Hiya, I'm happy to say that this story is written by me and RachelS8766. This chapter was written by me and the next chapter will be written by RachelS8766. I am dedicating this chapter to Rachel for the amazing temporary cover she made for our story and for being such a good co-writer. Oh, and I've updated this a little so it'll be kind of different to Rachel's! Thanks for reading everyone! :D
-Elisha122!
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Chapter One - Target
It was December the 3rd when Barry Lenham received his first letter. See, it wasn't a massive phenomenon or anything. I mean, many of the residents in Paris has received threatening letters at some time or another. But it was this day in which I'd encountered Barry Lenham's final words to me. The only reason I knew that this was his starting letter was because I was in the police station when he reported the offender - a faded silhouette posted the letter on a dimly-lit morning in the latter days of he previous month. Now, don't assume I'm a policewoman or anything. Tell the truth, I was only in to report that my window had been smashed and the chances were that it was by the Charterson kids down the street. Always rampaging, smoking and swearing outside their remote but unsurprisingly non-desolate flat. I didn't think much of it, or his letter for that matter of fact. At this point, he was talking to one of the officers behind the desk whilst I was discussing the damage of the smashed glass to another. Whilst the officers began agreeing on the next cause of action, Barry Lenham turned to me. Pale face stricken with faint freckles from his youthful days, greyish beard shielding his face from trouble and piercing hazel eyes almost tearing me from grace.
"Watch out," He spoke wearingly, "because they might come for you next."
I didn't utter a thing, but swallowed the ball in my throat, clearly misinterpreting the moral of the words. To a certain extent, I understood what he meant. I'd had my fair share with the police. My house had been broken into several times. Mostly they just stole CD's and bric-o-brac but other times it was more serious, brutal and forceful. These letters were just the start of these burglaries, forcing us to seek help from the authorities. And none of us had any idea what to expect next. Actually, I hadn't even thought that this could be another strike from the arid striker - determined to send letters for some reason or another. People actually assumed that the letter-senders were the people breaking into the houses. But that was just an old wives tale. Or a new wives-tale, as it happens.
It was December 7th when Barry Lenham returned to the police station with his second letter. He was begging the police to relocate him and his goods for protection. Either that, or set up alarm systems in his low-rent place. But they wouldn't do a thing, regrettably. In this low profile neighbourhood the funds were non-existent and trouble was too close to home.
December 14th. Barry Lenham was found brutally murdered on his kitchen floor. Surrounded by thick clumps of ghastly blood and out cold apparently. The only thing we knew about Barry's death was that it was brutal - he'd been knocked out with some sort of heavy weapon - a trophy or something of similar shape, the police presumed. But the only clue left at the scene was a letter. The last letter from the culprit, they assumed again. After this shocking incident, the neighbourhood was quiet for many days. Barely even a soul left the questionable comfort of their own homes. They were too entangled in Barry's death, worried that they might be next. They weren't though, I was.
It was the beginning of January when I received my first letter. I'd just gotten home from work, working part time as a social worker. I found a recycled brown envelope sat on the doorstep and picked it up, assuming it would be from the Bank. Hence why I tore it open instantly. To my surprise it wasn't a letter, but a threat.
'This is your first warning,' read the typed letter, 'leave town as soon as possible. If you relocate, nothing will happen to you but if you refuse, we will take further action.'
'We'. Who sent this?!
I gaped at the letter in panic, frustration and bewilderment. From experiencing these three states, the letter slipped from my sweaty palm and fell onto the linoleum flooring. I clutched my mouth in disbelief and worry and stared at the petrifying beacon of danger.
What could I do? I didn't have enough money to move out of Paris so that they could rob me. I didn't even have enough money to temporarily stay in a B&B. The only reason I could afford my cheap flat was because I was given certain benefits. That, and I did so much overtime I was physically knackered. I was going to have to think and concoct a plan of relocation. It just wasn't that easy - I didn't have any family. No-one to stay with, rely on or talk to.
I lugged myself over to the sofa and lay consumed in thought. If I needed to I would just become homeless. That was an idea. I would do what was necessary for crucial survival. But then the instantaneity overtook me like a brain freeze. I was expecting someone to burst through the windows at that moment and attack me. That, or murder me.
So, I just kept my beady eyes focused on the four walls around me. Surely they were enough to prevent me from facing the darkness out there. To be completely honest, I wasn't sure who I was trying to convince. I certainly wasn't convincing myself.
Days passed in a moment of sheer madness and I began to feel watched by every citizen in town. Every corner I turned, every passenger on the trains I'd catch to the City, every blinking eye around me, I began to get more suspicious. It was a blistering morning when I walked into work to see one of my regulars Sasha Johnson sat in the waiting room, crying. The receptionist and also my former colleague, Misty Palmerson, sat beside her handing her tissues. "It's okay Sasha darling," she was saying, "everything'll be fine."
Immediately, I pulled Misty aside and asked what was happening. But instead of answering, Mksty handed me a crumpled note, dewy from sitting in the pocket of Sasha's jeans where she'd probably planted herself on the grass and blurred with the damp tears that had fallen onto its beneath.
Even before I'd read the content, I knew what was awaiting me. So, I eventually unfolded it and began to read after simultaneous exhales and inhales. I recognized the same typed letters in an identical font, colour and the same torn piece of notepad paper. It was from Barry's killer and the same culprit of my note. There was only one thing evident to me at this breaking point: Sasha had received a note, just like me, with exactly the same words printed above its mesh. I didn't know what to think. I mean, who would be next? And if not next, who had already received a note from this villainous perpetrator? I couldn't bear this instability any longer. I needed to find out who was sending these notes and why, and somehow, I'd do it.
I needed to find the red-handed culprit for the sake of our practically miniature town, Arraville in uptown Paris. No matter how improbable and instantaneous it may have seemed, I knew that deep within my heart I felt an urge of fury, desire and desperation to uncover the truth. The police obviously weren't keeping up with their side of the bargain so I'd take it into my own hands, knowing fully well that I was probably going to end up facing more danger than I bargained for.
I wasn't going to give up, I was going to uncover the truth.
And to do this, I'd try and uncover the forgotten secrets of Paris; secrets that had never until this day been recollected before.
