Introduction

Forks, Washington, a town seemingly innocent enough with its small population and dreary weather. Nothing extraordinary would ever happen here, no one famous would think to come here, no scandals emerge through the grape vine; it’s normal. Or so you thought. Forks is home to great, dark secrets and of beings you would never even dream of existing. They say it’s the big, busy cities you have to watch out for because they harbour all kinds of criminals and scandals, but I beg to differ. Fear the small, tight knit towns. Sure, everyone puts on a happy face but you don’t know what goes on behind closed doors, between friends or between lovers. Forks keeps one heck of a secret underneath all of this rain and in blankets of green. Enclosed in the pages of this journal is every piece of valuable information about this little town, its residents and, most importantly, their secrets.

Who Am I? That’s One Secret I Will Tell

My name is Annie McCord, I’m seventeen and a student at Forks High School. I’ve lived in Forks my entire life and therefore know everyone in town pretty well. I suppose I get a bit lost in the shuffle, although that may be hard to believe in a small town such as ours. I’m a bit reserved and quiet, even introverted if you want to call me that. I’ve been accused of being anti-social as well, which isn’t entirely false. I’m not too keen on casual interaction with people I don’t know. I’d rather watch their every move. You’re probably wondering why I observe others so closely, why I’m so withdrawn. I guess I’ll get this tid bit about myself out of the way now, because I owe a lot to this particular point of my life. Quite bluntly, the death of my mom is the reason for it. I was nine when she died, but she had been sick for a couple years before that. My mom and I were really close, I confided in her more than I did any other person. When she got sick I spent all of my time with her. When she became too weak to speak, I learned how to decipher slight movements or sounds she’d make when she needed something. I guess that’s where it all started. I would sit there by her side for hours, watching her every move. She was the first subject of my observations. Observing her had become second nature to me, like a new language. I’d have full out conversations with her and know her replies to whatever I was telling her just by the subtle vibration of her eyelids, or the tug at the corner of her lips. She was listening, communicating, even when she said nothing at all, even when her lips ceased to part. After she died I felt like I didn’t have anyone to share my random musings with, to be myself around. I only had myself. I stopped talking to people for a really long time, only communicating with myself and the mental notes of observations I made about other people. The funeral was when I hit the observer’s jackpot. People would come by, offering condolences, but there were sly gestures, twitches, and humphs that suggested other thoughts beyond a simple ‘I’m sorry for your loss’.   One of my favourites from that day was the flutter of Ms. Gordon’s eyelashes towards my mourning father, suggesting a flirtatious attitude behind the tears that fell from her eyes. People never cease to amaze me.