Uncle

• Isabella Doosey, Grade 5
• Short Story
• 2008

Standing outside my Uncle's house was like stepping back to a time, when I was a very young girl. We spent holidays here at the villa, swimming in the pool over summer and keeping cosy by the fire in winter. Unfortunately things had changed for the worse. "Hello!!" My quivering voice echoed through the shattered window. A damp smell wafted from under the timber door.

I pushed open the door and walked in, it slammed shut behind me. Standing terrified in the freezing house, the hairs on my arms stood on end. I shivered with the creepy feeling that I was not alone.

My dear Uncle Alfred is a famous phsycic, with an amazing ability to talk to the dead. I have heard stories of his deceased wife, my eccentric Aunt Merelie, who became a recluse and spent much of her time up in the tower of the house. They say she jumped to her death. I really didn't know as much about my Aunt as I would have liked. I guess I didn't believe everything I'd heard.

It was sometime later that my Uncle came down stairs. He showed me to my room. I heard a strange noise coming from the room above me. I wondered if there was a ghost in the house; I wondered if it was Merelie; I wondered if my Uncle was hiding something from me in the mysterious tower...

"Make yourself comfortable," said Uncle Alfred. He told me he would be busy for a while, working on his latest project. Considering I had just arrived, I thought this was most peculiar. Not meaning to snoop I decided to go and explore the once magnificent old villa. Paintings of past relatives hung on the stairwell wall and a derelict grand piano sat in a dark corner of the drawing room collecting cobwebs. How times had changed.

As I climbed the stairwell, I could go know further when I came to a locked door. I was determined to get inside. I remembered the bobby pin that I removed from my hair on the long train trip to Uncle Alfred's which was still in my pocket. Before I knew it I was able to crack the lock.

The room was dark and smelt musty; I moved towards the window and pulled open the heavy crimson velvet drapes. To my surprise I was standing in Aunt Merelie's bedroom, it was though nothing had been touched since the day she died. For the first time I had arrived at the home I felt a calmness descend on me, it was as though I was meant to be in that room. A note that lay on her antique dresser under a mirror caught my eye, I felt compelled to read it.

Over many years the note had become quite fragmented, I carefully unfolded it, what was revealed was shocking. Aunt Merelie may have not jumped to her death but in fact had been murdered. So began an exciting and haunting adventure at Uncle Alfred's in the winter of 67.