As the sun crested over the quiet riverside town, golden light spilled across the landscape, bathing everything in a warm glow. Petals floated lazily on the river, carried by a gentle breeze towards a blue bridge. Their soft colours stood out against the deepening hues of the sky.
A woman in her mid-thirties jogged along the riverside park's footpath, her steps steady and rhythmic. She sidestepped gracefully, giving way to an elderly man and his black Labrador. The dog's tail swayed leisurely as they strolled by, a picture of relaxed companionship.
High above a field near a row of middle-class houses, a kestrel soared with deliberate grace. Its sharp eyes scanned the ground below, vigilant for the slightest movement, while the old church at the end of the street loomed quietly, a timeless sentinel standing guard over the town.
A thick fog clung to the night air, refusing to budge even as heavy, laboured breaths punctuated the stillness. Through the mist, the silhouette of a cloaked witch emerged, more shadow than substance, her form shifting like a wraith. Her gnarled fingers slowly rose, gleaming in the dim light before they sank into the forearm of softer skin, the air thick with a palpable sense of menace.
Scarlett Whitehall, eighteen, her long black hair tangled from sleep, bolted upright in bed, a scream tearing from her throat. Her blue eyes were wide, terror still flickering within as she struggled to untangle the nightmare from reality. The dim light of dawn filtered through the curtains, casting eerie shadows on the walls.
With trembling hands, Scarlett reached for the remote on the bedside table and pressed the green button. The room filled with the raucous sound of heavy metal—blaring guitar riffs and pounding drums—drowning out the remnants of fear with its relentless energy.
Ethel Whitehall’s breaths were shallow and raspy as she lay in bed, each inhale a struggle. Her frail hand shook as she reached for the photograph beside her, taken by the riverside in her late twenties. The image showed her and her husband, both smiling brightly, his arm wrapped protectively around her waist. A tear slipped from her eye, tracing the lines of her weathered cheek as memories of that day flooded back—warm, vivid, bittersweet. The love they once shared lingered, a tender echo of a life that had been cruelly snatched away.
The door creaked open, and Scarlett entered, wrapped in a white dressing gown. She smiled at her grandmother, but the sight of tears on Ethel’s face froze her mid-step. She hurried over, gently taking Ethel’s frail hand in hers. "Sweetie, don’t fret about me..." Ethel whispered, her voice soft yet steady. She met Scarlett’s gaze with a reassuring smile, though it trembled at the corners.
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"Would you like a cup of tea?" Scarlett asked, her voice almost a whisper. Ethel shook her head slowly. "Some toast with jam, maybe?"
"I’m not hungry, dear," Ethel murmured, her eyelids fluttering as she fought to keep them open.
Scarlett nodded, but a knot tightened in her stomach, an unspoken fear creeping into her thoughts.
"She’s lying..." a blunt voice pierced the silence.
"Old lady loves her jam on toast..." sneered another, dripping with disdain.
Scarlett’s breath hitched, her heart pounding as she turned and fled to the kitchen, her mind reeling. She flicked on the kettle, the soft hum of boiling water offering a fragile comfort in the quiet kitchen. As she waited, she picked up the newspaper from the counter, the date Sunday, 17th March 2024, printed boldly at the top. The headline jumped out at her: Giant Iceberg Breaks Off from the North Pole! Just Stop Boiling Relentless in Crusade Against Public Services.
Scarlett’s heart quickened as she skimmed the article, the words blurring together as dread settled in her chest. The thought of rising waters engulfing coastal homes sent a shiver down her spine, the looming disaster feeling alarmingly close.
A loud knock echoed through the room, jerking Darren Nardell awake. At seventeen, his brown hair was a tousled mess as he sat up, blinking in confusion. The door swung open, and Michelle Nardell stood in the doorway, forty-seven, overweight, her supermarket uniform clinging to her like a second skin. She fixed him with a glare, irritation sharp in her eyes.
"I want you at the Bistro at four o’clock," she barked, her tone brooking no argument.
Darren’s frown deepened, his disapproval clear as he muttered, "I’m spending the day with Scarlett..."
"I couldn’t give a flying fuck," Michelle snapped, her voice rising like a whip. "I haven’t seen my sister in months!"
"Fine..." Darren spat through gritted teeth, the words sour on his tongue.
Michelle’s gaze flicked to the dirty cutlery scattered across the desk, her lips thinning in disapproval. "Those had better be washed by the time I get back," she said sharply, her eyes narrowing before she turned and left the room without another word. Darren stared after her, his resentment simmering beneath the surface, the weight of her demands pressing down on him like a heavy stone.
Water gushes from the tap, splashing over the dirty cutlery as Darren, now in a dark blue hoodie, scrubs away the grime. The earlier anger in his eyes softens as he glances out the window, catching sight of the family’s black cat lounging at the bottom of the garden, its tail lazily flicking back and forth. "The British Embassy in Dublin was set on fire last night as immigration protests in Belfast are beginning to turn unlawful," the voice of a news reporter crackles through the radio, filling the kitchen with an ominous undercurrent.
Darren’s eyes drifted to the photograph on the wall—a snapshot of his father, Ryan Nardell, in his early twenties. Ryan stood tall in his graduation robes, the dark fabric crisp and formal against his youthful frame. His blue eyes glimmered with hope, a proud smile lighting up his face as he held his bachelor’s degree aloft. The photograph seemed almost mocking now, a stark reminder of dreams unfulfilled, the promise of that moment never reaching its full potential. Darren stared at his father’s smiling face, feeling the weight of expectations that had long since faded into regret.