The Bloodstained Past

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
Genevieve Chapman did something. Something that is catching up with her and she can't escape it. Alone in Sorich Wood, she meets her past. Realizing the danger she is in, will she make it out alive, or will her bloodstained past take her back?

Submitted: June 07, 2016

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Submitted: June 07, 2016



Trees flew past and the ground moved beneath my feet as I tried to navigate through the thick, dense forest. As I stepped over sharp twigs and patches of soggy quagmire, I smelt the familiar scent of damp and decaying leaves. The pointed, bare trees stood tall above me, watching and judging my every move. A small crimson fox scuttered past as I began to lose speed. Eventually, I had to stop running; the taste of blood in my mouth was unbearable and my breathing was so intense, I sounded like an asthmatic bulldog. Looking around, I noticed an army of sombre clouds approaching me. A few delicate raindrops gently hit the top of my head, so I ran over to a tall tree to take cover. I was still trying to catch my breath when I saw it. The house.

The property was in such an appalling condition, it must have been abandoned. With two floors, a respectably sized front garden and a Juliet balcony, it would have been breathtaking in its prime. However, that was not now. Now, it was in a horrendous state. All of the dirty, dusty and opaque windows were broken and filled with cobwebs. The olive coloured paint was peeling off and most of the brick-red tiles were cracked or chipped. My eyes seemed to be locked on it. Questions flew in and out of my mind, but one was persistent: why would anyone forget this once stunning building?

Suddenly, a roar of clamorous thunder broke my train of thought. Somehow, I did not notice that the rain had become incredibly heavy. With no other alternative, I hurried over to the dilapidated house to take shelter. As I approached, a loud crash pierced my ears. The fierce wind had forced the walnut coloured door open. I started to ponder about entering. Since it was obviously desolate, I decided it would do no harm to enter.

A strong whiff of mould hit me as I wandered in. Coughing and choking over the awful stench, I walked into the kitchen. There was a wood burning oven, a washboard and a wringer, a typical 1850's kitchen. A photograph of a young man caught my eye. He had large moustache and sharp, chiseled jaw-line. His eyes had a certain twinkle, that instantly made me trust and love him.

All of a sudden, I heard a loud bang. I thought it came from the kitchen, so I slowly headed towards it. Before entering, I took a deep breath. Yet when I walked in, there was nothing out of the ordinary, everything was the same as earlier.

Again, another bang occurred. This time it was in the lounge. I ran in, but still, nothing. Bangs and crashes kept happening all around me, until my mind felt like it was going to explode. I couldn't take it any longer, so I headed towards the door.

I froze.

Dark, scarlet blood began to move along the wall. It began making letters, then words, and then sentences.

Mother, I know what you did. You will pay. You will bleed. You killed me!

"No!" I screamed, I was innocent.

Suddenly, all the memories came flashing back. My daughter and I were having afternoon tea on a lovely, warm spring day. When we had finished, she started saying strange things. Horrible, ghastly things. She wouldn't stop and my mind could not take the torment any longer. So that night, I took a pillow and held it over her face. She tried to let out a blood-curdling scream but it was no use, she would die. Her face was dark violet, when I finally removed the pillow. I then carried her body to bury somewhere in the forest. If anyone asked about her, I would say she ran away. Eventually, I tricked myself into believing that as the truth. So, how could she be standing in front of me?

A flash of lightning brought me back to the room. I saw her. A ghost. Her beautiful chestnut hair was torn and tangled. The baby blue dress she always wore was ripped and dirty. She had such a pale and dull complexion. That ghostly figure could not be my daughter. My daughter was young and perfect. That thing was not.

Then, it pointed its finger at me. I instinctively realised it was going to kill me.

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