S H O RT S TO R I E S F R O M T H E G LO B A L C LA S S R O O M |
2014
U N D E R T H E S TA I R S
RY LA N J O E N K , YE A R 8
B R I T I S H S C H O O L O F C H I C AG O
In my narrative, I have incorporated features of the Gothic genre such as ambiguious language and contrast
between light and dark. For example, at one point in my story, I mention shadows and menacing figures along with
supernatural elements and diseased beings. I also establish a Gothic atmosphere by opening the story with dark and
sinister weather and location. To add to the Gothic ambiance, I use a multitude of different noises and sounds such
as squealing/screaming and laughter. To add a sense of ambiguity, I sometimes do not mention character names or
place names, allowing the reader to infer.
Drip. Drip. Drip. Water descended from the small puncture hole in the roof of the car. It soaked her sweater as it fell.
She took no notice, for her mind was clouded with dread. She sat frozen with her dark eyes fixated on the raindrops,
which were clinging onto the cracked window next to her. They dragged themselves downward, leaving trails of
miniscule droplets of water behind. The wind roared as it shook the vehicle she was caged in.
‘Terrible weather, huh?’ stated her mother, taking her eyes off the road to glance at her distraught daughter. Her long
blonde curls bounced with excitement as she attempted to make conversation. Becca shrugged. She longed to shriek
like the wind. Talking to her mother was the last thing she wanted to do at the moment.
‘Look, I know you’re not so … keen … on the move, but we couldn’t afford the old place since your father—.’ She
paused with a pained look in her eye.
‘Died,’ her daughter snapped. Whipping her head around, she shot a menacing look at her mother into the rear-view
mirror.
Suddenly, the car lurched to a halt.
‘We’re … we’re here. Get your things out the trunk.’
They had stopped in front of what looked like a prison. The red bricks used to construct the building were coated
with congruous scars. A single, dust-covered window could be seen above the front door. The screeching of the
ancient mailbox flag wiggling in the wind pierced Becca’s ears as she climbed out of the car, gravel crunching under
her feet. Vines pulsated with life as they hugged the house, clawing at the window like desperate inmates reaching
their arms through steel bars.
’It’s beautiful,’ she mumbled sarcastically, as she trudged toward the door after retrieving her bags from the trunk.
Grasping the spherical surface of the door handle, she slowly began to twist, hesitating to do so. The rusted knob
squealed in a similar way to the mailbox as she cautiously opened the door …
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