So I had to write this for Language Arts a couple days ago. It had to have 14 capitalization rules all through it, so if there's something there that is capitalized and you think is kind of unnecessary to the story...that would be why. :/
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The night was quiet and cold, late January snow dusted the roof's of the British-styled houses lining the cobblestone road. Wind was absent, there were no cars, no people, no animals: The night was silent; an unnerving stillness crept over everything and swallowed it whole. The decrepit brick houses with their gaping dark windows and moldy shutters gave the small town an eerie feel, and the stillness of the night only added to the effect. A quaint stone church squatted at the end of the road with a humble wooden sign on the front lawn read, in peeling letters of fading bright blue paint, “St. Micheal's Church: Christians Welcome! Your Creator Is Wherever You Look!” Nobody could have read that, of course, for the sky was shrouded in inky clouds that smothered any moonlight. No recent footprints dotted the sidewalks. There was not a soul in sight. It was a ghost town, long forgotten by the people that had lived there long ago—something had forced them to leave, things so horrible that they hadn't bothered to pack. Old-fashioned upholstery still filled the houses—paintings and pictures and newspapers reading The Daily Gazette: Wherbury's Finest. Not that anybody in the closest cities dared to look, for Wherbury was layered with rumors that made even the bravest man quiver at the thought of stepping onto the streets or entering the drafty houses.
Maybe that was best. The horrible thing that had left the former citizens of Wherbury scrambling to leave still resided here. Secrets of the darkest, most terrible lurked within the cellars and corners and attics of the houses. When the moon was high in the sky, the secrets came out of their hiding places and lamented their sorrows to the stars.
I stood at the edge of the town with my Marc Jacobs trench coat wrapped tightly around me, clutching the gun in my hand so tightly my knuckles were white. In my other hand I held a yellowed piece of parchment. Checking my watch yet again, I gulped to see that it was one minute to three o'clock, the time the rumors said the strange moaning noises began. My heart beat fast in my throat and, despite the cold, beads of sweat dripped down my forehead. Once again I skimmed over the letter—or note:
“My dear friend Mr. James Bonwith,
It must be done tonight, else I shall tell your secrets.
Sincerely,
Charles Lathrop”
I shook my head at the letter, panic rising within me. “I cannot do it,” I announced to the houses, “I will not do it. This is ridiculous.” Feeling an overwhelming sense of relief at my proclamation to leave I turned, thoughts of sitting by the fireplace and reading a book eroding away the fear. Taking a deep breath I took a step forward to start the long journey home.
I froze.
There—a sound within the nearest building, a broken down building reading “Appalachia's Finest Trading Post AFTP Est. 1884”. The noise had been a muffled sob. I looked over my shoulder and began to run, leaving behind the houses with their staring windows and peeling paint and feel of sorrow.
And behind me, a chorus of wails and shrieks of the dead began to lament their sorrow to the moon.
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Yep. Cool. Hope ya liked it :)
