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The Ghost Girl's hand

This is a development of my original piece. Hope you like it.. Submitted by louise (Award 565), age 15

I walked out of the building, drinking in the view. The black sky had fiercely swallowed the stars and city lights illuminated the murky night. I glanced at my watch, 11.05pm; I’d spent 15 hours in a dark, dank office. Suddenly, a cold wind arrogantly punched my face, almost knocking me over. In a daze, I slowly strolled over to my car, and attempted to pry open the stiff door, I’d forgotten my keys!

After setting off my car alarm numerous times, I finally clambered into my car. I soon began my journey home, and smiled as I recalled an old legend, told to me as a child.

When the clock strikes 12,
On Hallows Eve,
Beware of the ghosts,
Of Adam and Eve.

When crossing the bridge,
Beware of the dead,
Keep your eyes on the road,
And don’t lose your head.

For some reason, the tale still struck a chord with me, even though I knew it was just an old ghost story. It was a story that sent shivers down my spine, and made goose bumps run across my arms. It made me feel warm and complete inside.

I drove along the bridge, (the only way back to my home) it was silent, dull and lifeless. Suddenly, a scream erupted into the night, confused; I automatically slammed the brakes on, as I looked up, the road seemed hardly more solid than a shadow. I cautiously listened for another scream, nothing. I carried on driving. Odd. More than odd. Worrying.

As if out of thin air, a girl appeared in the middle of the road, her face no more than a ghostly white. I immediately leapt out of the car, to the sound of the trees gently cracking their fingers. “Hello? Are you alright?”

Her only response was silence.

“Do you live around her?” I softly queried.

“32 Kindersley Road,” the girl faintly murmured.

I anxiously took the girl’s hand, and began driving toward her house. The journey was a long and lonely one. I felt a shudder down my back, almost as if it were a foreboding, almost as if it were a warning.

Eventually, we reached the house, and I idly strolled to the front door. I briskly rang the doorbell, and an old man swiftly flung open the front door.

“What?” He demanded. My heart began pounding in my chest. A swift beat. A nervous beat.

“I... I have your daughter in my car. She was alone on the bridge.” I stammered. My voice no more than a whisper.

“Is this some kind of joke?” The man was livid, red in the face. I gestured for him to come out to my car. I felt nervous, as if I knew something bad was going to happen.

I stared in horror; the seat was empty. The girl was gone.

I turned around to face the old man, he stared at me, his eyes black with anger. My mind was asking a thousand questions, How has this happened? Was the most prominent one.

He lowered his voice to a fierce moan, “My daughter was killed on that bridge, 5 years ago.”

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