The Changeling
Chapter Three
John stared at the photo. But how could
this be? Maybe this little boy just looked like him. But then, why
would his parents have kept the clippings, why did they hide the box
away for all of these years?
His mind ran through infinite
possibilities, each more far fetched than the last. There has to be
an simple explanation, there just has to be!
He looked closer at the face gazing
back at him from the photo. Then he gasped! Through the graininess of
the photo, he had spotted something that proved without a doubt that
the boy in the photo was him!
The boy's face was tilted upwards, the
eyes and mouth smiling. He looked so happy. And there, just on the
jawline, faint but there, was the birthmark!
John idly rubbed his chin, as he stared
at the boy, feeling the slight roughness of the mark on his own skin
He put down the picture and began to
look at the clippings, reading each in turn.
'Henry Maxwell, aged 3, disappeared
from a local park this morning'
'There are still no clues as to the
whereabouts of Henry Maxwell, aged 3, who disappeared last week from
a local park'
'Local lad, Henry Maxwell, aged 3,
thought to have been kidnapped'
'Henry Maxwell, aged 3, now believed
dead!'
The clippings spanned around a year
before they stopped. Henry had never been found, he had just
disappeared, with no clues, no leads, no sightings.
John felt sick! But he couldn't be
Henry Maxwell! There were photos of him as a baby, giggling in his
parents arms. His earliest memories were here, in this house, with
his parents!
He put the box down and stumbled back
to the house. 'I'll find the photos of me as a baby, I am NOT Henry
Maxwell! I am John Thompson!
He opened the sideboard in the lounge
and pulled out the old album and flicked through the pages, his mouth
dry and his heart pounding.
He looked: Him smiling up at his
parents from his pushchair, him running in the garden, him on the
beach. Picture after picture of him! A picture of him aged around 2,
cuddling a teddy with a ribbon tied around its neck.
But then he stopped. His hand resting
on the page. He looked closely, hardly believing his own eyes. No,
this can't be right! The baby in the pictures, there's something
missing, something not quite right!
Picture after picture was the same. He
flicked through the album. Desperately seeking out the truth.
This child had no birthmark!!!
This child was not him!!
What was happening? The world that he
had known began to crash around him. Who was he? Was he John
Thompson, or was he Henry Maxwell?
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