For today’s post of torture for my dearest readers, I’ve decided a trip down writing lane would be a viciously wonderful thing. I thought I’d showcase several pieces of the same story–one old, and one rewritten. Some of the adults who follow me on Facebook might recognize this story, since when I was younger I gave out copies of my best stories as Christmas gifts.
Please try not to cringe. Screaming and begging for mercy is okay, though.
I’ll start with the old version of “The Phantom in the Night.” Catchy title, I know. My younger self had an urge to write horror for a while there, but I don’t think I was quite on target in the title department. Still, nostalgia is nostalgia and the title stays.
Both excerpts stop where the protagonist meets her client.
“The Phantom in the Night” v. 1.0
I was riding down the road in my red and black convertible, heading towards my latest job call. I glanced down at my newly acquired driver’s license. It read, Shelby Hitcock, 23, blonde hair, gender female. My job, a home stylist/redecorator, had meant I needed a car, and to get the car I needed a license. I let down the ceiling of the ritzy car, letting my long blonde hair fly in the wind. It had been only a week until I got my first job assignment, out somewhere in the England Shires. I was hoping for a huge house, needing the works. But, as I drove through the neighborhood, I only saw small, neat houses. I wasn’t far from my destination now; I was on the right street. I continued down the small, curvy road, until I arrived at a huge Victorian house scrunched between two smaller homes. It was a house a designer would like to renovate, with rose bushes straggling up the face of the house, warring with Virginia creepers. All-in-all, it would be a nice home, if not for the crumbling stone base and dirty unwashed look. The house was about 3 stories tall, not including the attic; I got out of my car and slowly began to walk up the driveway, looking at every detail. The yard had two weeping willow trees on either side of the driveway, give it a despairing look, at least the grass was well trimmed. I reached the door, and rang the bell. No one answered, I rang again, then put my hand on the brass doorknob and, surprisingly, found it unlocked. I let myself in, and looked around; it was rather unadorned, except for a fanciful couch at one end of the room and a cherry wood table in the middle. As I took all this in, I became aware of a strange sound. As I strode towards it, it seemed to come from the kitchen, to which the door was open. As I got closer, the sound would stop and start again fitfully, I was just about to it, every muscle tense for a spring, when a gray- haired lady came around the bend. I almost screamed. The woman looked as much surprised as I, and held up doughy hands as if to deflect a blow. She and I stood stock still for a moment, sizing each other up, when she whirled around, grabbed a cast iron skillet and turned back towards me, ready to attack. Then she spoke, “What are you doing in this house?! Who let you in? You’re not here to hurt me are you?” I shrank back and put my own hands up defensively, “I am most certainly not here to harm you! I was called here to renovate this house, however if you want me to leave I’ll gladly take my skills elsewhere.”
This seemed to relax the lady, and she set the skillet down, in a more friendly voice, she said, “No, No, don’t leave. Victoria probably called you here,” She offered a hand; “I’m Meagan, the house keeper.”
I shook the proffered hand and she continued, “The reason for my unexpected scene was because of the tales I’ve heard told about this house. An old miser used to live here; he was supposed a mad man. Some of the neighbors told me before they left, that they had heard loud banging and maniacal laughter most nights; many thought the man practiced witchcraft. I often hear eerie sounds through out the house, though I wonder if it is just the imaginings of an old woman.”
A shiver ran down my spine, and I felt as if I were being watched.
Meagan went to the sink and washed her hands off, then led me back to the main room. She sat down on the old couch, sending a large cloud of dust hurtling up into space. I sat down more gingerly, on the edge of the couch, which still sent up yet more debris. “Well, if this is the place I am supposed to work on, what would you have me do?” I asked. The old lady threw her hands in the air, “Oh! I had already forgotten, I can’t tell you what needs to be done, only Victoria can.” Once again, a mentioning of some stranger, whom I guessed was a lady. “Forgive my ignorance, but who is this ‘Victoria’?” I questioned. Meagan looked at me in disbelief, “Surely you must know that she is the mistress of the house?”
Before I could respond, the front doors swung open. In walked Victoria. She was garbed in cheetah print clothes, with a large, fluffy, black scarf about her shoulders. And she smoked. She puffed out such a large cloud, that it seemed she wanted for others to picture her in a haze. As for her complexion, she looked youngish, and looked like she overused her makeup. When she came in, Meagan abruptly stood to attention, and, following her lead, I stood too. The smoky woman stopped dead in her tracks, in a rather squeaky voice she declared, “Meagan you should be about your cleaning! You shouldn’t be sitting in here prattling with some tramp.”
Tramp? This lady needed some manners! But before I started off on a tirade, she spoke to me. “You. What is your name?”
***
First of all, I’m cringing right now–which is okay because I only told you guys not to cringe and not myself. Second, I was a very cliche writer. “Weeping willows” bringing “despair,” standing “stock still,” and “shiver[s] running down my spine.” Urgh. And the dialogue! It’s not very true to form. People don’t normally say “forgive my ignorance” anymore but I’ve always been fascinated by older English–and it shows in all of my early prose.
Before I go further, let’s view the rewritten piece. Save some of my dignity. (Lol).
“The Phantom in the Night” v. 2.0
Fading sunlight glints off the windshield of my red and black convertible as I drive down an old country backroad; the top is down, my left arm dangling over the side being swatted by various tall grasses and weeds; the sounds of crickets and the motor of some enterprising farmer’s tractor churns out a violent warning, scaring the field mice and snakes which had taken shelter in the dried dead turf–it had grown all summer and finally died with the onset of fall–a taste of the rain clouds looming far above me, dark and gray and brooding, assaults my taste buds and a chill causes me to shiver.
This contractor is either really rich, or really foolish to want a professional renovator to make a house call.
“In one thousand feet, take a left onto Wandering Creek Road.”
I glance down at my phone at the live map and turn the directions off. I’m almost there anyways. I brake, turn onto Wandering Creek, and keep my eyes peeled for my destination. They said it was a large, old, Victorian-era house–kind of strange to have it way out in the middle of nowhere, if you ask me–with no neighbors. I glance down at my speedometer, and when I glance back up it’s as if the house appeared out of nothing.
As I slow down to a halt, I crane my neck up to see the roof of the massive construction with what I can only imagine is an imbecilic expression contorting my face. While I gape at the red brick walls, dark green roof, overgrown yard, and dusty windows, a motion in one of the top windows catches my eye. By the time my irides had flickered to the inconsistency, all I saw was some dark cloth disappearing out of the corner. Must’ve been my contractor.
I parked, praying silently to myself that this person was not some goth grandmother, intent on kidnapping me and practicing all sorts of demonic rituals on me, and slid out of my car. Birdsong was the first thing I noted, if we’re not going to mention the grass which came up to my knees and tickled the tips of my fingers, and I smiled as though I had never, in fact, heard of birds or even their songs before and was just now learning about their miraculous little voices after being trapped in the steel jungle of New York all my life. I had begun to step up the creaky wooden steps of the evidently failing manor when a louder creak brought my attention to the door.
I think I would have preferred the goth grandmother to the person who now stood, impertinently staring down her prissy nose at me, on the doorstep.
She was dressed in one of the most outlandish cheetah print fur coats I have ever seen; a cigarette hung rigidly between her pursed lips, while sunglasses hid the surely glaring, beady eyes that I know had been picking me apart since the moment I arrived; an arm jutted out to the side of her where a hand was placed on her hip, and after staring at me for a thorough 10 seconds without so much as a “good day ma’am,” she spoke in a tone which expressed her utmost annoyance and discontent.
“And you are?”
***
Honestly, I think I caught the protagonist’s sarcastic tone better in the first piece. Also, did you catch all those long sentences? Yes, that was me practicing because long sentences are fun. Ever made one stretch on for a whole page? Me neither, because I’m lazy. Anyway, there are still definitely problems with this piece. Some of the sentences need to be reworked and/or split apart, should probably take out a bit of the description, etc, etc. I did do better with “was” though. In the former piece, I used “was” too much in my descriptions and when I went to rewrite, I made a mental note to chill out. As far as exposition, I did that better in the first. We learn about a “mad man” (which is also pretty cliche, hurrah) who may have “practiced witchcraft.” Typical horror story, ya know? Though I think if I were to continue writing the piece, I wouldn’t add that back at all. I would think of something different, less bland. And Meagan (I seem to use that name a lot in my stories . . . hm . . . ) wasn’t even introduced! Does she exist? Who knows?
Anyway, this was fun. For me. Maybe not for you.
Or who knows, maybe you’re secretly a stalker intent on murdering me and this website is the best way for you to learn my hobbies and movements so you can better take a syringe and squirt air between my toes to kill me by faking a heartattack.
Hope you writers out there learned something. Like how to not write a horror story! Good writing and good luck!
-WordTechnician
Word Technician 