This is one of the earliest pieces of writing I wrote for English class in Grade 5. It seemed such a waste to just leave it in my old notebook as it rots away, so I thought I might as well put it down here.
A creaky staircase towards a room above the whole house. Thunder claps and lightning outside the window. Every dark, dank corner unexplored. Menacing figures standing in corners. Mice lingering in unknown holes. Cobwebs and dust fill the congealing ambiance. Such a shabby, sordid room, filled with a nippy and melancholy atmosphere. Standing on the landing, numbness comes forth to swallow up its victim. Ghostly, icy, and shivery, it gives you the chills to stand here, in the attic, alone.
A gasp! Then a sudden chill ran down my spine. There, floating in front of me, was a lady, silently weeping over a loose floorboard. She beckoned to me to come forward. I obeyed, for there was something about her that I sympathized with. She emitted great sorrow. I went towards her. She pointed at the floorboard and I looked questioningly at her. She pointed at it again and then I understood her meaning. She wanted me to lift the floorboard and underneath it, there was a shabby looking box, but unhampered for, maybe, decades. It seemed to be intact. I looked inquiringly towards her and she nodded. I opened it slowly, afraid that it might contain something horrid, and found a bunch of letters tied together with a blue ribbon. I looked up and she waved a sad goodbye with sorrowful, but grateful, eyes. She then drifted past me and silently glided into the darkness and disappeared, leaving behind her a more intense melancholy atmosphere. These letters contained a very gloomy aspect which caused me to lament over her death.
She was my grandmother.
Having read this after it has been hidden away for so long, I am actually quite amazed at how I wrote back then. There was another piece I found, but it seemed so macabre, I dare say it won’t be very appetizing for most people. But I shall include it down below.
Basically, the assignment was for us to write a detailed description of a place in a house and then write a beginning of some sort of narrative that’s inspired by the location. The final draft I gave in was the one above, but the following was the alternative I wrote. My mom told me to hand it in.
A gasp! Then a shuddering chill went through my spine. The memories of the past disturbed my courage and rushed to my thoughts at the moment of the arrival of a single heavy coated man, standing at the doorway, threateningly. He shoved our little maid out of the way, injuring her in the process, and went bolting up the stairs towards the attic and a muffled scream came overhead. The concealed man came pounding back and went straight through the doorway, into the freezing shower outside. I went slowly up the stairs, towards the attic and I beheld a sight I didn’t understand, but somehow gave my mind the first taste of horror.
The victim lay drenched on a pool of newly bled blood, with a knife at her side. I picked the knife up, for it strangely intrigued me, and the blood went dripping down my hand from the blade of the knife, soaking the front of my shirt. To me then, the small details didn’t matter, but now it suggests to me that there was no struggle involved on the victim’s part. It must have been a back-stab.
Mother came up, but didn’t see me in the corner. She gasped in terror and ran down. After some moments observing the body, the police arrived. They took the knife from my hand, questioned me, cleared the place, and left with my young nanny’s body. My eldest brother came and carried me to bed.
I was only a child then.
I know it contains many loopholes and details that don’t make much sense, the one above, but its content makes me think I must have been a very disturbed child. I might have just been reading too many Goosebump books, as well as murder mysteries, at the time. I did always have a strange fascination for the macabre.
I guess I could just say I was a weird one. Weird child, I mean.
Even now though, if I weren’t careful, my mind tends to wander towards darker things. It just fascinates me sometimes. Well, a lot of times, but I control that urge. This part of my psyche I am painfully aware of.
Witchcraft and sorcery. Voodoo dolls and palmistry. Whatever else there is. I’ve read about them all out of curiosity. Spell casting and curses. I’ve copied down a few, never intending to use them, but keeping them for unfathomable reasons. But I guess that was just a phase. I felt bad reading into those things, but I now accept that everyone must have a darker side which they most likely hide quite well away out of the public’s eye.
Everyone just has the choice to accept and embrace it or to shun it away. I chose the latter.