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Another GCSE Coursework 'bit' - A Ghost Story
~~~~
Jones stood there on the platform, motionless, as the last train pulled out of the station. He caught the glimpse of one of the few station attendants picking up the little litter that was left there, and she left. Jones stayed there, confused as to why he was at Aldwych, something had told him to get off.
‘Sir, Excuse me, sir?’
Jones did not move, he was transfixed on some markings he had seen on the wall opposite him. ‘What are they?’ he asked to the woman standing next to him.
‘Sir, Are you ok? Who are you talking to?’
Jones could not understand what was happening, he knew there was no point in him being there, while he was hypnotised by the sight of these two trails of lines on the grimy tunnel walls. He looked at the well-dressed lady next to him; she also seemed to be staring at these markings, almost longingly. Under her breath, she said ‘Bloomsbury’.
‘Excuse me Sir, the station is closing now’
Neither Jones nor the well-dressed lady moved at this.
‘Sir, it would be best if you were to leave now’
‘What are they?’
The platform attendant moved away, assuming the man was playing some sort of joke on him, as he moved down the platform he could hear the man talking.
‘I made them’ replied the well-dressed lady
‘What are they?’
‘Scratches, 70 years ago I was here with Catherine waiting for our train, when a man came out of the staff room that used to be there. He was wearing a grand and impressive Egyptian-costume. I thought he had come from the premiere of Bulldog Jack’. She paused. The Lady seemed to have trouble carrying on with the sentence; it was as if she was being strangled. Jones turned to walk away, but he was drawn back to the lady by her faint whimpering.
‘I can’t remember what happened, but I was dragged along from the platform over there.’ She pointed into the tunnel. Jones could remember the day he had spent in the tunnel on one of his university research excursions studying the disused platform. The memory of the excursion sent a cold shiver down Jones’ spine; he could not help feeling utterly exposed, vulnerable and open when he was in the small confines of the tunnel.
‘He just dragged us, we were both screaming yet nobody heard us. Those scratches were made our fingers are we were scrapped onto and through the wall. It felt like what you are feeling now. Jones sensed his insides turning and experienced a force pulling him onto the track and towards those scratches. He tried to pull himself away, but felt a tug on his shirt. ‘Please stay, please. Memories hurt’
‘Madam, do you not have a home to go back to?’
‘You’re at my home’
‘Where…?’
‘Just listen… We were dragged through the walls. Every inch we moved was a struggle yet this…man… kept pulling our arms relentlessly. I cannot…’ She broke down in tears. Jones was scared, the Lady had started to take her jacket off, to expose her shredded and bloody arms and chest, he knew he would be in trouble if he was found with a lady in such a state so late at night. Jones begged the Lady to stop, but she kept taking her clothes off whimpering and crying about her experiences, she was unintelligible.
By the time Jones had sprinted to the end of the platform the platform guard had heard the sprinting steps and had been outside his room waiting for the dark figure running along the platform.
Jones was breathless, he couldn’t speak. He simply pointed at where he had been standing and after minutes of recovery managed to say ‘That lady, she needs help’
‘Sir, there is nobody else on the platform’
~~~~
Jones stood there on the platform, motionless, as the last train pulled out of the station. He caught the glimpse of one of the few station attendants picking up the little litter that was left there, and she left. Jones stayed there, confused as to why he was at Aldwych, something had told him to get off.
‘Sir, Excuse me, sir?’
Jones did not move, he was transfixed on some markings he had seen on the wall opposite him. ‘What are they?’ he asked to the woman standing next to him.
‘Sir, Are you ok? Who are you talking to?’
Jones could not understand what was happening, he knew there was no point in him being there, while he was hypnotised by the sight of these two trails of lines on the grimy tunnel walls. He looked at the well-dressed lady next to him; she also seemed to be staring at these markings, almost longingly. Under her breath, she said ‘Bloomsbury’.
‘Excuse me Sir, the station is closing now’
Neither Jones nor the well-dressed lady moved at this.
‘Sir, it would be best if you were to leave now’
‘What are they?’
The platform attendant moved away, assuming the man was playing some sort of joke on him, as he moved down the platform he could hear the man talking.
‘I made them’ replied the well-dressed lady
‘What are they?’
‘Scratches, 70 years ago I was here with Catherine waiting for our train, when a man came out of the staff room that used to be there. He was wearing a grand and impressive Egyptian-costume. I thought he had come from the premiere of Bulldog Jack’. She paused. The Lady seemed to have trouble carrying on with the sentence; it was as if she was being strangled. Jones turned to walk away, but he was drawn back to the lady by her faint whimpering.
‘I can’t remember what happened, but I was dragged along from the platform over there.’ She pointed into the tunnel. Jones could remember the day he had spent in the tunnel on one of his university research excursions studying the disused platform. The memory of the excursion sent a cold shiver down Jones’ spine; he could not help feeling utterly exposed, vulnerable and open when he was in the small confines of the tunnel.
‘He just dragged us, we were both screaming yet nobody heard us. Those scratches were made our fingers are we were scrapped onto and through the wall. It felt like what you are feeling now. Jones sensed his insides turning and experienced a force pulling him onto the track and towards those scratches. He tried to pull himself away, but felt a tug on his shirt. ‘Please stay, please. Memories hurt’
‘Madam, do you not have a home to go back to?’
‘You’re at my home’
‘Where…?’
‘Just listen… We were dragged through the walls. Every inch we moved was a struggle yet this…man… kept pulling our arms relentlessly. I cannot…’ She broke down in tears. Jones was scared, the Lady had started to take her jacket off, to expose her shredded and bloody arms and chest, he knew he would be in trouble if he was found with a lady in such a state so late at night. Jones begged the Lady to stop, but she kept taking her clothes off whimpering and crying about her experiences, she was unintelligible.
By the time Jones had sprinted to the end of the platform the platform guard had heard the sprinting steps and had been outside his room waiting for the dark figure running along the platform.
Jones was breathless, he couldn’t speak. He simply pointed at where he had been standing and after minutes of recovery managed to say ‘That lady, she needs help’
‘Sir, there is nobody else on the platform’
Hmm. I like it. But it is a bit short, don't know what your word limit was. If you have space left I would try and fit a bit more of the conversation in at the end, make the ending a bit slower.
And make it "scraped onto the wall...". Scrapped is as in a car being scrapped.
But overall a decent effort.
And make it "scraped onto the wall...". Scrapped is as in a car being scrapped.
But overall a decent effort.
pop :-D
"Those scratches were made by our fingers as we were scrapped onto and through the wall."
Thanks :-D
I'll see what I can do with the ending... hmmmmm
Thanks :-D
I'll see what I can do with the ending... hmmmmm
I'm getting visions of a dark glade, a crackling fire, and a bearded storyteller...
Competent enough ghost story stuff, though I felt it became a little too rushed towards the end.
Also, this sentence: "Those scratches were made our fingers are we were scrapped onto and through the wall." makes no sense to me. I'm assuming you're missing the word "by" there somewhere and "are" should be "as"?
But still, this was easy to read and opened very nicely.
Also, this sentence: "Those scratches were made our fingers are we were scrapped onto and through the wall." makes no sense to me. I'm assuming you're missing the word "by" there somewhere and "are" should be "as"?
But still, this was easy to read and opened very nicely.
thanks :-D
That's a classic that mate; I've just read it all thoroughly.
Very-well constructed, and it's very original.
I hope to see another one sometime ;)
Very-well constructed, and it's very original.
I hope to see another one sometime ;)
Another GCSE Coursework 'bit' - A Ghost Story
~~~~
Jones stood there on the platform, motionless, as the last train pulled out of the station. He caught the glimpse of one of the few station attendants picking up the little litter that was left there, and she left. Jones stayed there, confused as to why he was at Aldwych, something had told him to get off.
‘Sir, Excuse me, sir?’
Jones did not move, he was transfixed on some markings he had seen on the wall opposite him. ‘What are they?’ he asked to the woman standing next to him.
‘Sir, Are you ok? Who are you talking to?’
Jones could not understand what was happening, he knew there was no point in him being there, while he was hypnotised by the sight of these two trails of lines on the grimy tunnel walls. He looked at the well-dressed lady next to him; she also seemed to be staring at these markings, almost longingly. Under her breath, she said ‘Bloomsbury’.
‘Excuse me Sir, the station is closing now’
Neither Jones nor the well-dressed lady moved at this.
‘Sir, it would be best if you were to leave now’
‘What are they?’
The platform attendant moved away, assuming the man was playing some sort of joke on him, as he moved down the platform he could hear the man talking.
‘I made them’ replied the well-dressed lady
‘What are they?’
‘Scratches, 70 years ago I was here with Catherine waiting for our train, when a man came out of the staff room that used to be there. He was wearing a grand and impressive Egyptian-costume. I thought he had come from the premiere of Bulldog Jack’. She paused. The Lady seemed to have trouble carrying on with the sentence; it was as if she was being strangled. Jones turned to walk away, but he was drawn back to the lady by her faint whimpering.
‘I can’t remember what happened, but I was dragged along from the platform over there.’ She pointed into the tunnel. Jones could remember the day he had spent in the tunnel on one of his university research excursions studying the disused platform. The memory of the excursion sent a cold shiver down Jones’ spine; he could not help feeling utterly exposed, vulnerable and open when he was in the small confines of the tunnel.
‘He just dragged us, we were both screaming yet nobody heard us. Those scratches were made our fingers are we were scrapped onto and through the wall. It felt like what you are feeling now. Jones sensed his insides turning and experienced a force pulling him onto the track and towards those scratches. He tried to pull himself away, but felt a tug on his shirt. ‘Please stay, please. Memories hurt’
‘Madam, do you not have a home to go back to?’
‘You’re at my home’
‘Where…?’
‘Just listen… We were dragged through the walls. Every inch we moved was a struggle yet this…man… kept pulling our arms relentlessly. I cannot…’ She broke down in tears. Jones was scared, the Lady had started to take her jacket off, to expose her shredded and bloody arms and chest, he knew he would be in trouble if he was found with a lady in such a state so late at night. Jones begged the Lady to stop, but she kept taking her clothes off whimpering and crying about her experiences, she was unintelligible.
By the time Jones had sprinted to the end of the platform the platform guard had heard the sprinting steps and had been outside his room waiting for the dark figure running along the platform.
Jones was breathless, he couldn’t speak. He simply pointed at where he had been standing and after minutes of recovery managed to say ‘That lady, she needs help’
‘Sir, there is nobody else on the platform’
~~~~
Jones stood there on the platform, motionless, as the last train pulled out of the station. He caught the glimpse of one of the few station attendants picking up the little litter that was left there, and she left. Jones stayed there, confused as to why he was at Aldwych, something had told him to get off.
‘Sir, Excuse me, sir?’
Jones did not move, he was transfixed on some markings he had seen on the wall opposite him. ‘What are they?’ he asked to the woman standing next to him.
‘Sir, Are you ok? Who are you talking to?’
Jones could not understand what was happening, he knew there was no point in him being there, while he was hypnotised by the sight of these two trails of lines on the grimy tunnel walls. He looked at the well-dressed lady next to him; she also seemed to be staring at these markings, almost longingly. Under her breath, she said ‘Bloomsbury’.
‘Excuse me Sir, the station is closing now’
Neither Jones nor the well-dressed lady moved at this.
‘Sir, it would be best if you were to leave now’
‘What are they?’
The platform attendant moved away, assuming the man was playing some sort of joke on him, as he moved down the platform he could hear the man talking.
‘I made them’ replied the well-dressed lady
‘What are they?’
‘Scratches, 70 years ago I was here with Catherine waiting for our train, when a man came out of the staff room that used to be there. He was wearing a grand and impressive Egyptian-costume. I thought he had come from the premiere of Bulldog Jack’. She paused. The Lady seemed to have trouble carrying on with the sentence; it was as if she was being strangled. Jones turned to walk away, but he was drawn back to the lady by her faint whimpering.
‘I can’t remember what happened, but I was dragged along from the platform over there.’ She pointed into the tunnel. Jones could remember the day he had spent in the tunnel on one of his university research excursions studying the disused platform. The memory of the excursion sent a cold shiver down Jones’ spine; he could not help feeling utterly exposed, vulnerable and open when he was in the small confines of the tunnel.
‘He just dragged us, we were both screaming yet nobody heard us. Those scratches were made our fingers are we were scrapped onto and through the wall. It felt like what you are feeling now. Jones sensed his insides turning and experienced a force pulling him onto the track and towards those scratches. He tried to pull himself away, but felt a tug on his shirt. ‘Please stay, please. Memories hurt’
‘Madam, do you not have a home to go back to?’
‘You’re at my home’
‘Where…?’
‘Just listen… We were dragged through the walls. Every inch we moved was a struggle yet this…man… kept pulling our arms relentlessly. I cannot…’ She broke down in tears. Jones was scared, the Lady had started to take her jacket off, to expose her shredded and bloody arms and chest, he knew he would be in trouble if he was found with a lady in such a state so late at night. Jones begged the Lady to stop, but she kept taking her clothes off whimpering and crying about her experiences, she was unintelligible.
By the time Jones had sprinted to the end of the platform the platform guard had heard the sprinting steps and had been outside his room waiting for the dark figure running along the platform.
Jones was breathless, he couldn’t speak. He simply pointed at where he had been standing and after minutes of recovery managed to say ‘That lady, she needs help’
‘Sir, there is nobody else on the platform’