Never Alone Version Two

I'm writing Never Alone, my first completed Movella, again as I want to make it even better. I might even send it to a publisher. Here goes...

After a young thrillseeker gets bored in the summer holidays, she comes up with a fun-sounding, if strictly illegal, boredom-buster. Break into, and take photos of, some celebrities homes. Will Smiths' place= Too easy. Casa de Jennifer Aniston= She could do it blindfolded. However, a dare from her best friend leaves her getting caught by the owner of Mansion Number 3. If that wasn't scary enough, the owner died when she was 12.

Now, 15-year-old Diana has a huge secret to hide, and an even bigger one to uncover. Both could leave her the same way as her ghostly companion.

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10. I've Got To Return That Somehow

 

Back in the mansion, I lay the stolen goods down on an ornate dining table. It was a wild journey getting it in the first place, but thankfully it was over.

"Now what? There's nothing at all Illuminati-related here." I asked, running my hand over the leather. It moved slightly under my touch; the buckles playing a tune whenever my hand got close. Next to me, TG was resting his hand on my shoulder. Judging by the shaking, he was trying very hard not to laugh at something.

"What's so funny?" I asked, turning to him.

"Nothing. Just, I've got this really mental image in my head." TG let all the laughter out. Clearly it was a really mental image.

"What of?"

"You trying on the jacket."

How was that supposed to be funny? I bet I'd look like a total boss in that. Picking it up, I slipped it on, and TG nearly died again of laughter.

"I don't see what's so funny?" I said, before I looked down at myself. Now I know what's so funny.

The cuffs hit me at my fingertips, and my knees were covered by it. It was massive on me, and it was surprisingly stiff. There was something hard in the side panels, and the back. It's loud rustle not normal for soft, silent leather and ice-cold steel.

Slipping it off, I lay it back on the table, opening it up fully. The black cotton lining is criss-crossed with stinging scarlet threads. Like a spider has swallowed a red paintball, then wove a wicked web into the fabric. That cannot be at all normal.

"Did you do this?" I asked, running my fingers over the threads. There was something stitched into the lining, that was meant to be found. Probably not by me, but to whoever hid it, too bad, I've found it.

"No. I don't even know what's in there."

Taking hold of the lining, I twisted out two folds for me to hold, then pulled hard. The loud, harsh rasp of the threads breaking and ripping, bounce and ricochet off the finely-papered walls, magnifying the destructive sound.

"You said you weren't doing anything illegal." TG remarked, as I groped around in the lining.

"Leave the stuff with consequences to me. After all, you don't need to worry about a thing. I've got to return this somehow, so please don't make me any more agitated." I replied, as my inquisitive fingers closed over two manila envelopes.

With a sharp tug and another loud rip, I pulled the envelopes free. One was thin, with barely anything in it. The other was thick, with the opening flap tucked in. Instinctively, I went for the thin one.

There was a single piece of sheet music inside, with a long rip stretching across the top. It seemed familiar, but I couldn't place where from.

Setting it aside, I picked up the thicker one. There was something soft inside, with several sharp things poking out. I took the top flap under my hand, then dragged it open.

Just as I had it open, TG grabbed me in a headlock, rotated me around so he was facing the letter, then forced me to the ground. If it was in other circumstances, I'd have beaten him to a pulp. As he saved me from what happened next, I'm eternally grateful.

That was no ordinary letter. Some Illuminati member, had filled it with black powder, phosphorus, sulphur and nails. How much do you have to hate someone, before you slip a letter bomb to them. I got a faceful of thick carpet, as the nails buried themselves in the walls. The sound they made, reminded me of a woman puckering her lips just after applying lipstick.

The smell of burnt paper, sulphur and scorched phosphorus stole through the mansion, like a troop of SAS patrolmen. Nails had buried themselves everywhere possible, the deep, throaty boom had rang through the house, and I was being crushed into the carpet by the weight of a protective ghost.

Eventually, he got off me, dragging me to my feet on the way up. I staggered from the shock, and having a dead leg (he'd leant on it), collapsing into him. He held me close, as the shock kicked in.

Someone had left a letter bomb to kill him, but I'd triggered it instead. The room was devestated, and I could easily have been killed. Little gaspy sounds shot through his chest, as he kept me upright. He'd saved my life, and I could never repay him for that.

"I-I'm so sorry I d-dragged you into this. F-Forget the Illuminati, a-and go back to your nor-normal life. Before y-you get killed." He stammered, his voice weak with shock.

"No. I'm not forgetting them. I'm not going to stop, until they suffer for this. I swear to God, that I will never, ever forget this."

Oh, they crossed the line. I've seen what they'll sink to, and I'm not letting it happen to anyone again.

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