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Aishwariya's LittLog

On Books, Writing, Editing, and More

The face of terror

Celine’s car broke down in the middle of nowhere. All that she could see for miles around was a run-down house. She decided to spend the night there until help arrived to fix her car. When she entered the guest bedroom, it was full of spiderwebs. The bed looked dusty and unused for ages. She started dusting it with her scarf. She wondered how she would catch a night’s sleep there. As she lay down on the bed, she heard it creak. The branches of the trees outside looked like the long arms of a ghost. She started feeling a sense of dread. She closed her eyes and hoped the night would pass uneventfully. Suddenly, she heard a knock on the door. She didn’t dare open it. An eerie laugh rent the air. The door flung open by itself and she saw a figure all in white. As her eyes grew wide with shock and shivers ran down her spine, she found herself looking at the masked white figure before her. The ghost took off the mask and revealed a black void. Its bony hands reached out for her face. Terror gripped her as she realised that it wanted her face.

Photo by Art Hauntington on Unsplash

I first wrote this story to a prompt in a Facebook group.

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One Response

  1. My spine is still shivering – literally.

    A few years ago, I found a very cheap place, empty for more than two years, and more than two hundred years old.
    . Three storeys – only two small broken window panes.
    The first night, terror kept me downstairs. The second night, as the sounds grew louder,, then crying,
    A child, surely ? About eight.. Someone knocking at the door. Terrified, I didn”t answer.
    Next day, my new neighbour complained about the noise.
    So I told her the truth… that I’d been terrifi8ed.
    Now she was smiling, kind to me.

    Sorry, love, Must have been your ghost.
    My ghost : Since when ?.
    The agents said nothing about a ghost.
    A child recorded in the 1851 census wasn’t there ten years later.
    The same man’s name, but with a new wife, same name and age as the maid on the last census.
    170 years later, a child crying ?

    PS. I don’t believe in ghosts. Impossible.

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Aishwariya Laxmi

I’m Aishwariya. I’m passionate about writing, reading, marketing communications, books, blogging, poetry and editing. I’ve donned several hats, such as freelance journalist, copywriter, blogger and editor.

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