Kay-C thinks she is just a normal teenager, but when a mysterious new boy, Seth Harvey, moves to town, everything starts to change for her. She enters on a dangerous journey to try and figure out what is different with Seth, But will she like what she finds? Or will she wish she had just left it alone?


8. KAY-C

I jumped and looked up; I really hated it when people were able to scare me, and especially when I was being emotional. Great, this should be a fun conversation with a random stranger.

“Just two people that were brutally murdered by an evil, heartless, monster”

My voice had become cold and detached; this was my first line of defence against showing my emotions and was automatic. The boy, who was about my age, with tousled dark brown hair and shockingly green eyes, looked taken aback at my tone of voice.

“Did you know them?”

He sounded sincerely concerned, but behind the concern was that same tone of voice the psychiatrists and police had used. The voice that dripped with pity, it was the tone of voice that people use when someone had been through something traumatic, almost hesitant, as if expecting the ‘victim’ to have a mental break down at any second. Well, I didn’t want his pity.

“I knew them, but I didn’t know them very well.”

This much was true, I didn’t, not really, I was young. I didn’t have enough time with them to know them. They were killed when I was 7 years old, I don’t exactly remember what happened, although I was told that I was there when it happened. But those fragments of memories were coming back. And I can’t seem to control when they start emerging or why they are. Just then, images flared up in my mind:

A bright light, evil laughter and the smell of burnt toast.

Before I knew it my eyes were filling up, I have to get out of here. And I have to get out of here fast. I stood up abruptly as soon as this thought crossed my mind. This apparently startled the stranger and made him take an involuntary step back. I quickly muttered a polite

“I’ve got to go, sorry.”

And practically ran out of the familiar oak wood doors and into the darkness beyond. Five minutes later and I could see the average brick house, with ivy climbing up the walls that my foster parents lived in. After a few more steps I could see a silver car in the driveway, that wasn’t there before; my eyes searched the car, it was a brand new Porsche 918 Spyder hybrid, not a scratch was insight. I had better explain, my parents were, well, rich. And my foster parents enjoyed that fact; they spent it on stupid unnecessary things such as flashy cars, but nothing too obvious; they don’t want to get caught in the act. I say my parents’ money, but I mean my money. I have not been able to access the money that my parents had left because my foster parents claimed that ‘I would spend it stupidly’ How ironic. They were the type of scum that did that; stole an orphan’s money, leaving them with nothing. No-one knows about this arrangement of course, but who would believe me? I’m messed up. Remember?

I opened the door to the house and made my way upstairs and into my tiny bedroom. I removed my soaking wet clothing and changed into an appealing warm hoodie and some warn out jeans. I glanced at the article again, still clutched in my hands, I smoothed out the creases that I had made in it and placed the article neatly on my bedside table.

After about 10 minutes of moping and feeling sorry for myself I realised that I didn’t actually do my history homework. Fantastic. I strolled into the equally small kitchen and made myself a large pot of coffee; after all I was going to need it if I was going to be able to complete this assignment. Mrs Tarix was not going to be happy about my sloppy work. Oh well, it’s not like I have parents that can be disappointed in my low grades is it?

After about an hour of this torture I found an article online; The Butcher- Horrific Murders in odium, I stopped dead, that was my town, where I lived and it was more than 50 years before the murder of my parents. But it had practically the same description as the one that was used to describe what had happened to my parents. To make sure I grabbed the article with their smiling faces looking at me, and compared the text to the article that I had just found.

‘Lacerations on the necks and defence wounds on each victim, a symbol that has a circle in the middle, and three crescent moons; all of them overlap over the circle in the middle as they are joined.'

This description was practically the same in each article. But it was 50 years ago; could it be the same person? I have to know, I have to find out, but what if the things I find out, I don’t like? Well, I’m not going to like it anyway, so I may as well get on with researching it. I’m going to find out even if it kills me. Which is a possibility.

I googled the symbol even when I was deciding whether or not to investigate, I guess I already knew the decision I would make. Being careful to describe the picture that was in the article, I clicked ‘google search’. A few hours of research and I could see that it is the symbol for fate. Why would the murderer take his or her time to carve the symbol of fate into the skin of my parents? It was obviously important, but when I had tried to research it before, I didn’t have either of these articles; all I knew was that there was a symbol; no one specified what it looked like. Despite my attempts at finding out.

Well here was my chance to finally solve the mystery. To bring my family justice.

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