Tattered Pages

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Young Adult  |  House: Booksie Classic

Chapter 4 (v.1)

Submitted: December 27, 2007

Reads: 82

Comments: 2

A A A | A A A

Submitted: December 27, 2007



The dusty woman was sitting at a different window this time- her face away. I knew it was her, for she sat in the north end of the school, the only living being to be seen there. I had asked my only ally (the history teacher) if anyone lived there. She did not know. Said she would look into it. I’m not sure if she is alive. I’m not a person to believe in life after death, no ghosts for me; I do believe in demons and other various forms of evil, though. Perhaps this woman is a ghost and I am simply refusing to believe it out of my pure lack of proof? Oh, I do over-analyze everything.
Contradictory to my former entry, I asked other girls outside with me if they saw the woman in the window. They said they did not. Everyone already thinks I’m a complete nutcase here, so why go and bother to raise that poor insane reputation now? There really is no point. So instead I ask people if they can see someone only I can see. Anyway, no one saw her. I went back to the north wing this afternoon to see if there was indeed anyone in that room. The dusty lady was not appearing at the moment, but a ball of dusty yarn and two dusty knitting needles were lying next to a chair. I picked them up, finding that they were indeed, real. I began to knit, sitting down in the empty chair. I fell into such a thoughtful trance at the peacefulness and rythmatic qualities of the thread and yarn that it was long past dark when I remembered that I should have gone to bed. I left the half-finished scarf on the chair as I rushed out of the room and into mine before the hall monitor came past to see if anyone was out of bed
I found the finished scarf beside my bed on the floor this morning. I know it is the one I was knitting last night because of the dusty appearance of the yarn. I also remember distinctly not finishing it and leaving it on the chair. I need a scarf today, also. I awoke to the sounds of the wind whistling, and the cold seeping in to my bed. It was a world of white when I woke.
A world of white when
I woke,
Cold caring not
Carrying disease and
Destruction and mayhem,
Maybe making evil erythematic
Scaring suffering society.
I enjoy alliteration. You can use it in about anything you say. Happy hounds hungrily hurry grunting grumpy porky pathetically picky pigs. I just described two animals in one sentence using alliteration.Poetry is prose, prose is poetry. You can use the prose qualities in poetry, and vice versa. I ought to go. My science class begins in fourteen minutes. I shall wear my new scarf my only friend made for me to class- see if anyone notices.
It was wet when I woke this morning. I suppose that is why I was glad when I found a rain coat of fairly good status lying beside my bed? I try to tell myself that. I find it almost pathetic that the only person who gives a damn for my welfare is a dusty lady living by herself. Or so I assume that is who gave me a coat? She did supply me with a warm scarf when it was cold and blustery, but who knows, perhaps the school provides the rain coats? Only when I went out this morning, I was the only one who was wearing one. The other girls looked at me and my warm dry coat with such spite I hardly knew what to do.Had simply found it on the floor; it was no fault of mine.
On a lighter note, we studied Emily Dickinson in English today. We are to memorize our favorite poem of hers. Mine is simple and easy to remember. I hope the other girls didn’t pick one of her few long poems, such as #712, or “Because I could not stop for Death”, which is possibly her most famous. Mine goes along the lines of this:
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my Dust to keep,
Should I live before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to make.
See? Light and easy to remember. Perhaps it might bring my grade up? Oh well. I firmly intend on returning to England as soon as I get out of this school, and I won’t have to bother myself with this horrid language anymore.
The first thing I thing that I thought of when I woke up this morning was how cold my hands were. I looked over, hoping with a solemn hope that the dusty lady knitted me a air, but I saw that she had clearly not. Dismayed, I pulled on my raincoat (for it was raining quite hard) and wrapped my scarf about my neck, trudging out of the dormitories and to my math class.Later that day I curiously tripped up the banister of the north wing, and heard singing. Pushing open a door, I saw the dusty lady sitting at a window, humming a tune I did not recognize. It was at once cold and mysterious yet oddly inviting. Her fingertips quivered as they stroked the window pane; her breath making clouds on the glass. I shifted my weight, causing a floor board to creak. The dusty lady whipped around and stood eyes wary. Recognizing my frame, I can only assume, she smiled gently and sat back down. I sighed, temporarily frightened.
“You like the scarf?” her speaking had startled me at the moment, but I suppose I had been wondering if she could speak at all before.
“Yes. Very much.” The lady walked towards me, and I saw that she was only appeared dusty because of her pale complexion, spotted gray dress, and dark grey hair. “Do you mind me asking who you are?” I felt rude saying this, but I really had no choice. The lady smiled again before answering.
“I’m the school’s founder, Caroline Hartford.” This news took me aback for a moment- this school was almost 300 years old!
“But the school is over 300 years old! You can’t still be alive… Are you dead?” She laughed and shook her head.
“Only if you want me to be.” Being as scared and confused as I was, I was overjoyed to hear the dinner bell. I sprinted out of the room and as far away from the north wing as possible. So the lady was a ghost? Impossible. Here I am, still frightened that the lady will enter my room at any given time; shaking and scared silly. I have finally gained the courage to move from my entranced position on my bed to reach for my journal and write this account down. So when the police find my frightened-to-death corpse tomorrow they will know where to look or the culprit. I honestly thought that the dusty lady was real! I mean, how stupid does a person have to be?

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