I was challenged to write w scary story for a writers group that I belong to locally, and I tried. I really did... but i didn't feel that it was scary enough. But... I read it to my friends anyway...and they liked it. So, I will share it with you....since you asked....
Please make a comment, because I really DO care what you think of my writing.
Ghost Story...rough draft....
The members of the writer’s group sat around the long oak
table in the front room of the local library as they had been doing every other
Tuesday evening for some months now.
Strangers at first, acquaintances later and now developing friendships
this group of eclectic writers respected
each other’s very different writing styles, voices and means of telling a
tale. The assignment for the last
Tuesday before the celebration of the Day of the Dead was to create a chilling
tale. The challenge became palatable for
ALee as she set her scene and began her story.
Relying on her admiration for Poe and his chilling poetry , and tales of
deceit and quiet revenge, or the cremation of Sam Magee or any of Stephen Kings books that she was too
afraid to read after hyperventilating while reading the chase scene in Salem’s Lot. Alee loved Halloween. Gross looking food, masks and hideous
make-up, costumes and of course, chocolate candy made this holiday one of her
favorites.
And so it was this night, a night of sharing scary stories,
without the eerie campfire, that this writer’s group gathered. So when it was Alee’s turn she shared Chris
VanAlsberg’s The Widow’s Broom, a child’s story she traditionally read to her 4th
grade students. And the other writer’s loved it, scary in its simplicity and
expressively sketched illustrations.
My original short story originates here in this
library. It is a tale of secrets, of
secrets so ____ that it has never been told before this evening. One of the books , in plain sight upon these
shelves is a diary, an honest confession of a deed so horrendous that the
victim cannot wait another moment for the truth to be known. The book waits….silently …for someone to
notice its worn leather cover and the title printed in faded black ink.
This Tuesday evening , a curiosity lured Alee to search the
shelves. She is not sure what she is
looking for and only knows, knows without a doubt that she will find it. She
finds herself drawn to the back wall, behind the circulation desk, there
amongst the shelves housing books of local history she searches. She stops. There is a sound… the faint sound
of weeping. She hears a child weeping
and glances out the window but sees only her distorted reflection in the wavy pane
of glass. She kneels, lower to scan the
books resting on the bottom shelves. The weeping seems to be more audible, a
little louder….a little more clear. And then….
The crying stops, as if the child is holding its breath.
Waiting. And the weeping becomes a
whimpering , and the whimpering becomes a whisper, “find me.” The child voice
urges. “Find me.”
Alee moves the books looking for the tape recorder, or some
new technical device that has brought her to quivering. There was little light here, back in the
corner , down by the lowest bookshelves and her body was shading the very space
she was examining from the dimness. She
took out her phone and used the flashlight app to see.. Cautiously, she moved
and removed books from the lower shelves.
There was nothing technical that she could see, no microphones or
speakers, no tiny recorder, but she knew pranksters were very clever and could
rig up this scary moment for her with little effort. She so badly wanted to catch them at their
own game. “Find me” the child voice whispered
reminding Alee of her search.
Alee followed the sound, the tiny sound of whimpering. “Please.” The voice begged. Goosebumps tingled Alee’s arms and she shivered. The flashlight app was strong, and so she
searched. She began reading titles and flipping through tissue thin pages of
very old books. Nothing. “Find
me.”
Alee could hear the quiet conversations of the others in the
writing group. They spoke of poetry and
autumn and the beauty in the nature of colored leaves. She rose quietly, embarrassed that she had
been so completely fooled, embarrassed that she had been so completely
frightened by their hoax. She stood as
she heard a collective chuckle. They
seemed to be pretty pleased with themselves.
Sure, scare the new resident of the town. Well, it worked. She was scared.
As she stood and tucked an errant strand of hair behind her
ear her earring fell to the polished
wooden floor and disappeared beneath the bookshelf. It wasn’t an expensive earring, but it was
hammered silver, a gift from her husband and she really liked them as a pair. She knelt once again and ran her fingers
gingerly along the floor, underneath the edge of the antique bookcase. Dust bunnies
came alive with the movement of her hand.
She felt a string and pulled it out.
A screech nearly escaped from her
throat as she realized that she touched the skeletal remains of a mouse . She questioned, only for a second, the value
of her cherished earring. Composure regained, she focused the beam of her app
light pleased to note that there were no more skeletons, she found her earring
and what was that? A book, seemed to be
wedged between the bookshelf and the wall. There was no way she could reach it.
She stood. “Find me.” The whisper voice
urged.
Alee found a wire coat hanger in a small closet. She pulled the hanger out of shape so that it
would reach and once again lowered herself to the floor. She worked the hooked end behind the book and
wiggled it free, then carefully, slowly drew it out from its hiding place. She flipped through the pages. It was an
elementary arithmetic text book from 1868.
She opened the cover to read the
penciled inscription. In childlike
cursive, a riddle in the form of a poem, There is a secret that I hold, no man or
woman has been told,
I saw
a murder years ago, I can’t tell anyone that I know.
If
you should seek the truth this late,turn to page sixty-eight.
With shaking fingers she turned to page 68.
The one who did this evil
deed, is filled with hatred and with greed,
he stole a child, a
friend of mine, and hid her where the sun don’t shine.
Alee smiled nervously hoping , so hoping, that this was some
childhood prank.
I cannot say where she is buried,this
child of two who are not married.
The husband of her mother
learned, the lover of his wife still yearned,
so in his rage he killed
my friend,a sweet young girl, her life
at end,
If you are one who should
know more, turn now to page eighty-four.
Alee sat in a chair behind the circulation desk and turned
the pages until she found more.
For all these years I’ve
feared the man, who killed a child with his hand, and to this day, I
cannot tell , for fear he’ll throw me in the well.
I hear her call me, I hear her scream, I see her murder when I
dream, Her mother searches night and day, why would her daughter run away? This tale is true, set my sole free, from the
guilt that burdens me, turn now my friend to 93.
Alee turned the pages.
Do you hear her painful cries? The memory lives behind my eyes. He hid her body wrapped in rags, beneath a
pile of garbage bags. She needs a final resting place, a site of happiness and
grace. Go find her now, she waits for you. Go to page 102.
For all these years she’s had to bode with James and Bill on Black
Hollow Road. She aches to rest from running wild, and be with her mother on
Fairchild.
Find her now, you must be brave, and lay her gently in her
grave. Listen. Listen. She calls you
there. Find the girl with golden hair. Her name is Amy, say aloud and she will guide
you to her shroud.
“Amy?” Alee barely whispered. “Amy?”
Alee felt a cold breath on
the back of her neck.
Remember....please leave a comment. Thank you. and have a safe and scary Halloween.
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