp, or a new pattern in the worn leather. I blew the dust off the top of the book, like they do in those corny movies when the main character has just discovered a priceless relic of some sort. It was highly unlikely that this old book was worth anything, but that didn't matter to me. It was the symbol that interested me the most. It was the fine, polished white of willow-wood, or maybe bone (who's bone? I thought and shuddered) and its spherical form stood out from the dark brown cover.
Engraved in it was the symbol, what looked like a circle with lines shooting out, like echo lines off a full moon. That must be what the book is about, I thought, after all, it is called Moon Children. I ran my fingers slowly over the front, tracing the symbol over and over, wondering what it could possibly mean. I hesitantly lifted the cover, almost afraid what might lie inside the old pages with the cryptic runes. I gripped the leather with my finger tips, slipped the clasp and pulled. The cover stuck as though it had been wedged together with glue but as I pulled the thick layer of must the pages came away with an ominous ripping sound. I was left with what seemed to be half a book, but all the important bits were intact. With a deep feeling of expectation, I flipped to the title page and gasped in wonder.