Angels And Demons

Chapter 1

"She stares into your soul!"
"She looks like she will swallow you up!"
"The woman is a witch!"
"She was possessed!"
"She studied demonology!"
I sigh and gently shake my head as I walk out of school. All the kids bully me because of my mother. She doesn't look like someone who would volunteer to make soup for the poor on Christmas. She doesn't look like someone who will give out fresh baked cookies for her children's classmates. She doesn't look like a mum who will help her children with their homework every night. In fact, she is not my real mother. My real mother died when she gave birth to my younger brother. The woman that takes all my friends away from me was a beggar on the street about 5 years ago. My father felt sorry for her and gave her a home. A month later, he married her somehow. I was forced to call her my mother, but I refused. After my father's pleading, I finally agreed.

My mother is ugly. She is hideous. She is disgusting. She is grotesque. She is half blind, so the bloodshot whites bulged in her eyes. But she has excellent hearing, she can hear children's laughter from miles away. Her face is as wrinkly as aged leather, she looks 30 years older than my father. Her voice is croaky and sometimes really loud, like an old lady whose lawn had been stepped on. She is an extreme ragamuffin and she is nearly bald. Her hair is dusty grey, tangled and sparse. Overall, everyone is scared of her because she looks like a witch. I hate her for that.

I power walk to the old, wooden house I live in. I'm about to walk up to my room when I hear my mother's croaky voice from the kitchen.
"Dig up worms." I know what she means, worms for one of her weird potions. Reluctantly, I grab a shovel and a bucket nearby and head out to the backyard. Yesterday rained, so the earth is nice and moist, perfect for digging up worms. I dig up about half the bucket when I dig up something that is not worms. I pull it out, it feels like a book, a really thick book. After several pulling, I finally get it out.
"What the heck?" It is indeed a very thick book. In the front it read: Jocelyn Anne. "Author's name?"
But when I open the book and flick through the pages, they are coloured, decorated, doodled, something a little girl would do in her diary.
"Hurry up!" My mother screams. I hide the book under my shirt as I bring the bucket back. I head upstairs immediately.
"What is this thing?" I ask myself.