Here it is. I have been wanting to post this for a while. Gothic Horror is one of my favourite genres to write in. I found that out last year when we had to write a gothic horror piece last year about…literally anything.

Just writing gives me the chills.

The one I am posting today is the one that I wrote last year. We were given the title Castle of Secrets, which I can’t say I loved but we progress. I really enjoyed writing it and thought I would share it because this is MY BLOG WHERE I CAN DO WHATEVER I WANT *EVIL LAUGH*. In addition, this year I have written another one that has a similar plot but a contrast on my different writing styles. So here is my short story Castle of Secrets.

I feel nothing.

Not pain. Not emotions.

That’s my secret you see.

My secret for being perfect.

Because being perfect is what I live on. Perfect is what I need to be. Perfect is what I need them to see.

I live my life based on the idea that being flawless will grant me happiness.

And when she was born, that was the sign. I was right.

In the daytime, when the sun beams with an ever present, glowing smile, and clouds that are peppered in the infinite sky whistle tunes of soft winds, I wear a smile with elegance and beauty; I imprint myself on the eyes of those around me.

But when darkness reigns the sky, when the sun cowers away from the blinding, belligerent black and shadows settle into the cracks and corners of the old houses, my house is like a castle. And I am a slave to my secret.

Driven by the thought that being perfect means not feeling, I drive the needle through my thumb. I’ve done it so often that I don’t feel a thing. I’ve done it so often that I began to lose touch of myself.

Physically and mentally.

Until tonight.

The bed whines as I sit on it. I can hear the wheeze of its antique, metal poles, struggling to carry the weight.

Just like me. Me who is burdened by the weight of the heavy secrets that drape from the very necklace I wear with such pride to my pale legs, that shake even now as they rest on the bed.

Trembling, I reach over to my table. My hand searches for it, but when I feel the cold brush the edge of my fingertip, shivers of doubt rush through me.

I bring the needle over my body, holding it about ten inches away from me. For the first time in fifteen years, I am scared.

Breathe in- breathe out.

As it pierces through my skin, I feel relief wash over me. I can’t feel a thing. And I let that feeling lull me into a slumber daunted by the fear of fear itself.

I am woken up at three in the morning. I can tell from my pocket watch. The one he had handed to me in a little velvet bag the day before he …

I lie in bed for a while. An uncertainty keeps me restless, and a silent whispering keeps doubts and worries jogging through my mind.

I can’t figure out the inexplicable source of fear. Worries surface like the goosebumps that have crawled surreptitiously up my arms.

There is a mysterious temptation that beckons me, calling from the darkness that cuts through the slits of my old, wooden doors. Beseeches me with a series of plangeant screeches. Thrice it calls me, and thrice I let it fade into the tenebrous night.

But … there is something luring me in the dark.

I have never left my room at night lest my healing scars should unexpectedly begin gushing with the blood of my past. The prospect of unknown secrets does not unnerve me tonight, however; instead, it fills me with nervous energy that will not sleep.

I push the blanket away from my body with a single sweep; the cold night air burns my skin as I reach over to pick up the dancing candle.

The irregular pattern of my footsteps betrays the terror that has possessed me as I walk to the door. I walk past the mirror and I see myself shrouded in darkness, a spirit. I reach through the blackness, my hand groping for the familiar cold of the door handle. My fingertips brush against it and I freeze. Dare I open it?

It seems my body answers. Twist- pull- walk.

The floorboard creaks with the pressure of fear that fills me. I stand outside her room. It is then that I decide I cannot wait a second longer. My knuckles turn white from squeezing at the handle so hard. The air reeks of a putrid, sour smell from a source I can’t identify.

Twist- pull- darkness. I bring the light in front of me.

And I scream.

The entire room is empty.

The bassinet, the little elephant I sewed for her, her favourite blanket, all gone.

And so is she.

Panic eats away at me as I desperately run to the kitchen, the bathroom, the dining room looking for any trace that she ever existed.

I stand here still, my breath stuck in my throat. My mind stuck in the motions of the events that took place just moments ago. I press my eyelids together and let myself immerse in the suffocating darkness, the void. Hoping that when I open my eyes, the tricks will fall away. And I will know that it is just my vision illuding me.

I open my eyes. Her room is still empty.

I realise now that it was pointless. All of it. Perfect was a fantasy.

But she wasn’t.

Or was she?

With a whisper of farewell the candle goes out. And something in me akin to that flame does the same.

I hope you enjoyed that…

If you did I would love to know, or if you have any feedback that is very welcome, I am not a professional so….

Also if you would like the new version I would love to share it too!

Again I apologise if I sound arrogant or anything when saying these things.

But…What Do I Know?