Home     About    Books    Authors    Services    Competitions    Submissions    Contact
 

NOTES:

YOUNG WRITERS: SPRING 2008 - FIRST PLACE WINNER

This story text appears exactly as sent in by the writer. No changes or corrections have been made; however, all stories to be included in the published Anthology will be edited for grammar and punctuation before printing.

Please note: this work is copyright by the author and may not be used, copied or shared in any way whatso-ever without his/her express written permission. If you wish to be put in contact with this author, please contact us; details are not supplied on this web page, in order to protect the author's privacy.

"I'll Be Waiting"

by Rebecca Dowson-Smith - Swindon, Wiltshire, UK

FIRST PLACE IN THE "YOUNG WRITERS" CATEGORY, SPRING 2008

Susan Hill opened her car door and waded into the thick cloak of mist. Through the rain, she could just about perceive the signpost she had been searching for.  It read: Welcome To Sunny Gardens, We Hope You Enjoy Your Visit.  How inappropriate the name of the now abandoned, gloomy park seemed to be.  Susan was sure she hadn’t seen weather this bad since her childhood.  The fog was so thick now it was almost suffocating, as if trying to conceal her from the rest of the world.  Nonetheless, she pushed open the rusty iron gates and hurried through the park’s entrance. The park itself was large, though walls enclosed by tall rectangular hedges gave it an unusual maze-like shape.  The worry of not knowing what awaited around each corner sent an icy cold throbbing down Susan’s chest, prompting her to wrap her purple scarf more tightly around her neck. With each step she took, the crisp grass crunched beneath her brown leather knee-highs.  “Almost there,” were the words that circled her dazed, weary mind.

As Susan reached the park’s fountain, she sat for a moment, lost in thought, and observed her surroundings. The frost-covered grass was neatly cut, the hedges were trimmed and the stone steps, walls and paths were perfectly pristine.  Who was tending to everything here?  This thought caused a wave of apprehension to flood through Susan’s rigid body.  The town was no longer inhabited by anyone.   Not since that fire of 1985.  The summer it broke out had been one of the hottest in a hundred years, and once the fire started, everyone’s effort to put it out was futile.  “The arsonist was never caught,” Susan sighed. “Whoever did it could still be out there now-if they’re still alive, that is.”  The fire’s fury had blazed through the entire town, merciless, destroying every last trace of life on its rampage, sparing only the park she was now in.  Susan and her parents had been lucky.  Fate had sent them to West Virginia at the time of the fire to attend a wedding.  “Sam had stayed behind,” she thought.  Susan’s Auntie married businessman Louis Cole on that frightful August day.  News of the fire erupted at the reception, and that’s when the merry sound of laughing, joking and the clinking of glasses fell dead.  From that moment onwards, life became a bleak hole of nothingness.  Sam created that hole the moment he was plucked from existence, the moment that great amber monster decided it was his time.  Susan missed her brother, Sam, desperately.  He was all she could ever think about.  Memories flooded Susan’s head; her delicate cheeks became tear-stained.  Sam was seven when disaster struck their small hometown, Talbot Ridge.  She was nine.  Now here she was.  A small letter, crumpled, wet from the rain, was clasped tightly in her hand.  Taking a deep breath, Susan unravelled the piece of paper and stared at it.  She could remember every word, every piece of punctuation that was written on the paper.  She had read it enough times, of course, before the words were finally ready to sink in.  Was it a sick joke?  No.  There was a sort of warmth that accompanied the words, as absurd as they were.  Hands shaking, Susan began to read the letter.

13^th August

Dear Susan,

Have you missed me? It seems like I’ve spent an eternity away from you and my family.  Ever since you left Talbot Ridge, my heart has become increasingly empty and cold. This coldness clings to my very soul, and it’s not going to depart until I see your caring face again.   The face that got into our family car 23 years ago, Dad at the steering wheel, Mum sitting in the back passenger seat next to you.  It should have been me sitting there, Susan.  But no.  Dad drove steadily away, away from the soot-covered roads, the anguish.  Why did you leave me, Sue? Why did Mum and Dad leave me when I needed them most? I try not to dwell on the latter question though.  It’s too painful.  We all have to move on.  Right?

But sometimes, I find myself recreating days long ago forgotten.   Days spent with my big sister.

Do you remember our favourite spot in town, Sue?  I can almost feel the cold spray of the water on my skin now.  Yeah, I used to love that place.  Though the fountain is rarely on these days, if at all.  How I miss those carefree summer days you and I spent playing in Sunny Gardens Park.  They’re just memories now though, aren’t they.

Please Susan. Come and see me.  I know you never once forgot about me.  That’s more than can be said for others. 

Susan, I’ll be waiting.

Sam

The thought that Sam would now be a grown man, the age of thirty, seemed surreal, impossible to Susan.  He had died that day in the fire, surely? Yet, sitting on the cold stone bench that circled the large fountain, here she was, waiting for him.

“The fountain”, Susan thought. “Is this the place Sam was hinting at in the letter for our meeting? Will he even show up?”  There was little evidence to suggest Sam had ever survived the fire, yet the hand-written letter that stared blankly up at her from the midst of her cold hands insinuated otherwise.  It also conjured up a cloud of painful memories.  Memories that had been pushed to the back of Susan’s head since the age of nine, and having them reappear was too traumatic for words.  She buried her head in her hands, the sharp stabbing in her head becoming more and more intense.  Susan’s migraines had worsened on receiving the letter from her brother.  Fumbling around in her pocket, she grasped the item she had been feeling for.  Popping open the lid, Susan placed a paracetamol in her mouth and took a quick swig of water from the small flask she had brought with her.  Stuffing the pills back into her pocket, she once again glanced down at the now sodden piece of paper.  The thing that stumped Susan was the date: August 13^th.  “The day of the fire, twenty-three years ago,” she thought, perturbed by this disturbing realisation. “And what does ‘that’s more than can be said for others’ mean?  Had someone done something to upset Sam?”  Susan had the chilling intuition that all of her questions would soon be answered.  But, would her brother be the one to answer them?

In a flash, Susan got to her feet.  The echo of footsteps could be heard, bouncing off the park’s stone walls.  Frantically, she began to search the surrounding area.  Nothing.  She could not find the source of the sound anywhere.  She resumed her sitting position, uneasy.  Susan was surprised at how restless she was now, her breathing heavy and rapid, her body frozen, overwrought with fear.  Had she just imagined the footsteps?  No.  The footsteps were far too real for her mind to have materialised.

After a few minutes, all traces of concern over the footsteps had drifted away, and all was eerily quiet again.  Too quiet.  Only the sound of rain falling from the obscure sky, pattering rhythmically against the stone paths, could be heard.  The stillness of everything gave the impression of being caught in a fragment of time, as though the damp, gloomy day Susan had now become accustomed to would last forever.  Suddenly, she stiffened.  Breath held, eyes widened, Susan listened intently.  Now, a set of lungs other than her own could be heard, and unlike her own, their breathing was calm and collected.  She slowly stood, turning around to where the sound was emitting.

“No,” said Susan, aghast, her heart pounding furiously. “No.  It can’t be....”

Copyright (c) 2008 by Rebecca Dowson-Smith.
Do not reproduce without the author's written permission!
 

COMMENTS FROM OUR COMMISSIONING EDITOR, Jo Holloway:
Generally very well written, with a touch of Daphne du Maurier mystery! I liked the way we were kept in suspense: was this a ghost story? Was it really her brother? Someone playing a trick on her? Or something more sinister? I did feel that it could all have been developed further, with better back story, and the question of why Sam had been left in the first place wasn't answered. There were a couple of loose ends that should have been covered, but for me the Poe-type ending was quite fitting. Presentation and readability would benefit from more paragraph breaks and attention to polishing. Always remember that as a reader reads, his mind poses questions for everything he's told - and those questions need to be answered. I don't mean the BIG questions, which are there deliberately, but the little details that satisfy the reader's need to understand, and to find the story credible. But I enjoyed this and see good potential in the writer!

COMMENTS FROM OUR GUEST JUDGE, Lucy McCarraher:
An intriguing introduction to a mystery - possibly ghost - story, which ends unsatisfactorily, leaving the reader with no clue to the resolution.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
 

I am home educated and have been so for three years now.  I enjoy writing immensely, my favourite genre being mystery, and I am also an avid reader of mystery novels.  I was lucky enough last summer to have a short story published in my local paper, and since then, my desire to write has only grown stronger.  When not writing, I like to immerse myself in other hobbies, and with being home educated comes the freedom to pursue them.  My interests include tennis, badminton, painting, photography, and music, to name a few.  I hope to continue with my writing, and in the future make it my chosen profession.

Back to Results Page