Creative Writing: The Haunted House

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In the foggy gray day, where no one could remember there ever being a blue sky, lay an armor clad corpse, the armor being dark and tarnished. The plated ornate engraved armor, once a silver and well-decorated piece that appeared to be worn by only elite classed knights, had been worn out but still seemed functional. The body in the armor began to move slowly, struggling to pick himself up despite being completely decomposed for what would appear to be a few centuries. Once up, the walking corpse began to examine himself, noticing arrows piercing the armor and a helmet on the grassy, mudded floor. He then looked at his arms, questioning the reality of his situation. If he still had his heart, it would be pounding as he felt a sharp pain where …show more content…

That'll be explained another day, dearest ancestor. For now, you are needed here," explained the woman as she got up from her chair. The undead became more confused, as his aching soul now demanded more answers. He could not talk, which he knew would make things more difficult. "This will not work, however," the woman said, in a concerning tone. The rusty smell of the aged armor, which was desperate in need of polishing, was quite bothersome to her. She directed the undead to an armor stand, with newly forged armor that mimicked his quite well, but nowhere near the level of detail in its engravings. It even included a close helmet, wrapping his entire head, face and neck with a narrow opening for a visor. It all wasn't cheap, however, as armor was rare in this era unless specially commissioned to a blacksmith. "This is much more pleasant, do you not agree?" The undead reluctantly changed into the armor, denying any help offered by the woman when she tried to assist. He questioned internally what was going on, believing this girl to be some sort of witch using him for her bidding. Who was she, and why did she affectionately refer to him as "dearest ancestor"? At least his new armor allowed him freer movement, so he was thankful for …show more content…

The undead glanced over at her, noticing a rather deep slit on her right wrist. The cut appeared fresh, likely being made hours ago. "I must have lost my manners," she said, as her eyes popped open widely from suddenly realizing she forgot something. "We have yet to introduce ourselves to each other. I am Lady Ronilda, owner of this fine establishment that you stand on," Ronilda uttered, in a false regal tone, mimicking both the accent and tone of the highbrow. In her normal voice, she continued, "And you are my forefather. Buried in the sight of your demise during a war many years ago, which to no coincidence, is near this farmhouse built generations after your passing." As she took small sips of her tea, barely burning her tongue, the undead looked at her, anticipating the moment she would tell him his name. She didn't. He felt as though she was hiding it from him. Despite not remembering anything, he longed his slumber in the grave over his recent revival. Compared to the world he was forced out of in death, this one might have as well been hell. His sight suddenly was focused on the house's emptiness. Where was everyone else? His descendant couldn't have been here all on her own, he thought. His head wandered, moving left and right, giving Ronilda an idea of what he was

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