The Haunting Figure.
The misty figure stood at the window. Panic pumped through my veins. I began to
run through the mass of corn. The house lurked in front of me, the cracks on the
window blocked the figures face, the moon light hung over the house like a cat after
a mouse. I pushed the half hanging door; my heart stopped, the door cracked then
fell from its hinges, crashing to the floor and breaking into many little splinters of
wood. Cautiously, I looked around the old grey furniture, with springs and stuffing
hanging out of the faded flower sofa. A bed hung through the ceiling, the mattress
was bare and the frame was snapped. A tear rolled down my cheek; I thought about
how I’d lived here for over fifty years to think this was my home.
As I walked towards the decaying stairs, I touched the banister to help my seventy
year old frame climb the stairs. The stairs eeked and ached as I climbed up them. I
got to the top of the ancient staircase where a single old black wooden door stood. It
was surrounded by what used to be yellow but now smoked damaged walls.
CREEK! The door went as I pushed it and stepped into the bare room, where the
bed had dropped through the ceiling below. There, at the window, the figure was
stood! She slowly turned around revealing her young, pale face and long, wavy
brown hair that went down to her waist. She’d had it styled so it covered the majority
of her face. “Lucy!” I exclaimed as she removed her hair her from over her pale, face
revealing her black eyes, pointed nose and thin mouth.
Lucy stood there, with a white dress, ripped and torn hanging from what was left of
her burnt frame.
I walked towards her. “My death was your fault!” the woman half hissed and half
whispered as she ran to the wall crying. Mysteriously she passed through it changing
the bare grey wall to a pasty red colour. I remembered the day I did it; all of it came
back to me like a tsunami. What I had done was for the best, I had told myself on
many repeated occasions, but this one was all it was for me. I had been the one who
had set the house on fire when she was inside it. The smoke will have got to her first,
then the fire grabbing her closer and closer to death by the second.
The thought of this grabbed me by the neck; I knew what I had done. I curled up in
the corner of the room. The plaster chipping away as I slid down the crumbling wall
into a tight ball, gripping my blunt hairs into my legs. I knew what I had done. I had
murdered her. I was a murderer!!!
Through all this, the one question that hung in my mind (like a coat on a hanger) was
why was she here?
I Knew my time was up; she was here to kill me!