The Lost Journalist
the journal of literature and the arts at saint david’ s school
The Lost Journalist
My legs went numb. Th-thump! There it was again. Through the howling wind, I could hear the distinct sound of footsteps.
Thump, thump! They were getting closer.
I stared at the tarnished brass knob of the cabin door. Was it twisting? Was that a trick of my vision? My thoughts became reality, as the door began to open— slowly— like a dark shadow creeping into the cabin.
The dim light of the moon illuminated the pitch black room where I stood. A breeze chilled the room, and all that met my eye was the vast ominous stretch of woods ahead.
Step by step, trembling in fear, I trudged my way toward the thin line between safety and terror. My body halted as if someone or a mysterious force was holding me back. Thump, thump! I whirled around, only to see the dark, empty room.
“ W-w-who are you?” my shaky voice cried out.“ W-w-what have you come for?”
Thump! I emitted a scream of horror, and it echoed back and forth through the forest, slowly fading till the sound ceased.
I sat in silence, waiting and waiting for what felt like hours before I gathered enough courage to explore the cabin. Through the dim light of my lantern, I could see that the rooms were minimally furnished. There was an old, worn-out leather chair beside a scratched wooden coffee table in front of it. On the wall hung heads of animals, glassy eyes staring through me. The dirty windows were thinly covered with lace curtains that had yellowed with
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