Fear

• Madeleine McInnerney, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2017

“What do you want?!” I screamed at the thing, my chest rising and falling rapidly after running. “Thing” was the only way I could explain it. The creature had old, mould ridden, bandages covering its body, except for its hands, which it held to its face with its palms out. It was what was in those wrinkled, filthy, palms that disturbed me the most. Eyes. The never ending, black pits that were its eyes and their haunting stare that sent shivers down my spine. I backed up, small sounds escaping my throat, as the creature got closer, until I hit the wall. I could feel the threads of my dress catch in uneven stone.
The castle was totally abandoned and in the middle of the open ocean. I was on the roof. Surrounding me were the sandstone crenulations in which you would normally have seen archers standing at. The fire pits were full of coals that looked as if they had not felt heat for many a decade. When I turned around I could see the blue and green water with the reflection of the glowing moon, if it weren’t for the faint outlines of the monsters in its depths, it would have been picturesque.
The creature took another step, the sound made my head snap back to face it. Fear uncurling in my stomach. There was nowhere left to go. It had cornered me. Each time I thought I had lost it, it appeared again in front of me. Suddenly I was tired. So, so tired. Tired of running. Tired of being afraid.
Without letting my eyes leave the creature, I pulled myself up onto the ledge in between one of the crenulations. I could feel the rough stone cutting into my skin as I searched for grip. I glanced back at the sea water below. Turning myself around. I closed my eyes and let go.
I was falling. Down, down, down. For a moment I was free. Until I felt the cold, wet feeling of the water as I sank into its depths.