'The Woman In Black' Addition

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
I wrote this for my English Controlled Assessment, and my teacher really liked it. There is one sentence where she had never heard of a word. Enjoy! (There are some parts of which parents may wish to supervise their children with - mentions of madness, death, horror, etc.)

Submitted: July 29, 2014

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Submitted: July 29, 2014

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Once I had seen Arthur upstairs, I sat in the wooden chair by the dusty, disreputable, dilapidated desk. It was a child to the wolves. Left alone, to fend for itself. Nobody come to save it. Its stomach was empty of identity, of belonging. Everything seemed to bend towards it. As if it was the mother of the place. Under each paper revealed its true colours. The age had turned it black, almost, and eaten away at its life. Opening the draw, it echoed the evil past associated with the house. It echoed it like a baby learning to speak, like a young sister set out to make your life a misery. Through the dim light of the candle I looked round the old drawing room. The walls, a hundred years old at least, were deep purple, deeper than the edge of the universe, darker than the dress of a devil’s bride. All to hide the black-holes of disclosures were photographs and paintings. Paintings of children, very young, of the marsh, of Mrs. Drablow and her son in the nursery upstairs. I could almost feel the eyes watching me. Watching me light the candles, watching me tidy the papers, watching me watching them. Watching.

The house was quiet. As quiet as an empty street early in the morning. Outside, the storm raged, every few minutes: thunder. The rustling of trees outside.
What was that?
The muffled sound of children’s toys two floors above me.
There it is again.

The skittering of a spider across the floor.

“Who’s there?” I whispered. Nothing but the wind answered. Was I going mad, hearing things that weren't’t there?
Suddenly, the room began to feel a lot smaller. Claustrophobic, even. The ceiling, painted in damp, seemed to be caving in, crushing me.
Something was going to happen, I just knew it. But what? The Woman coming to kill me? Possibly. The little boy, perhaps, wanting to ‘play’? Most likely.
Where was Arthur? How long does it take to turn on some toys?
I walked over to the window, so black it could have been painted with tar. Only the branch visible just outside told me otherwise. Through the obsidian wall of tenebrosity, I could just make out some trees (were they huge, skeletal, disheveled, ancient women?), the tall stone slice of bone that
was the marker for Jennet Humfrye’s (God bless her) resting-place, the statues of gargoyles and imaginary creatures, drawn with an ink pen and vigorously shaded so you can see no features. ‘I’d best go light some more torches’ I thought, turning back to face the wall.
Who shut the door?
“Oh, very funny, Arthur,” I sighed “But this isn’t the time or place for jokes.”
Then I heard the lock click. But how could it? The keyhole was on the inside. Then it dawned on me. There really must have been someone else in there with me, and they weren't’t happy. Just as I thought this, a candle tipped off the brass holder. How?
Although the flame brushed the parchment as it fell, the flame on the sheet went out. Not slowly, as the wick burned out, but as sudden as covering a tea light with a glass jar. As if someone blew it out. It was dark, too dark, and icier than Norway in December. Thus, the fire was the solution. Now, where were the matches? I was sure I had left them on the desk. Goodness, there they were, scattered across the mantelpiece. They must have tipped over as I silently walked to the window. I refused to believe otherwise.
Once I had lit the candles again, I looked to the window. The window that was empty a second ago that now contained a face. My heart skipped not one, not two, not even three beats. Many.
She was extremely blanched, as if the blood had been sucked from her. The eyes, in contrast, were deep, dark caverns, the eyes that had seen it all, the eyes that had entranced young children to take their lives. By every way imaginable.
Her features changed path in many ways. Her cheekbones screamed at me she was part of the paranormal world, her lips tighter than the seal of a vacuum jar. Nothing would make them smile, not even my death.
The nose, it would have been pretty had she not been the Woman, was long, but not wide. It was smooth, like a horse’s coat, and immune to impurities (spots, moles, peeling skin and the like). Even her hair: unnaturally dark, perfect. Laying flat on her bony shoulders, it was free from imperfections, loose strands. I knew I should not be attracted, but it was difficult.
Only the dress she wore turned me away. It looked similar to the very one my wife wore for our wedding. The slimness of the waist, the flow of the sleeves. All was the same but the colour. Black. The colour of evil. She was undoubtedly married by force, as no willing bride would look so bitter in her dress.
Just the image of this creature took me back to my wedding day.
The day was perfect. Not a cloud for miles as the sun practically rained on us all. As I made my way to the Church of Crythin Glifford, I began to worry if my soon-to-be wife would not be perfect. I discovered later she felt the same. I hoped my suit, a calming grey with a red rose to match the waistcoat, would make me look handsome enough to be a husband. After waiting just five minutes by the priest, I heard the organ beginning.
‘Here we go.’ I thought.
She was beautiful. The only way I can describe it. Perfect. We were married within the hour.
Suddenly, I was back in the Eel Marsh House staring at the ghost. I hoped the thing would go as soon as we looked the other in the eye. But no. As instantaneously as the shot of a cannon, she was coming towards me. Screaming a scream that would break any man’s heart.
Seeing that face in the window left me with no choice – I needed to get away, far away, from the house. I needed to get back to my home, needed to get my wife, needed to get out of Crythin Glifford.
The rain continued outside, landing on the possessed window, running away down to the ground, scared of never getting away. Just like me.
The pattering of leaves accompanied my heartbeat. Constant, firm, ready to stop at any moment.
The door suddenly opened. Creaking, footsteps to follow.
“Thank Goodness you’re all right Arthur, I – “I began. But not a soul was there. Not living, at least. Someone (or something) was there, a trapped soul, maybe, coming to get revenge, I knew, at any moment it could close shut, yet again trapping me in this prison cell of a room.
Cautiously moving forward, I had the feeling of being pushed. Not gently, forcefully. Pushed out of the now nearly pitch-black cell.
A scream.
I ran, ran until I could no more, out of the ‘house’. I had just reached the door handle when I felt a sharp pain in my abdomen. Too scared to care, I ran on until I felt a warm trickling down my leg. Sweat, maybe. I stopped at the graveyard to rest in peace, without anything happening to me, and to see what was on my leg.
Not sweat. Not rain. Not even whisky from the flask in my pocket.
Not even close.
Blood.
Once I had pulled out the intruder, a hunting knife from the locked glass case in the hallway, I collapsed. Onto the tomb containing Jennet Humfrye.
As I slipped in and out of consciousness, I felt a pulling sensation. Of skeletal hands dragging me down into the ground. Then, after about five hours (I judged by the path of the moon), I finally let go.
Death wasn't’t as peaceful as I’d hoped. I was pulled down into the depths of the Earth. Met the Devil himself. Not long after, it was black. Nothingness. Darker than that drawing room of doom. Once you see her, that’s it. You might as well give up and take your own life. To avoid suffering. Don’t go to that House. Because:
She’s coming to get you…

 


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