This story is based off of the Harris Burdick picture above. We were told to observe the picture and then free-write including the caption somewhere in our story. This story was quite fun to write because I am easily frightened, so I found myself getting gooseflesh as I wrote it.
Sally was a stubborn little girl, always adamant in decisions and never swayed. Everything was a challenge to her which she was always the clear victor. She was doomed from the start when the locker leather bound book arrived on her doorstep. . .
Blanketed in scarlet fabric and handstitched with pristine golden threads, the book seemed to pulsate at her feet. “Forbidden,” it read, yet naïve little Sally immediately snatched the book into her scrawny little arms and shut the door—challenge accepted. Sally wasn’t even much of a reader; in fact, she hated reading, but the prospect of the book beating her fueled the competitive beast lusting for victory inside her.
Sally set to opening it. The rusty worn lock seemed simple enough to break, but try as she might, she couldn’t break it. Frustrated, Sally thrust the book at her bedroom door, eliciting an eerie moan from the book.
Startled, Sally scrambled toward the groaning book and upon picking it up again saw the golden stitching no longer read “Forbidden” but “DOOM” instead. Terrified, Sally dropped the book to the floor and the lock clicked open. Sally gasped and suddenly there was a knock at the front door. Sally shrieked, taken aback, yet she answered nonetheless.
In the doorway stooped an old man in a yellow raincoat. He didn’t look up when she answered the door he just stared blankly ahead, eyes glazed over as if in a trance. As Sally was about to speak, the old man rasped, “Don’t open it. It’s not too late. Open it and you will be consumed.” Confused, Sally inquired, “What? I don’t understand.” He repeated, “Don’t open it. It’s not too late. It’s not too late.” A shiver went through Sally’s spine at the old man’s raspy words, and she slammed the door in his face and hurried to the book.
She sat before the book, pondering whether or not to open it. The golden stitching seemed to be calling her, begging to be opened—and freed. Hours past and neither had made a move. Suddenly, Sally tentatively reached for the book and unlatched the rusty padlock. She continued onto the first page and gasped. . .
It was blank! Sally laughed at herself for being so paranoid and left her room to eat some dinner.
When she returned, she jauntily glanced toward the book, and seeing it was still blank, decided it would be a shame to let such a nice book go to waste, so she foraged for a pen. As she lay in her bed, Sally began writing, yet she didn’t realize she was. It was as if her hand had a mind of its own. Page after page, she scribbled on and on, unaware of what she was writing.
Finally, her hand stopped and when she looked at what she had written she was taken aback! It was in a peculiar tongue she had never learned let alone seen before. Before she could think too heavily about it, Sally was overwhelmed with a sudden wave of exhaustion. Her pen fell from her hand as her head dropped toward her pillow while her other hand clutched the scarlet leather to her chest, throbbing in sync with her slumbering heart.
He had warned her about the book. Now it was too late. As her angelic features softened with the purity of sleep, vines crept from the bowels of the book and entangled her milky white skin. Its tendrils fanned out across her to every crevice of her body, all the while Sally dreamt on. Swallowed by the vines, the book leisurely absorbed Sally’s virgin soul, for it was in no hurry; Sally would not wake, again. She should’ve listened.
very good!
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