Writers on the Rye

In Autumn 2020, after exploring the work of writers such as Bram Stoker, Mary Shelley, and Toni Morrison, our Year 8 students planned, drafted, redrafted, and edited their own gothic-inspired short stories. Their teachers read many terrific (and terrifying) short stories. Here are some of their highlights.

Miss Sanchez was deeply affected by the carefully crafted simplicity of Abigail's story, and its unwavering focus on the nameless and voiceless protagonist's sense of confinement.

She woke up to the sound of the piano keys being played softly from her father’s room. She checked her clock: 11:56, 17/05/2020. She sighed. Every morning Leila was greeted by the same scent of vanilla and orange, the same beige walls encircling her.

She kicked off the covers and quickly changed into a silk floral dress that had been placed on the end of her bed. After finding it, she slipped on her ballerina shoes and walked soundlessly out of the room and through the same corridor, passed the same family heirloom paintings, and into the same kitchen. She closed the door behind her quietly, leaving her and her mother inside. She sat down without a word, her mum doing the same, and they ate the English breakfast in front of them.

Snapping back into reality, Leila took the last bit of her egg and left the room silently, leaving the plate on the table. Opening the back door behind her, she stepped outside, and then closed the door behind her and started slowly strolling passed the hiragana flowers. She was deep in her thoughts when she noticed darkness engulfing the sky. Leila made her way back into the house.

Walking, walking, walking through the corridor, passed her ancestors’ paintings – she got distracted studying their soulless faces - she felt a broad shoulder push into her. Father, she thought, and turned around to look at him. He kept his head looking forward, his arms moving in sync with his legs. He acted as if nothing had happened, as if Leila wasn’t there. She walked to her room, picking up her pace, with her head hung low. As soon as she walked in, she shut the door behind her, her breath becoming heavy and unsteady. Leila sat on the end of her bed, anxious thoughts buffeting into her head and consuming her. No matter how hard I try, time won’t move any faster. She was stuck on the fence separating life and death and no matter how hard she tried to pick one side, time was holding her down.

A man’s deep voice replayed in her head. ‘Tomorrow won’t come until you disappear.’ What did that even mean? Leila felt like all the negative emotions had taken over her. She was trapped, trapped in time, trapped in this routine, trapped in these walls…

Eventually she calmed down, kicking off her shoes, not bothering to change into her night clothes. Leila took one more deep breath before tucking herself in and closing her eyes slowly.

Miss Sanchez challenges you not to be both curious and unnerved by Joelle's ambitious use of second-person narrative in this opening to her short-story, inspired by the intoxicating work of Silvia Moreno-Garcia

The ride was long and quiet, but the view made up for it. Charming but deadly rivulets thrashed below you. The scenery changed as time went by. What was once a gushing ravine turned into big fields of grass and dirt, signaling you were close to the isolated and remote mansion of Elizabeth Malfern.

‘How long left?’ you asked, breaking the silence. He slowly took a glance at you through the rear-view mirror before answering.

‘Not long now, Miss. Maybe 30 minutes.’ You nodded at the reply.

Excitement bubbled inside you as you felt your feet tap against the floor of the car. In the weeks and days leading up to the interview, you had prepared your questions, half of which were completely off target and personal and not the reason as to why you were sent. You knew you could only ask one of them before you were thrown out and never seen again - like the rest of the overcurious journalists.

‘We are here, Miss,’ the driver said, snapping you out of your daydream.

‘Huh? Oh, okay,’ you replied not knowing what to say. You got out of the car and were instantly mesmerised by the flowery vines running along the house, the water fountain in the middle of the front garden, and the vast wall surrounding the compound with a great big gate closing off the outside world.

‘Miss, your items,’ he said, handing you your bag with your camera and notebook inside. You thanked him quietly as he led you to the door of the mansion and opened it letting you inside. Fascinated by the interior, you could spot a statue at every corner and a painting on every wall.

Annis named her gothic-inspired short-story, ‘The Start of the End’. Here at Writers on the Rye, we hope it’s just the beginning of Annis’ contributions to our site.

The sky was completely covered in a blanket of white as snow fluttered down like dust from an old carpet. The trees stood, cold and bare, shivering as the wind slightly shook the trees’ branches back and forth, forth and back. Other than the quiet whispering of the wind, Finley’s boots were the only thing that disturbed the silence among the forest.

Finley trekked through the snow with Aimee on his back. Upon making their way across the bridge, the drugs the scientists had forcefully injected into Aimee had finally taken effect. Finley had hoped it would only take effect once they had reached Upbridge Village. The scientists had hoped it would take effect immediately. Unfortunately, neither of their wishes had been granted as Aimee had fallen asleep halfway from the lab and Upbridge Village.

Finley trudged along, weaving in and around he trees. His fingers and toes were stiff and numb. All feeling in them had been surrendered to the cold, even through Finley’s knitted gloves. As he walked, they were completely surrounded by trees. Around him he felt an odd disquiet, as if the trees, snow, and wind were tracking them, watching them. He tried shaking it away but, alas, it was to no avail. He continued to let them watch. They’d got so far in the last few days. Tireless travelling meant they were drained of energy. A lack of money left them famished.

‘What if Upbridge Village already knows about us? Would we be wanted fugitives?’ Finley asked himself. ‘Is anywhere safe for us?’

‘Then give up while you can.’

Immediately, Finley spun around at the sound of another voice. It wasn’t his nor Aimee’s. ‘Who’s there?’ He shouted.

As if to respond, the wind suddenly began to attack, violently lashing Finley’s face with snow. He could feel frost bites begin to form all over his body.

‘This isn’t good. If we stay out much longer, we’ll freeze to death,’ Finlay stated. ‘Maybe….’

The snow crunched behind him. He stopped. The blood in his veins froze. His heart tripped. His body was on pause.

‘Move legs, move!’ He ordered his body to move – to go – to run. It refused. Another crunch. Before he knew it, he was sprinting through the snow. The wind whipped around him, carrying with it heavier snow which layered the already caked ground. Finley ran on. Despite the loud shriek of the wind, he could still hear, feel even, the crunching following after him. Aimee’s lifeless body bobbed on his back and, even through the freezing, bitter, cold snow, refused to gift her any movement. Finley’s body on the other hand, bursting with adrenaline and powered by an odd mix of fear and hope, charged onwards. Ahead of him, he saw a large parting among the trees. Darting through, he entered a clearing.

Finley carefully laid Aimee down on the ground in the middle of the clearing and turned back to where he had entered. A silhouette of a cloaked figure stood next to a tree, slightly concealed in the blizzard. Now in the clearing, Finley was feeling the full force of the blizzard. There were no trees to shield him from at least a fraction of the weather which made him quake in its sheer coldness, his body threatening to turn off at any moment.

The figure moved towards the duo; Finley stumbled back. He fumbled trying to hold out his pocketknife in his mitted lifeless hands. The wind laughed – a loud whining screech. It mocked him.

‘You’re weak!’ it howled. ‘You’re pathetic!’ it screeched. ‘Such a disappointment!’ it sneered.

To add insult to injury, the snow poured down harder, causing the temperature to plummet. Finley shook his head to try to throw out and ignore the wind’s remarks.

The silhouette made a move forwards; Finley took a step back. As if a whisper in his ear, he heard the silhouette. ‘You really are quite a funny boy.’

Finley didn’t need to see its face to know it was smirking. He charged, his blood boiling in anger. He lunged forward to stab the figure dead but hit air. Spontaneously, Finley spun round to see Aimee still lying on the ground. The figure knelt beside her and gently placed his hand on her head. It removed it again and stood up.

‘You really are quite the disappointment boy.’

Ella’s teacher, Mr Brown, was intrigued by Ella’s ominous story-opening and her well-developed conceits. We agree: ‘the kind of darkness that ruins sleepovers’ wouldn’t be out of place in one of Ray Bradbury’s modern Gothics.

The one day she didn’t wear a jacket, it rained thunderstorms. It was seven in the evening on a Wednesday after her hockey practice. She was shivering waiting for a taxi: tattered red and blue trainers, a warm, sweaty home for blisters; bare legs covered in goose bumps; short skirt, two years old; a matching top; and long strawberry blonde hair, limp and sodden from the battering rain. Her mother had named her Betsty after the woman who worked at the petrol station.

Finally, the car arrived. She threw herself and her bag in. The driver didn’t say a word; he just pushed on the peddle and sped off. Betsy said her address but still he ignored her. She was too tired to care. With her glitchy headphones on, she closed her eyes.

Betsy opened her eyes to towering fir trees. The racing raindrops on the window blurred her view. She sat up. Her heart became a hammer, pounding on her chest. Her hands were shaking and becoming wetter with sweat. She couldn’t see a sign of civilization anywhere, only darkness. The kind of darkness that ruins sleepovers or gives you spine shivers. The kind of darkness that wasn’t supposed to happen.

The winding path didn’t seem to stop. Suddenly, the car skidded on the mud path, splattering the windows. Brass gates with curved lines and patterns loomed in front of her. The only light was coming from the moon. The full moon. The car door flung open. Was she supposed to move at all or stay still? Then he might take her back home? But then the driver moved.

He turned his head, his head full of curled black hair, and a face of stone. His sense of pain stared her in the eyes. All Betsy could do was run. She grabbed her bag and scrambled out. The door slammed and the driver raced back down the mud path leaving Betsy all alone.

She managed to slip through the massive gates. The peeling paint scratched her legs. She came to a huge oak door rounded at the edges. She lifted her hand for the knocker. She froze. Her brain cleared. Was she mad? For the first time she looked up. Mass covered the stones. Cobwebs filled every crack possible.  Flag poles were replaced by skeletons. And she wanted to be let in? Still, she lifted her hand and knocked.

The door swung open. A tall thin man stood in front of her, dressed in velvet red. He had long spindly fingers and ginger waves tumbling over his shoulders, and small eyes. Small grey eyes. The type of eyes that, in movies, would stare into your soul or make you scream. The type of eyes that weren’t supposed to look at you.

The man smiled. A grim smile. He bowed. He moved to the side. He leaned his arm out. Betsy walked in. The floorboards creaked in harmony.

‘Good evening,’ pronounced the man. A nest of white hairs on his chin ruffled as he spoke. Betsy carried on walking. The walls were a deep maroon colour. They clearly hadn’t been painted in years. She was taken into a large room. Betsy was placed on an arched, green, velvet chair. A massive fire was roaring in front of her. The room was decorated with darkness.

The man asked if she wanted a drink. She was offered an elderflower cordial. She suddenly felt nauseous. This wasn’t home. It was nowhere near home.

Take a read of Haana’s gothic-inspired short-story. Her teacher, Ms Halnan, was impressed by Haana’s clear attempts at foreshadowing her narrator’s desperate, and rather macabre fate.

Summer break had just ended, so it was time to go back to school. Unfortunately, my dad had recently passed away in a tragic car crash. Usually, he would drive me to school but now... I guess I'd just have to take the bus.

Kissing my mum goodbye, I noticed my bus from a distance. I quickly grabbed my phone off of the counter. I was sprinting at such a rapid speed I felt like I was levitating off the ground. Thankfully, I made it. Phew! As I walked on, I realised that it was just me and the driver. To ease the tension, I went to the back, put on my headphones and turned up the music. I lent my head against the window and eventually dozed off...

I rubbed my eyes trying to adjust to the situation. Looking around, I realised my mistake. I had fallen asleep and woken up at the Terminus. I searched around some more and my eyes settled on the street sign. Kakaguri Road? Where had I heard that before? A distant unwanted memory resurfaced. It was the road my dad had died on.

I then caught sight of a girl. She was wearing the same school uniform as me, but I had never seen her in school before. I didn't think too much of it; we get plenty of new students each year as we have such a good reputation. Grateful, I eagerly sprinted towards her crossing my fingers that she knew the way back to school and could help me.

When I finally caught up with her, I noticed how beautiful she was. She had long, silky black hair that went down to her thighs. I started to walk alongside her explaining what had happened.

She continued to look ahead and didn't appear to be listening. Then she stopped suddenly in her tracks and looked right at me. I immediately noticed she had blood red eyes and strangely sharp teeth. Yet, when she spoke, she had a sweet and charming voice.

‘I've left my phone at home. We'll need to go back there first before I take you to school.’

We sped back to her house. By the time we got back, I was gasping for air. Her house was extremely beautiful, and I walked around it admiring my surroundings.

‘I'd prefer if you didn't snoop around my house. Don't take it personally, I just don't trust strangers OK?’

‘Oh sorry, it's just your house is so beautiful,’ I responded awkwardly whilst walking towards her.

‘Is that so?’ she said, with a smile that stretched from ear to ear.

Suddenly, she grabbed me with an extremely strong grip and shoved me through the door behind her. There was a cough from the darkness behind me. I started to panic even more. But then my eyes adjusted to the darkness and I saw...

‘Dad?’ I asked confusedly.

‘Son?’ He asked with the same tone.

Without thinking I ran straight into his arms. I felt a range of emotions cascading through me; happiness, confusion and sorrow.

It was Sharmin’s focus on secrets from the past returning to haunt her vulnerable, young protagonist that helped her story stand out from the rest.

The earth no longer seemed a natural habitat for flowers or  trees that blossomed under the blinding sun, or the place of peace where humans all got along with each other holding hands, smiling and playing ring-a-ring-a-roses. Well, that’s what Jana thought, as soon as she had taken those drowning steps into a place that looked very much like hell (but a hell on the wrong side of the afterlife.) Rain and hail poured down endlessly like fish food pellets pummelling the earth’s dry and eroded ground. Cold and frosty, biting you sharply at your neck, the wind whistled and passed straight through you like spirits and souls walking through your flesh, whispering ancient secrets never to be told. But, none of this stopped Jana from continuing the rest of her aggravating journey. She shuffled desperately through her bag in search of a letter referring her to a psychiatrist from her GP. Yet, every time she thought she found it, it turned out to be a Tesco receipt from many years ago. This seemed to provoke the annoyance of the whole journey to its limit. Eventually, repressing her anger, she found the letter. 

Jana, slowly trudging forwards towards a building she was only steps away from entering, regretted the decision of meeting this psychiatrist. A tall, antiquated building stood before her with its sharp-looking features reminding her of a story about a witch whose bones prominently poked out, which she read about at the age of six, and which permanently scarred her. Seeing this building only made things worse.

Still struggling to decide whether she should enter this building or not, a bit like being in purgatory – although she didn’t know what that was like – an old, oak door creaked open as if its hinges hadn’t been oiled for hundreds of years. Jana peered inside to ensure that it wasn’t some sort of alluring trap; instead, she ended up looking at lights, lights like you find in a normal hospital. She rubbed her eyes with her trembling, wet hands in case it was just the devil playing evil tricks on her; however, the vision she witnessed didn’t differ at all. Good job I’m here, she thought to herself, starting to be a little concerned about her own behaviour.

A skinny woman, thin as a vanilla pod and wearing round glasses with a jet-black rim surrounding the thick lenses, instructed Jana (who finally decided to go in) to go to the 13th floor and wait outside in the waiting room.

The appointment room she was going to go to was currently occupied with her doctor, a man named ‘Dr. Kevin Covachi’. She sat there patiently, lifeless without a clue of what she could do. She squeezed the rain water out of hair to let the time pass. Coincidentally, it was also the time when Dr. Covachi called her in, as if he had been watching her the whole time - her whole movements and activities - waiting to call her at the specific moment where she had become in a state passed the feeling of being extremely bored.

As Jana entered the room cautiously, she saw the psychiatrist fumbling impatiently with papers and wires on his desk. Then, he slowly turned his head to particular angle so that Jana was able to see the perfect half of his strangely symmetrical face. He moved it so slowly, slowly enough that you could almost hear every bone clicking back to its right position, which was far beyond an abnormal human’s ability, let alone a normal human’s. He was almost like a wild creature usually isolated from everything that goes on in the world, and confined in a forest, only to itself and to nobody or anything else.

He told Jana to take a seat, and immediately she obeyed, and placed herself down on the chair resting her heavy bag beside her. She took no notice of this man’s deviating behaviour and continued to do what he told her to. He asked many questions about why she was here today with him and whether she really thought that therapy could help her. Unusually, he kept asking many questions about whether she was sure or not about continuing the upcoming regular meetings with him. At first, she thought it was all part of the procedure; however, by the end, she felt a sense of unease, as if she was being prepared for something bigger and a thousand times more dangerous than what she might have planned.

Their long, tiring meeting had slowly reached to its end, after all the tears and occasional silences, when Dr. Kevin Covachi received a phone call. Whilst wrapping herself up, preparing for the horrible weather outside, Jana couldn’t help but realise the restrained anger that was rapidly boiling inside Kevin. He pushed past her and ran in a hurry out of the room. That was when something caught her eye. A book. Not an ordinary book from the library, but more like a diary that was covered in an old, torn cloth and tied by a red ribbon, or, to be precise, a white ribbon stained by rotting splashes of blood. Jana’s heart started pacing fast, as if she was about to face something that she wanted to avoid.

She stared at the book, and pondered who it belonged to until, right in the corner, an engraving in small letters, fading away bit by bit: ‘K.Covachi’. Tentatively, she lifted up the book and bit on her lip, anxious to reveal what was really inside. Just as she brought her fingers to untie the ribbon, she heard footsteps and deep, groaning sighs by her greatest guess, Dr. Covachi. Hastily, she shoved the book inside her bag along with the rest of her things, closing her bag and placing it on her back ready to leave. Soon after, Dr. Covachi returned, and found Jana standing upright breathing quite hard as though she had been interrogated as a guilty criminal.

‘Everything ok? You appeared quite... flustered before,’ he commented, struggling to find the right words.

‘Uh-huh,’ she replied, avoiding answering anything before she said something stupid.

As normally as she could, Jana seized the quickest opportunity to leave the room and get home as quickly as possible. That was when he turned around and realised a missing object, one he always kept in the same place at all times, even allowing dust to build up and display its position in the room.

Immediately on arriving home, Jana grabbed for the book she had packed in her bag and unravelled the cloth to leave her with the book. As soon as she had opened it, a stench of bloody iron poisoned her nose and forced her to gag with disgust. To add to it, like rubbing salt into a wound, the contents written inside had frozen everything within her. There were names. Ten names. Ten names and how they died. Ten names and who killed them. And one empty box that had her name, Jana. She was next to be murdered by Dr. Covachi.

It was a week later, and Jana went to see Dr. Covachi, but he had different plans. After figuring out someone had become in possession of his diary – Jana – he decided to drive to the cliff where she had previously told him of her trauma, which had started in that exact location. Instantly, Jana knew what was to come and just hoped God would be kind to her in the afterlife. He stood her right at edge of the cliff and confronted her.

‘Jana. You don’t know what you’re dealing with and I am being very, very calm with you. Just give it back and I won’t hurt you.’  

Innocently as she could, she swallowed. ‘Give what back? I have... no idea what you’re talking about.’

Saying this only enraged him more. ‘I KNOW YOU HAVE IT. YOU STOLE IT AND THERE’S NO POINT YOU LYING THAT YOU DON’T KNOW ABOUT IT!’

Jana knew he was right, and she understood that there was no point in her arguing with him, so instead she replied, ‘You mean the filthy book with all names of people you’ve murdered? I know what you do. Ask people about their traumas and kill them in the same way.’

He narrowed his eyebrows and came closer to her. ‘It’s that enticing feeling I get and you can never resist it.’

‘You know you’re just saying that. I know why you do all these things. What happened to you all those years ago - it wasn’t your fault, and I can help you.’

‘Ha, nobody can-’

Ms Halnan, Rashida's teacher, commended the student writer on the Bradbury-style quickened pace she creates in this extract from her gothic-inspired story. It's great when our students take inspiration from the writers we study and apply it in their own work!

It took Shelly a while to realise that she was heading towards a fairly large house that was obscured behind a layer of fog. The cold fog made Shelly start to shake uncontrollably, making it even harder for her to see through all the mist.

In class, Year 8 worked tirelessly on developing ominous and disquieting atmospheres; Leah’s teacher, Mr Haynes, thinks that her story-opening is a great example of that hard work.

It was a tar black midnight, and the deep thick clouds consumed the moonlit sky. Only the trickles of the lights were permitted to escape its grasp. The thunder shrieked as the lightning howled. The mist surrounded the gloomy night sky. The branches hemmed in and the moonlit sky faded away. The wind gushed towards the trees. The end of the muddy pathway revealed a brown, antiquated, and rusty fortress which stood tall and proud reaching up to the darkness above.

I stood there in front of the gigantic wooden door which patterned across the walls. The enormous door towered over me. I gently knocked on the large, dark brown wooden door. It was 10 times the size of me and made an echoing sound over the woods. A silent creak. A gentle flicker of the lights.

The person who greeted me was not who I had expected. It was a woman that had long black hair which covered her pearl white face. She glanced at me for a moment with her black dust eyes. She had a smirk on her devilish face. Her lips were as red as blood and she was very slim. Her alluring smirk pulled me inside. Her fierce and sharp nails were like tigers' claws.

‘Welcome darling. You may enter at your will!’ she said confidently. I suddenly felt a trigger going down my spine. ‘Your presence shall be acknowledged.’

I replied, ‘thank you madam.’

She asked, ‘What is your name darling?’

I muttered silently, ‘C..C..Chloe’ ‘

‘Welcome Chloe,’ she said sharply.

Nevaeh's an avid reader and it is evident in her writing. Her teacher, Mr Haynes, was particularly impressed by the detailed and specific description in Neveah's story-opening.

I woke up in pain, my bones aching as if I had been walking for days. With my wrists bleeding and cut, the pale moonlight shone on me like a lighthouse searching the dark sea for lost sailors. I slowly hitched myself up against the wall. I surveyed the room; it was bleak with cracks and mould. The cracks were snaking their way up to the ceiling like a game of snakes and ladders. Below it were some badge cold tiles. The coldness from the tiles invaded my body, making me crunch up my toes. For some reason, the air gradually began to get hot and stuffy even though there weren't any visible vents.

I stood up. There was a brown door facing me with a gold doorknob. I carefully ran my fingers along the smoothness of the door handle. There was no way that I could afford this. Where was I?

As slowly as I could, I climbed up the first few flights of stairs grazing my knees from shuffling up. I opened the door as quietly as I could only to be accompanied with a magnificent site. I stood in a palace parlour. The red velvet sofa was next to the glass golden table and that was next to a red plush chair and below that was a rich velvety carpet. I clenched my toes in. It had the feeling of soft warm baked bread.

It was great to see our students subvert the gothic convention of the artistocratic male antagonist. Ms Halnan, Juwariah's teacher, was particularly unnerved by Juwariah's disarmingly perfect, yet no less savage babysitter antagonist.

In this extract from her story, Toluwani's specific, careful details and sensory language work well to create a disquieting atmosphere. Her teacher, Ms Halnan, was certainly intrigued!

The streetlights were quite dim; they hadn't been changed for months now. Their light bounced off the small puddles which were driving towards the drains slowly. In the reflection of the puddle was the toy shop, Parkson's Toys. The family business had been around for 65 years. It had the bold striped colours of red and yellow and colourful posters taped to the window glass. Water droplets cascaded down in long streams from the awning.

The toy shop was opposite the inn. Light crept through the curtains revealing the silhouettes of people still dancing and the long groans of men as the opposing team scored a goal, their arms flinging down and thudding as they hit the table.