I Believe...

• Tiffany Doensen, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2011

‘Once upon a time, in a land not so far away, there was small cottage. No-one lived there, and nobody spoke about it. The villagers of Little Warall walked passed it every day as they lived their lives, but never spared it a glance, for this house was haunted. Fifty years ago, the young woman who lived there had died for no apparent reason. There had been no sign of a struggle in the house, and not a mark upon her body. But that wasn’t the strangest part; the old lady who had found her, died exactly twenty-four hours later, and then, most oddly of all, the two bodies had vanished not long after. Nobody knew what had become of them, but the old lady’s fate had made it certain to the villagers that they were killed for a reason, and that reason was not to be questioned. And so, for fifty years, not a soul expressed the mildest interest in the house. That is, until now...
Ingrid Trout was walking home one day, past the abandoned house, and suddenly, she saw a flicker of light beyond the window. It vanished so quickly that she was sure she had imagined it. It flashed again. Making sure no-one was watching her, Ingrid walked up to the window and pressed her face against it, and identified the source of light. But that was impossible. No-one had been inside for half a century. And yet, a lone candle flickered on the mantel. She moved to the door and, taking a deep breath, turned the handle. The door stuck, but she managed to force it open.
The room beyond was dark and derelict. She followed the glowing of the candle and found herself in a lounge room, with a moth-eaten couch, and a wooden rocking chair beneath the window. There was a creak of floorboards behind her, and she turned around. There was nothing there. She turned back to the rocking chair, which was now rocking slowly back and forth. There was something very eerie about that, and yet, it wasn’t threatening.
“Who’s there?” Ingrid whispered softly.
A gentle breeze answered her. A book flew open, and Ingrid gave a start. Walking over carefully, she read the first sentence.
As he spoke the honest word of belief, happiness filled him, and he heard music so bliss...
Scanning through words worn by age, she saw three, fading but legible.
Let me go.
Ingrid turned around. This was it, the unanswered question.
“I believe in you,” she whispered softly.
“Thank you,” said the voice of Mara Lareen. With that, she floated into a light visible only to the dead.’
Weary old hands closed the aged cover of a leather-bound book.
“What happened then, Grandma?”
“They lived happily ever after,” she said gently. “But always remember; sometimes if we just believe, wonderful things can happen.”
Now many years have passed, and the child’s hands are growing old, but to this day, she remembered her grandmother’s words.