essayist
loading
plotting a mystery (weekly two)
word count - 1400 words
part one (266 words)
- Rain splatters against my attic window. A wave of nausea washes over me as I clutch the tarnished locket, its inscription barely legible: “To Amelia, always and forever.” Memories flood back - a lavish birthday party, my father's booming, his sudden disappearance. Was it an accident, as everyone claims, or something more sinister?
- Decades later, the manor creaks awake with the arrival of a peculiar antique dealer. He eyes the locket with an unsettling gleam, muttering about a “hidden legacy.” His words spark a dormant fire within me. Is this the key to unlocking the truth about my father's fate? Does this man know something about his disappearance?
- The investigation unearths a diary of a family curses, a darkness that taints the Blackwood family. Doubt gnaws at me. Could the darkness be hereditary? Am I destined to repeat the same fate that befell my father? And why, beg, is our family being punished so?
- Delving into dusty family archives, I discover a hidden will, leaving everything to a distant cousin I never knew existed. Relief washes over me - perhaps the curse only targeted the direct line. But a cryptic symbol scrawled beneath his signature sends shivers down my spine. Is the danger even closer than I think?
- I confront the cousin. A standoff reveals a shocking truth - he's not a relative, but a vengeful descendant of someone wronged by the Blackwoods. The locket, a family heirloom, housed a hidden key, unlocking a secret passage leading to yet another truth. Facing the darkness within the walls (and within myself), I must finally lay the past to rest.
part two (233 words)
- Each portrait in the long hallway stares down with an intensity that sends shivers down my spine. One, in particular, depicts a young woman with an uncanny resemblance to me, her eyes filled with a haunting sadness. The inscription reveals her name - Amelia, my great-grandmother, who vanished mysteriously a century ago. Is there a connection between the disappearances?
- Since childhood, I've been plagued by a dream; peculiar, right? A storm rages, lightning illuminates a figure cloaked in black at the edge of a cliff. Their face remains unseen, but a sense of dread and a chilling laugh pierces the dream. Could it be amemory, a premonition, or simply my imagination?
- Throughout the manor, I find a recurring symbol etched on furniture legs, tucked into dusty corners of paintings. It resembles a twisted bird in flight, its meaning lost to time. Is it a family crest, a dark omen, or merely an artistic flourish with no hidden significance? I shudder to even wonder.
- Hidden within my father's desk drawer, I discover a locked diary. The intricate brass lock seems untouched, hinting it was never meant to be opened. Could it contain the final piece of the puzzle, or is it simply a personal journal filled with mundane details, offering no answers? I need to find out. For myself, and the rest of my family.
part three (349 words)
finley (the detective) : “why, greetings, miss ziony. witness reports paint a rather… unconventional picture of your involvement with mrs. eswecee's unfortunate rendezvous with a frying pan. they mention a heated exchange, a flurry of activity, and then… silence. followed, of course, by the rather distinct clang that heralded mrs. esweecee's culinary-induced concussion. now, you claim that you were simply present in the crime scene. but some might find that explanation a tad… undercooked.”
zion (the witness) : *zion walks closer* “you think I did this?! i would never!”
finley (the detective) : “whoa there, miss ziony, easy does it. i never said you did it, just that the picture's a little blurry around the edges. let's rewind a bit. tell me your side of the story. what were you and mrs. eswecee discussing that got so…heated?”
zion (the witness) : zion scowled. “sure you weren't. we were just talking about… uh, candles. candles, yeah!”
zion (the witness) : “she has really bad taste in candles, if I'm honest. she had a grass scented one. grass! It was just outrageous–I'm not making this up! ask her yourself!”
finley (the detective) : “candles, huh? that's certainly a…unique topic for a heated discussion. look, zion, if a grass-scented candle was the worst part of your visit with mrs. eswecee, i think we can both agree you got off lucky. but something isn't adding up. you wouldn't be this worked up over a candle, even a particularly pungent one. what were you really arguing about?” *look of disbelief on the face*
zion (the witness) : *dramatic sigh* “you don't believe me–of course you don't! why is it so hard to believe that people get upset about silly things? i would've had no reason to do ANYTHING to mrs. eswecee–other than maybe do her a massive favor and throw out that candle! If you can tell me why you think I did and your proof, i'll tell you why you're wrong!”
finley (the detective) : “okay, zion, you want specifics? here's what doesn't quite fit. witness reports mention a heated exchange and a flurry of activity before the… frying pan incident. a disagreement about a candle, even a particularly offensive one, wouldn't typically lead to that kind of intensity. now, I'm not saying you bashed mrs. eswecee, but something seems to be at play. look, if you're innocent, the more you tell me, the faster we can clear your name. so, what else happened with you and her?”
zion (the witness) : *rolls eyes and sighs again* “i told you already! we were talking idly and she mentioned the candle she bought as a souvenir last summer!! she said it smelled like freshly cut grass” *wrinkles nose* “and that it was simply amazing! i told her straight up that if she kept wasting money on candles that didnt even smell good she wouldnt be able to afford any GOOD candles when she evantually found one!! that loud sound? that was me punching the table out of pure RAGE. i dont know who hit her with the frying pan. it wasnt me–when did you say she was found, again?”
finley (the detective) : “a punch on the table? look, if you want to play coy, that's your right, but the evidence speaks louder than outrage. you know what else is loud? a lie! here's the real question, zion: when you ”punched“ the table, did it knock a frying pan off a hook sending it flying into mrs. eswecee or did you get a little more creative in your argument? because right now, you're the only one with a motive and the opportunity! let's talk about the truth, zion.”
zion (the witness) : “YES, a punch on the table!! i punched the table, gave her a dirty look and then i left. and then HOURS later you come banging on my door accusing me off hitting someone over the head with a frying pan! it's insanity! don't you wonder who took that picture? seems pretty suspicious!”
part four (552 words)
The rain hammered against the attic window. Moonlight speared through a crack in the roof, illuminating the tarnished locket clutched in my hand. The inscription, barely legible, sent a shiver down my spine: “To Amelia, always and forever.” Dad gave it to me on my fourteenth birthday, saying it was a family heirloom, and I would always live to love it.
My father's booming laugh echoed in the cavernous halls of my memory. Decades had sank into one another, the memory of his disappearance a wound beneath the official story – a flimsy bandage over a gaping chasm of doubt. Accident, they said. But doubt had taken root deep within me.
Mr. Graves, the antique dealer, had watered that seed with his cryptic words of a “hidden legacy.” Tonight, I found myself creeping down the shadowed labyrinth of the old manor.
The silence pressed in on me, broken only by the traitorous creak of the floorboards beneath my feet. Was I truly searching for answers, or chasing a phantom – a desperate attempt to recapture a childhood stolen? The line between past and present widened, as I embarked on a one of a kind mystery.
The library door loomed. Pushing it open, I was met with a wave of stale air, thick with the scent of decaying time and lingering ghosts. Each shadow stretched and contorted, mocking the fragile hope flickering within me. The portraits, lined up across the crimson hallway, were judging me in every manner possible. Their eyes, I swear I saw them move once.
Was I unraveling a mystery, or unraveling myself? The question hung heavy, an unwelcome echo of the doubts gnawing at the edges of my sanity. My fingers traced the cold stone of the fireplace mantle, a familiar chill chasing away the clammy sweat clinging to my skin. Beneath my touch, a hidden compartment yielded a worn leather-bound diary. My father's diary.
A flicker of relief, fragile and fleeting, washed over me.
The diary lay open in my trembling hands, the spidery handwriting a connection to a father I never knew. But as I began to read, a sense of voyeurism, a prickling unease, settled over me.
A sudden scream, raw and primal, shattered the silence. The diary tumbled from my grasp, forgotten in the face of a more immediate terror. Adrenaline coursed through me, this time devoid of the desperate hope of discovery. There was only fear, a primal instinct for survival.
“Is anyone here……?” I whispered, perhaps too soft for even an ant to hear. Quickly grabbing a torchlight, I lit a lone pathway back to where I came from, but I could no longer see a way out. What on earth was Mr Graves up to in the shop? And then I remembered, the legacy. Everything made sense now. The diary, the clues, everything. I had to go back. The screams continued to be heard, though now I had the answer. Someone needs to know the truth.
But as I raced towards the source of the scream, another question rose above the clamor of emotions. This was more than a mystery to solve. This was a puzzle with a missing piece shaped exactly like me, and a chilling realization began to take root: I wasn't just investigating a case, I was a part of it.
word count - 1400 words
part one (266 words)
- Rain splatters against my attic window. A wave of nausea washes over me as I clutch the tarnished locket, its inscription barely legible: “To Amelia, always and forever.” Memories flood back - a lavish birthday party, my father's booming, his sudden disappearance. Was it an accident, as everyone claims, or something more sinister?
- Decades later, the manor creaks awake with the arrival of a peculiar antique dealer. He eyes the locket with an unsettling gleam, muttering about a “hidden legacy.” His words spark a dormant fire within me. Is this the key to unlocking the truth about my father's fate? Does this man know something about his disappearance?
- The investigation unearths a diary of a family curses, a darkness that taints the Blackwood family. Doubt gnaws at me. Could the darkness be hereditary? Am I destined to repeat the same fate that befell my father? And why, beg, is our family being punished so?
- Delving into dusty family archives, I discover a hidden will, leaving everything to a distant cousin I never knew existed. Relief washes over me - perhaps the curse only targeted the direct line. But a cryptic symbol scrawled beneath his signature sends shivers down my spine. Is the danger even closer than I think?
- I confront the cousin. A standoff reveals a shocking truth - he's not a relative, but a vengeful descendant of someone wronged by the Blackwoods. The locket, a family heirloom, housed a hidden key, unlocking a secret passage leading to yet another truth. Facing the darkness within the walls (and within myself), I must finally lay the past to rest.
part two (233 words)
- Each portrait in the long hallway stares down with an intensity that sends shivers down my spine. One, in particular, depicts a young woman with an uncanny resemblance to me, her eyes filled with a haunting sadness. The inscription reveals her name - Amelia, my great-grandmother, who vanished mysteriously a century ago. Is there a connection between the disappearances?
- Since childhood, I've been plagued by a dream; peculiar, right? A storm rages, lightning illuminates a figure cloaked in black at the edge of a cliff. Their face remains unseen, but a sense of dread and a chilling laugh pierces the dream. Could it be amemory, a premonition, or simply my imagination?
- Throughout the manor, I find a recurring symbol etched on furniture legs, tucked into dusty corners of paintings. It resembles a twisted bird in flight, its meaning lost to time. Is it a family crest, a dark omen, or merely an artistic flourish with no hidden significance? I shudder to even wonder.
- Hidden within my father's desk drawer, I discover a locked diary. The intricate brass lock seems untouched, hinting it was never meant to be opened. Could it contain the final piece of the puzzle, or is it simply a personal journal filled with mundane details, offering no answers? I need to find out. For myself, and the rest of my family.
part three (349 words)
finley (the detective) : “why, greetings, miss ziony. witness reports paint a rather… unconventional picture of your involvement with mrs. eswecee's unfortunate rendezvous with a frying pan. they mention a heated exchange, a flurry of activity, and then… silence. followed, of course, by the rather distinct clang that heralded mrs. esweecee's culinary-induced concussion. now, you claim that you were simply present in the crime scene. but some might find that explanation a tad… undercooked.”
zion (the witness) : *zion walks closer* “you think I did this?! i would never!”
finley (the detective) : “whoa there, miss ziony, easy does it. i never said you did it, just that the picture's a little blurry around the edges. let's rewind a bit. tell me your side of the story. what were you and mrs. eswecee discussing that got so…heated?”
zion (the witness) : zion scowled. “sure you weren't. we were just talking about… uh, candles. candles, yeah!”
zion (the witness) : “she has really bad taste in candles, if I'm honest. she had a grass scented one. grass! It was just outrageous–I'm not making this up! ask her yourself!”
finley (the detective) : “candles, huh? that's certainly a…unique topic for a heated discussion. look, zion, if a grass-scented candle was the worst part of your visit with mrs. eswecee, i think we can both agree you got off lucky. but something isn't adding up. you wouldn't be this worked up over a candle, even a particularly pungent one. what were you really arguing about?” *look of disbelief on the face*
zion (the witness) : *dramatic sigh* “you don't believe me–of course you don't! why is it so hard to believe that people get upset about silly things? i would've had no reason to do ANYTHING to mrs. eswecee–other than maybe do her a massive favor and throw out that candle! If you can tell me why you think I did and your proof, i'll tell you why you're wrong!”
finley (the detective) : “okay, zion, you want specifics? here's what doesn't quite fit. witness reports mention a heated exchange and a flurry of activity before the… frying pan incident. a disagreement about a candle, even a particularly offensive one, wouldn't typically lead to that kind of intensity. now, I'm not saying you bashed mrs. eswecee, but something seems to be at play. look, if you're innocent, the more you tell me, the faster we can clear your name. so, what else happened with you and her?”
zion (the witness) : *rolls eyes and sighs again* “i told you already! we were talking idly and she mentioned the candle she bought as a souvenir last summer!! she said it smelled like freshly cut grass” *wrinkles nose* “and that it was simply amazing! i told her straight up that if she kept wasting money on candles that didnt even smell good she wouldnt be able to afford any GOOD candles when she evantually found one!! that loud sound? that was me punching the table out of pure RAGE. i dont know who hit her with the frying pan. it wasnt me–when did you say she was found, again?”
finley (the detective) : “a punch on the table? look, if you want to play coy, that's your right, but the evidence speaks louder than outrage. you know what else is loud? a lie! here's the real question, zion: when you ”punched“ the table, did it knock a frying pan off a hook sending it flying into mrs. eswecee or did you get a little more creative in your argument? because right now, you're the only one with a motive and the opportunity! let's talk about the truth, zion.”
zion (the witness) : “YES, a punch on the table!! i punched the table, gave her a dirty look and then i left. and then HOURS later you come banging on my door accusing me off hitting someone over the head with a frying pan! it's insanity! don't you wonder who took that picture? seems pretty suspicious!”
part four (552 words)
The rain hammered against the attic window. Moonlight speared through a crack in the roof, illuminating the tarnished locket clutched in my hand. The inscription, barely legible, sent a shiver down my spine: “To Amelia, always and forever.” Dad gave it to me on my fourteenth birthday, saying it was a family heirloom, and I would always live to love it.
My father's booming laugh echoed in the cavernous halls of my memory. Decades had sank into one another, the memory of his disappearance a wound beneath the official story – a flimsy bandage over a gaping chasm of doubt. Accident, they said. But doubt had taken root deep within me.
Mr. Graves, the antique dealer, had watered that seed with his cryptic words of a “hidden legacy.” Tonight, I found myself creeping down the shadowed labyrinth of the old manor.
The silence pressed in on me, broken only by the traitorous creak of the floorboards beneath my feet. Was I truly searching for answers, or chasing a phantom – a desperate attempt to recapture a childhood stolen? The line between past and present widened, as I embarked on a one of a kind mystery.
The library door loomed. Pushing it open, I was met with a wave of stale air, thick with the scent of decaying time and lingering ghosts. Each shadow stretched and contorted, mocking the fragile hope flickering within me. The portraits, lined up across the crimson hallway, were judging me in every manner possible. Their eyes, I swear I saw them move once.
Was I unraveling a mystery, or unraveling myself? The question hung heavy, an unwelcome echo of the doubts gnawing at the edges of my sanity. My fingers traced the cold stone of the fireplace mantle, a familiar chill chasing away the clammy sweat clinging to my skin. Beneath my touch, a hidden compartment yielded a worn leather-bound diary. My father's diary.
A flicker of relief, fragile and fleeting, washed over me.
The diary lay open in my trembling hands, the spidery handwriting a connection to a father I never knew. But as I began to read, a sense of voyeurism, a prickling unease, settled over me.
A sudden scream, raw and primal, shattered the silence. The diary tumbled from my grasp, forgotten in the face of a more immediate terror. Adrenaline coursed through me, this time devoid of the desperate hope of discovery. There was only fear, a primal instinct for survival.
“Is anyone here……?” I whispered, perhaps too soft for even an ant to hear. Quickly grabbing a torchlight, I lit a lone pathway back to where I came from, but I could no longer see a way out. What on earth was Mr Graves up to in the shop? And then I remembered, the legacy. Everything made sense now. The diary, the clues, everything. I had to go back. The screams continued to be heard, though now I had the answer. Someone needs to know the truth.
But as I raced towards the source of the scream, another question rose above the clamor of emotions. This was more than a mystery to solve. This was a puzzle with a missing piece shaped exactly like me, and a chilling realization began to take root: I wasn't just investigating a case, I was a part of it.