Christopher Lee
Formerly BluePhoenix711
Im just beginning the rewrite on a new young adult horror novel that I've just completed. Wanted some outside opinions on this passage. Thanks for any and all input, guys and gals.
BTW, it's about 700ish words.
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Finn Lovelock was sitting on a bench in the playground when he observed the ghost watching him from the tire swing. She was a very pretty girl, and there was a black scarf tied over her long hair. She smiled and waved at him; he waved back. Roddy Scharf was standing directly beside her, grasping the tire swing and heaving it around as it passed by him. Of course, he couldn’t see her. Only Finn could see her. He watched as she slid down one wooden beam, sitting on the mulch and averting her eyes down to her book.
Finn rose, wanting to speak to her; thought better of it and sat back down. Best to not make any of the kids feel anymore awkward than they already did. Off to his left he could hear his teacher, Mrs. Muñoz, telling Collin not to run so fast. Collin laughed as he raced past Finn. He called back, “What are looking at, freakazoid?”
Finn nodded absently, a habitual tick he’d developed over years of acknowledging when he was in the wrong. Moreso, because he didn't care. Collin was a spoiled brat who didn't deserve a single thing he owned, but owned too much to tell him otherwise.
Finn turned back to the tire swing, but the girl was gone. Just Roddy Scharf spinning the tire swing as fast as he could while Penelope Forrester sat inside of it, clutching the chains with pale knuckles screaming, “FASTER, FASTER, WE NEED ANOTHER MASTER.”
A smile slowly spread across Finn Lovelock’s face. Our playground is haunted.
That very night, after eating a plate of leftover lasagne that his sister had cooked a week ago, after showering and brushing his teeth and combing his hair, Finn sat in his bed with the door locked. The lights were dimmed low; a faint breeze blew in through the open window. A candle was lit and sat on the nightstand by his bed. A giant tomb was spread open on the bed before him. He sat with his legs crossed Indian style, flipping through the crusty old pages.
Something tapped at the window.
Finn ignored it. Nothing could harm him in his bedroom. He flipped through the pages faster and faster as the tapping at his window grew louder and louder. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face, and before long his bangs were plastered to his forehead, damp and cool in the breeze. Finally, he stopped flipping pages, gathered the tomb of a book in his arms, climbed out of bed and dropped it on his desk with a loud thud.
He glanced at the window. Nothing was there. Just a lone tree branch dangling inches from the glass, a single leaf hanging from it. Finn didn't realize the leaf was not green or brown or that rusty orange in between that you see in the Fall, but black. The leaf was black as night. He also failed to see the white pulsing veins that coursed down the center of it.
Finn returned to his research. He wanted--no, needed--an explanation for the sighting that day. He had never come across a ghost at his school, even though he’d been attending that same school his whole life. As far back as he could remember he had possessed his little gift, too. Ghosts didn't just show up out of nowhere. And he knew of nobody who had died during his time there.
The book turned out to be of little use. It was good for spells and explanations of a thousand different creatures, but what he really needed was something on the town history. Castle Heights no doubt had quite a rich history, dating back to its founding in 1763. Many a peculiar event had occurred in this town, and many more unexplainable events had occurred, too. It was known for being a unique place to visit if one wanted to see the more colorful history of Tennessee, for it possessed all of the volunteer state’s best myths and legends, as well as some of its own.
No, Finn didn't need a lesson in ghosts. He need a lesson in history. A lesson in Castle Heights’ history. Then, perhaps, his haunter on the playground would have more context; more substance. It was always easier to deal with them if they had more substance--a purpose, even. A purpose they would bargain for.
BTW, it's about 700ish words.
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Finn Lovelock was sitting on a bench in the playground when he observed the ghost watching him from the tire swing. She was a very pretty girl, and there was a black scarf tied over her long hair. She smiled and waved at him; he waved back. Roddy Scharf was standing directly beside her, grasping the tire swing and heaving it around as it passed by him. Of course, he couldn’t see her. Only Finn could see her. He watched as she slid down one wooden beam, sitting on the mulch and averting her eyes down to her book.
Finn rose, wanting to speak to her; thought better of it and sat back down. Best to not make any of the kids feel anymore awkward than they already did. Off to his left he could hear his teacher, Mrs. Muñoz, telling Collin not to run so fast. Collin laughed as he raced past Finn. He called back, “What are looking at, freakazoid?”
Finn nodded absently, a habitual tick he’d developed over years of acknowledging when he was in the wrong. Moreso, because he didn't care. Collin was a spoiled brat who didn't deserve a single thing he owned, but owned too much to tell him otherwise.
Finn turned back to the tire swing, but the girl was gone. Just Roddy Scharf spinning the tire swing as fast as he could while Penelope Forrester sat inside of it, clutching the chains with pale knuckles screaming, “FASTER, FASTER, WE NEED ANOTHER MASTER.”
A smile slowly spread across Finn Lovelock’s face. Our playground is haunted.
That very night, after eating a plate of leftover lasagne that his sister had cooked a week ago, after showering and brushing his teeth and combing his hair, Finn sat in his bed with the door locked. The lights were dimmed low; a faint breeze blew in through the open window. A candle was lit and sat on the nightstand by his bed. A giant tomb was spread open on the bed before him. He sat with his legs crossed Indian style, flipping through the crusty old pages.
Something tapped at the window.
Finn ignored it. Nothing could harm him in his bedroom. He flipped through the pages faster and faster as the tapping at his window grew louder and louder. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face, and before long his bangs were plastered to his forehead, damp and cool in the breeze. Finally, he stopped flipping pages, gathered the tomb of a book in his arms, climbed out of bed and dropped it on his desk with a loud thud.
He glanced at the window. Nothing was there. Just a lone tree branch dangling inches from the glass, a single leaf hanging from it. Finn didn't realize the leaf was not green or brown or that rusty orange in between that you see in the Fall, but black. The leaf was black as night. He also failed to see the white pulsing veins that coursed down the center of it.
Finn returned to his research. He wanted--no, needed--an explanation for the sighting that day. He had never come across a ghost at his school, even though he’d been attending that same school his whole life. As far back as he could remember he had possessed his little gift, too. Ghosts didn't just show up out of nowhere. And he knew of nobody who had died during his time there.
The book turned out to be of little use. It was good for spells and explanations of a thousand different creatures, but what he really needed was something on the town history. Castle Heights no doubt had quite a rich history, dating back to its founding in 1763. Many a peculiar event had occurred in this town, and many more unexplainable events had occurred, too. It was known for being a unique place to visit if one wanted to see the more colorful history of Tennessee, for it possessed all of the volunteer state’s best myths and legends, as well as some of its own.
No, Finn didn't need a lesson in ghosts. He need a lesson in history. A lesson in Castle Heights’ history. Then, perhaps, his haunter on the playground would have more context; more substance. It was always easier to deal with them if they had more substance--a purpose, even. A purpose they would bargain for.
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