Kiera

The train rattled its way through the mountain passes and over bridges that spanned giant valleys. With the door open just an inch or two, I sat silently and watched the cold, winter sun rise above the storm clouds which were fading away into the distance.

Kayla had cried herself to sleep and lay on the dusty floor next to her friend Sam. Every so often, Sam would stir and cry out in his feverish stupor. Potter sat with his back against the wall of the carriage and smoked. We didn't speak. I wanted to ask him if he were keeping secrets from me, but now wasn't the time. I was still in shock from seeing Isidor get slaughtered by those Berserkers. And as I pictured them in my mind's eye as they approached Isidor from behind, I glanced over at Sam. He looked like one of them.

Closing my eyes, I let the cold air which blasted through the gap in the door cool my face. I thought of the photograph Isidor had carried with him. He had been wrong about that picture. Even though he was in the photograph with Melody, he had died before meeting up with her again. As I sat, feeling the rocking sensation of the train as it raced forward, I suddenly got a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I opened my eyes and looked for the rucksack I'd brought with me from Hallowed Manor. Reaching out, I dragged it across the floor of the carriage towards me. Then with my hands shaking, I unfastened it and reached inside. With my fingers brushing over the picture of my dad and me, which Potter had taken from my flat in Havensfield, I sat and stared at it. Gooseflesh ran over my skin as I realised what was wrong with the photograph.

I couldn't ever remember that particular photograph being taken. If I couldn't remember it being taken, then it never had been  -  not yet, anyway. The reason why I couldn't remember posing for that picture with my dad was because, like Isidor's photograph, it hadn't been taken yet. So how was I holding it in my hands?

"Are you okay, sweet-cheeks?" Potter suddenly asked me.

"No, not really," I whispered, unable to take my eyes from the photograph in the frame.

Potter came and sat beside me. "What's wrong?"

"This picture's wrong  -  it's all wrong," I told him.

"It's just a picture of you and your dad," he said, and again there was a dismissive tone to his voice, which made me wonder if he were hiding something from me.

"It's not just a photo," I said, looking at him, wanting to see the reaction in his eyes. "This picture hasn't been taken yet."

Potter broke my stare and looked down at the photograph. He didn't say anything, not at first. "You're in it."

"But I don't ever remember having this picture taken," I told him, not taking my eyes from his.

"You could never remember all the photographs that you've ever been in," he tried to reason with me.

"My dad had jet-black hair," I told him. "In this picture, he has wisps of grey  -  he is older looking in this picture than when he died."

"So what are you trying to say?" Potter asked, and again he didn't make eye contact and lit another cigarette.

"My dad is alive in this world, and this picture proves I meet up with him again," I whispered, praying that it was true  -  that I was going to see my dad again. If I had a heart it would have been racing with joy.

"Kiera, I found that picture in your flat," Potter said, exasperated. "You would have never known about it if I hadn't have gone and got it for you. That picture holds no significance to what we've been brought back to do. It's a fluke that you're even holding it now."

I sat and stared down at the picture. Then, with my fist, I smashed the glass and removed the photograph from its frame and turned it over in my hands.

"I was meant to have this picture," I whispered. "It's a sign."

"What are you talking about, Kiera?" Potter sighed.

I held up the picture with my trembling hands and showed him what had been written across the back. Someone had scribbled just one word, and it read, PUSH.

'Dead Statues'

Book Three Kiera Hudson Series Two

Coming soon!

Author's Note:

Isidor told Melody about his dream to write stories. He called them his

Penny Dreadfuls  -  because he feared they would be so dreadful people wouldn't even spend a penny of their money buying them. Shortly after Isidor's death at that remote Railway Station, I woke one morning to find a brown envelope stuffed through my letterbox. I opened it to find four short stories. They were called, "There Are tigers", "Ratbag", "Paisley End" and "A Story". These were the stories which Isidor wrote between the ages of fourteen to sixteen. After reading each of these dark little tales, I could see that each had been inspired by what Isidor had seen and learnt about the humans during his adventures above ground. When checking the envelope to see if there was any sign or clue as to who had sent them to me, there was only one word scrawled across the front...

Over the page you will find that collection of short stories by Isidor Smith.