Chapter 1: The Jordans

There was this small graveyard Margaret frequently visits. It's off the coast of the town of Aveeno, where looming mountains, vast rainforests, and lush green hills surrounded a rocky beach. A large expanse of sea water stretched out to the horizon, and many cliffs and steep hills that led to the deep waters proved the place to be dangerous.

The people of Aveeno never lingered there, which was why the graveyard was always empty. Besides a few greying stone tombs, the grave markers of Marcus and Angeline Ferell filled the stunted cemetery.

Every other day, whenever she's not at work, Margaret would come and visit. She would pick up the weeds around her parent's graves, decorate the grave markers with flowers and candles, and then pray in the altar, hoping that her parents are in a safe place in the afterlife.

After which she would go back to the town of Aveeno, where plump Mrs. Jordan would feed her tea and cookies before she sets off for the city once again. Once she's at home, she would greet her Aunt Kristen, eat dinner, do some chores, bathe, then go up to her room.

But, one day, when she took the bus from the city to Aveeno, she noticed that the town was eerily quiet. There was no one outside; no children playing, no cranky old men playing cards, no nice ladies gossiping over the picket fences. No young women tending their gardens- Nothing.

It was as if a Dementor went and sucked the life out of the town; and Margaret, fearing that it MIGHT be a possibility, headed towards the Jordan's house, feeling oddly lightheaded and worried at the same time. She skidded to a halt in front of the wrought iron gate, breathing heavily.

She wasn't the fastest runner, or the most experienced one. Margaret, obviously, wasn't as athletic or as healthy as she would've liked. In fact, she looked like a ghost. No wonder Mrs. Jordan always forces her to eat the freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies of hers. Either it was from the lack of sleep or from seclusion, Margaret was very pale. Compared to her cousin's golden tan, she DID look like a ghost. She was skinny from the lack of food- not that her relatives starved her, but because she doesn't have much of an appetite nowadays.

Margaret feebly pulled on the tightly shut gates, wondering if it was stuck. "Darn." She cursed, scanning the gates again, including the house that lingers on the other side. The front door was wide open, and even from out here she can make out the destroyed furniture, wood chips, and rubble.

She gulped, feeling tears threatening to fall from her eyes. The Jordans were the only other people she would call family. She loved the Jordans in a friendly sort of way, and she would never, EVER want to see them hurt in any way. And that included seeing them dead.

"Breathe, Marge, breathe."

She chanted, gripping the iron bars roughly. She wedged her trainer covered foot on the second panel, before pulling herself upwards and cramming her left foot in an upper panel. The blonde continued to climb, her hands barely holding herself up as she hoisted herself on the top of the gate.

She stretched her left foot downwards, wedging the slippery sneakers onto another panel. To anyone watching, she would look like a thief trying to get in the house. But right now she couldn't care less. She had to see if the Jordans were okay. And so she continued descending, and soon enough her feet were on the ground.

Margaret scanned the house for a moment, pressing her red hands against her pants. From here, she couldn't see the interior of the house, which somehow gave the brunette hope that she needed right now. The fact that the Jordans might possibly be alive gave her enough strength to creep inside the dead silent house and search for the people she only knew too well. She gasped.

Everything was in ruins.

Mr. Jordan’s grandfather clock were scattered in pieces; Ms. Jordan’s flower vases strewn across the floor, long slashes on the soft canvas of her rare paintings; broken pieces of furniture and upholstery scattered across the blackened Persian carpets, and from the smell one could make out that there was a fire in the house not long ago.

Margaret took a tentative step forward, pulling on her sweater in distress. What would she do now? Call the police? She glanced hopefully at the bettered telephone, before deciding against it. Suddenly, she heard something, and fear bubbled inside her. More footsteps, until a loud hiss was heard an all sound ceased. Margaret gulped, crouching and grabbing the broken leg of a wooden chair.

“Hello?”

The words hung in the air, answered with nothing but silence. That was, until loud, fast-paced footsteps echoed, seemingly coming from upstairs. Margaret steered herself in front of the stairs. She did not think this was a good idea. She felt stupid for even making any noise! Her heart was pounding loudly, and she gripped the supposed to be wooden bat firmly in her hands. She was hyperventilating, she knew, especially when the footsteps got closer.

A loud “Marge!” shook her, forcefully, out of her reverie. A familiar tuft of black hair came to view. The bright hazel eyes of Ivor Jordan scanned her form, and she knew now that everything was alright- that they were all safe. “Ivor!” She flung herself towards the towering figure, for once in her life feeling like she could cry. There was a soft 'oomph', a soft chuckle and a (bordering hysterical) laugh. Ivor just smiled and patted her head.

Strong arms wrapped around her from behind, and before she knew it she was being lifted. Margaret couldn’t help but grin. “I missed you Bri!” Bryce smiled, setting her down. “I missed you too, Gary.” He muttered, ruffling Margaret’s. 

She heard a gasp. “Oh! I forgot you were coming over! I’m so sorry, dear!” Mrs. Jordan’s plump, round face stared worriedly at her. Margaret nodded, smiling happily. “I’m alright, Mrs. Jordan- quite peachy, actually. But the question is- what happened? Why is this-“ she gestured to the room, “-in ruins?” She looked around, and at the sullen faces of the Jordans. “Where’s Mr. Jordan?” She added quietly, internally wincing at the pain on Mrs. Jordan's face.

"Well, if you REALLY want answers- which I do not doubt- you might want to take a seat."

Author's Note

The Guide: http://www.writerscafe.org/j.pena/blogs/A-Guide/15817/