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It was a very calm and beautiful night at Brigid Bay. The cry of seagulls and the crashing of the waves echoed across the deserted, sandy beach. A little further inland, at the top of a hill overlooking the ocean, the autumn leaves rustled to the smooth caress of the salty breeze. The sun had long ago started its slow descent into the horizon, and was casting its mournful glow upon the clouds and everything below them. Brigid house stood prominently on the top of the hill, and as it reflected the suns rays back into infinity, something about the house looked rather foreboding.
Far away from the serene, relaxing atmosphere of Brigid Bay, the air was not filled with calming nature sounds, but punctuated with sirens and screams of terror. The sky was not bathed in crimson beauty, in fact the only thing red was the river of blood flowing upon the ground, which grew steadily bigger as the death toll mounted. Smoke as black as the reapers’ cloak itself rose high above the scene of debris and mangled bodies, high above the clouds, seemingly higher than life itself.
From the bedroom window above the porch, John peeked down to the porch steps, where his 23-year-old daughter Ravyn stood, waiting for her teenage sister, Pandora. She would have to be told. He knew that. It should be him telling Pandora what had happened. But, he could not bear breaking the news. The guilt just would not let him go. Ah, at last – Pandora’s home. John’s pulse slowed to a terrible pace – it seemed to be years between each heartbeat. From the window, John saw Pandora approach Ravyn with a puzzled look on her face. Ravyn touched her arm gently. John saw that a sympathetic mask had been placed over his eldest daughter’s usually cheerful features. Pandora put her hands over her face. John couldn’t bear it – couldn’t stand the sight of his little angels’ tears – so he looked away. In doing so, his gaze fell on the now empty bottle of whiskey –the devil- and, in a temporary blaze of fury, threw it across the room. It hit the wall, shattering into a thousand pieces, each piece as jagged as the remains of his broken heart.
Pandora never looked back. Not once. She ran and she ran, grass soon turning to sand beneath her feet. The pain in her stomach signalled that she could not run any more, and she collapsed, knees sinking into the soft, cold sand. She screamed, and the heavens opened. The raindrops cascading into the sea were not unlike to tears tumbling into her hands.

(The Crows Cry, Front Page, 23rd February 2005)

“Smoke billowed across South Wales yesterday as several shops, cars and even fairground rides blew up in the busy tourist town nearby Brigid Bay. The streets were filled with paramedics and the police, and hospitals as far away as the Royal Gwent hospital in Newport were full of the victims. At least three square miles of the area was evacuated following the blasts, and as firemen and civilians alike search desperately in the debris for survivors, the death toll gets higher and higher…”

(The Crows Cry, Family Notices, 23rd February 2005)

“Although my love herself is gone, my love for her will still go on. John xx”
“I never thought I would miss the days my mum tucked me in at night… until now. Love you, mum! Pandora xx”
“No other mother can compare. I hope you rest in peace, even though you went much too soon. Ravyn xx”

On the day of its mistresses’ funeral, Brigid house stared blankly toward the bay. Once colourful paintwork, furniture, even clothes – all within the house absorbed the grey atmosphere like a tissue absorbs a spilt drink. The house seemed to sag, as though a huge amount of weight was heaped on top of it – it seemed, almost, as though the house was mourning.
“She’s taking it hard, Dad. Haven’t you noticed? Pandora’s changed.”
John sighed heavily. “I know that, but what can I do?”
Ravyn stared at him, expression of disbelief very apparent on her face. “What the hell do you mean ‘What can I do’? This isn’t something you can just shrug off, Dad! Talk to her, she’s had no-one since Mum died!”
John sighed again: “Six months have gone so fast. I’ll try and speak to her, but she’s been really distant; and I can’t see it doing much good. What time is Ethan expecting you back home?”
Ravyn looked away. “He isn’t. He couldn’t accept that my sister means more to me than he does. So I left.”
John let out a low whistle. “I take it you need a place to stay.”
“Yes, please.”
“Fine.”
A long silence followed. John opened a bottle of whiskey and began to drink from it; blatantly ignoring the scathing look his daughter gave him. The silence was broken shortly after by John’s grunt of protest:
“What the heck did you do that for? Just who do you think you are?”
Ravyn advanced on him, leaving the half full bottle of whiskey in the trash. “For your information, Dad, I was stopping you from drinking yourself to death! And, to answer your second question: the only one left actually capable of looking after Pandora, obviously!”
With that, Ravyn left the room. John swore after her angrily, then opened another bottle.
Pandora stumbled drunkenly into the living room, tripping over the edge of the old-fashioned rug her mother had bought when she was little. Giggling at her silly blunder, she tried to get up, but failed merrily. That was when the light clicked on. Pandoras’ eyes widened excitedly, before crawling back to almost shut.
“Ravyn! You’re back! I love you, you’re the best sister in the world!”
At this point, Pandora once again attempted to pick herself up. Her eyes widened again, but this time, it was due to the fact that she had found herself vomiting violently all over the floor.
Startled by the racket downstairs, John leapt out of bed, put on his bathrobe and clambered down the stairs, rubbing his eyes. He glanced at his watch. 4am? He thought. What the hell could be making that racket at 4am? Suddenly, he wished he had never asked the question, even if it was in his mind. In a fit of rage, he lifted Pandora from the floor by her hair, and threw her onto the sofa.
“What in Gods’ name do you think you are doing? Waltzing in at four in the morning, pissed as a fart? And what the hell is that on your neck? You’ve been out with some bloody pervert, haven’t you? I will not take any more behaviour like this, Pandora, I- WHAT DID YOU SAY?”
Pandora sat on the sofa, arms folded defiantly. “I said ‘you can’t say much’. How many bottles was it today, Dad? Wanna know where I’ve been getting the alcohol? The closet. Yes, the closet. Only there’s so much of it in there, you don’t even notice it’s gone. How many bottles was it today, Dad? Three? Four? You were even too pissed to go and save your own wife because of the whiskey. She needed you. And you chose the bottle over her.”
By this time, Pandora was crying quite hard. She fled the room. Ravyn and John heard her stumble on the stairs, but she didn’t stop. A door slam a few seconds later indicated the classic teenage reaction: she had gone to her room, and did not want to be disturbed. John looked at Ravyn, who shook her head and also left the room, leaving him to stew in his own alcoholic depression.
It was April 15, 1999. A fair-haired young woman looked up, and smiled.
“Are you recording again, John? Come on…”
“What? I want us all to remember moving into our new house!”
“We’ve lived here for three weeks now, John… but, it is beautiful here. I never want to leave, it would be such a shame…”
The screen started to shudder; all the people within it had ceased movement. The silence was interrupted by John’s sobbing. Pandora was right. Ravyn was right. This would have to stop. The whiskey had cost him the life of his own wife. If he didn’t stop soon, he would risk losing the rest of his family, too. Well, he knew what he had to do. He had to choose. And he knew what his answer was.
Pandora awoke suddenly to Ravyn standing over her, screaming frantically. Her screams were cut short by the smashing of glass. Pandora, now wide-awake, looked around herself sharply. The walls were flickering orange, and smoke billowed across the ceilings. She leapt out of bed, and with Ravyn’s help, threw her mattress and bedding through the open window.
“Go now, get help! I’ll find Dad!” Pandora shouted over the roar of the flames. Despite Ravyn’s spluttering protest, she was pushed out of the window, landing safely on her sisters’ bedding.
Pandora held a tea towel tightly over her nose and mouth, and put her hand over her eyes, shielding them from the smoke. She raced across the landing, and kicked open her fathers’ bedroom door. Her stomach fell to the floor as she realised that nobody was there.
“Dad!” She screamed, fearing the worst. “Dad, where are you?”
She raced from room to room, to no avail. Finally there was only one place to go: downstairs. She peeked down the stairs cautiously, watching the flames lick the banister, stretching toward the ceiling. She had no time to waste. Keeping as far away from the flames as she could, she ran down the stairs, two at a time. She made towards the kitchen, but it was too dangerous to enter. She darted into the living room, unaware that the ceiling had started to crack and crumble away.
Ravyn glanced at her watch. Pandora had been in there twenty minutes. Why hadn’t she come out yet? The smoke rose high into the air, almost certainly giving off some kind of signal to anybody nearby. Surely somebody must have noticed by now and called for help? Perhaps she should go for help herself. No, that was too risky. If Pandora or her father managed to get out of the house before help arrived, they might need emergency help. And if she wasn’t there to help them… well, she didn’t want to think about that. The sound of smashing glass was almost blocked completely by the roaring of the flames, but Ravyn still heard it – barely. When she looked up, she realised that all the windows had begun to smash, sending shards of glass in her direction. Swiftly turning her back to the flames and covering her head, Ravyn could now hear sirens in the distance, but there was no visible sign of help arriving. She slowly backed away from the house; heat too much to bear. That was when she heard it. The house emitted a creaking sound, and it was getting louder and louder by the second. The walls began to crack and splinter as the weight of the house steadily became too much for it.
Ravyn helplessly watched on as the walls of the front-most section of the house gave way, showing to the world a place once filled with happy childhood memories turned into a blazing hellfire inferno. Ravyn stood staring into the flames, for she knew that that was not just what they were, she realised what they actually meant. Despite the horrifying degree of heat radiating from the flames, goose bumps appeared on her arms and a cold chill raced down her spine. It was over.
Rain poured down relentlessly all afternoon. The grey, cloudy sky was met with flocks of black umbrellas and heavy black coats. Ravyn was among them, joining them in their procession to mourn the loss of her father and sister. She hadn’t shed a tear yet- the numbing shock she felt smothered all ability to cry. They would be buried next to her mother in a small cemetery not far from where they had lived. Had lived. It was so strange to think that they weren’t here anymore. Ravyn looked up as she realised the procession had stopped.
The priest was an old man, he looked kind-hearted and gentle most of the time, but it was hard to tell today, as Ravyn had learned that happiness was easily washed away, much like the rain washed away the dirt. The priest started to speak, but his words just floated over her head. Ravyn merely stood there; remembering- after all, wasn’t that what a funeral was about? There it was again – funeral. She felt so far away from the world, so shut off. It felt as though any minute now, she would wake up next to Ethan and find that it was all just a horrible, horrible dream. But she knew better than that.
The rest of the ceremony had floated away in the same way as the priests’ words. She was the last one to leave the cemetery, and she left alone, still in her own little world. Walking along the route her and her sister used to take to school together, she stopped at the corner shop to make a little purchase…
“Try again!” A fair-haired man wearing a recently pressed policeman’s uniform bared his teeth as he tried once more to break the door down.
It was a pretty run-down place to live, this neighbourhood not fifteen miles from Brigid Bay, and the neighbours suspected something had gone awry in the flat the police officer was trying desperately to break into. And trouble there was. The furniture was smashed to smithereens, and the floor littered with about seven empty whiskey bottles. The fair-haired officer covered his mouth, stony expression upon his face. His superior, PC Hetfield, could be heard sending an urgent message via radio:
“ We have the body of a female, aged early twenties, probable suicide.”
The radio sighed as PC Hetfield bent down and picked up a purse that was lying on the ground.
“Is there a name?”
“Ravyn. Ravyn Brigid.”