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CHAPTER ONE PAGE THREE
"Dad… it's me…. Rachael" The man flinched, ready to slam the door shut but stopped himself.
"Rachael? My dear girl, I've missed you so much."
He stepped out and hugged me.
I could've burst into tears right there and then. He looked like he was nothing more but the waste left from his former life. He was old beyond his years, frail, balding so patches of his blonde hair could be seen barely across his grey scalp. His eyes were drooping, his skin was paste and bones could be seen poking through the thin fabrics of his robe. Even as he hugged me, I could feel the quiver in his breathing and the cripple of his spinal cord down the back of his leather skin.
He was dying, but not from body failure. It was something else, a mental thing, and it was the reason why everything had turned out the way it did. My world had changed again and again, just like a boat being thrown onto its side by each large, passing wave, never letting me have time to assemble myself and resettle before the next hit bawled me over.
No amount of medical treatment could find out what was wrong with him, out of all the hospitals and out of all of the psychiatrists that submitted him. He just started dying …without warning. No cancer cells or signs of rare diseases, it was like his body had sped up to meet that of an 88 year old.
The doctors wanted to write a book on him, but he wouldn't allow it and neither did I, this is not how we wanted to remember him.
I left my bag sitting at the front foyer and followed dad into the kitchen. He used a cane to help himself stay upright and had a terrible limp. The walls, the carpet, the windows and even the stairs were covered in grinded mud; his feet completely bare and blacken as he dragged himself around.
There was a lingering stench buried inside the furniture; it was as if dad and this decaying reek had moulded into one to create their own unique perfume.
"You must be thirsty, please sit down. I'll get you a drink."
He was gone behind the kitchen wall where I could hear the clattering of cups and silver wear. He returned with a glass of water then sat down so we were facing each other at the dining room table. The blanket of dust that covered the table was thick; I had even started to wonder what dad actually did with all his time. All of his belongings hadn't been touched in a while, dust being collected across nearly every surface and there were mud marks all over the floor, perhaps he would spend his days outside in the garden and wobble in with the dirt still stuck to his feet for bed? A part of me even suspected that the bed would be also covered in dust and neglect.
"How's school?" Dad asked.
"Oh, it is okay I guess. English is easy, even though I've gotten Mrs. Watson again but I guess that's alright too."
"Mrs. Watson?"
"Uh … yeah, she was my year 8 English teacher."
"I don't understand, aren't you in year 7 this year?"
I couldn't help myself feeling just slightly offended, but quickly wiped my face clear before he noticed. "No dad… I'm fifteen now." There was an awkward pause. My dad's eyes dropping to the ground as I fidgeted in my seat.
"My own daughter is nearly sixteen?" Upset, he rolled his forehead into his palm and exhaled deeply. The tension made everything feel like I should be walking on egg shells. "And your mother?" He spoke still with his head being cropped up by his arm, his voice slightly muffled into his wrist.
"She's fine too…"
Another gap filled with awkward silence. Daringly, I glanced upwards and pursed my lips, thinking cautiously if I should bring up the topic of the demons. If I were to mention the spirits, would he open up to me? Or would he scream and try to hurt me? Hurt himself again?
I bit my lip and too lowered my head, the cup of water now shaking. I couldn't do it, not yet anyway.
It was a disturbing thought, a hazy nightmare that just lingers and pokes at me in reminder that it was still there like an alarm clock going off every half an hour. Tick! Tick! Tick! Tick!
"Dad… it's me…. Rachael" The man flinched, ready to slam the door shut but stopped himself.
"Rachael? My dear girl, I've missed you so much."
He stepped out and hugged me.
I could've burst into tears right there and then. He looked like he was nothing more but the waste left from his former life. He was old beyond his years, frail, balding so patches of his blonde hair could be seen barely across his grey scalp. His eyes were drooping, his skin was paste and bones could be seen poking through the thin fabrics of his robe. Even as he hugged me, I could feel the quiver in his breathing and the cripple of his spinal cord down the back of his leather skin.
He was dying, but not from body failure. It was something else, a mental thing, and it was the reason why everything had turned out the way it did. My world had changed again and again, just like a boat being thrown onto its side by each large, passing wave, never letting me have time to assemble myself and resettle before the next hit bawled me over.
No amount of medical treatment could find out what was wrong with him, out of all the hospitals and out of all of the psychiatrists that submitted him. He just started dying …without warning. No cancer cells or signs of rare diseases, it was like his body had sped up to meet that of an 88 year old.
The doctors wanted to write a book on him, but he wouldn't allow it and neither did I, this is not how we wanted to remember him.
I left my bag sitting at the front foyer and followed dad into the kitchen. He used a cane to help himself stay upright and had a terrible limp. The walls, the carpet, the windows and even the stairs were covered in grinded mud; his feet completely bare and blacken as he dragged himself around.
There was a lingering stench buried inside the furniture; it was as if dad and this decaying reek had moulded into one to create their own unique perfume.
"You must be thirsty, please sit down. I'll get you a drink."
He was gone behind the kitchen wall where I could hear the clattering of cups and silver wear. He returned with a glass of water then sat down so we were facing each other at the dining room table. The blanket of dust that covered the table was thick; I had even started to wonder what dad actually did with all his time. All of his belongings hadn't been touched in a while, dust being collected across nearly every surface and there were mud marks all over the floor, perhaps he would spend his days outside in the garden and wobble in with the dirt still stuck to his feet for bed? A part of me even suspected that the bed would be also covered in dust and neglect.
"How's school?" Dad asked.
"Oh, it is okay I guess. English is easy, even though I've gotten Mrs. Watson again but I guess that's alright too."
"Mrs. Watson?"
"Uh … yeah, she was my year 8 English teacher."
"I don't understand, aren't you in year 7 this year?"
I couldn't help myself feeling just slightly offended, but quickly wiped my face clear before he noticed. "No dad… I'm fifteen now." There was an awkward pause. My dad's eyes dropping to the ground as I fidgeted in my seat.
"My own daughter is nearly sixteen?" Upset, he rolled his forehead into his palm and exhaled deeply. The tension made everything feel like I should be walking on egg shells. "And your mother?" He spoke still with his head being cropped up by his arm, his voice slightly muffled into his wrist.
"She's fine too…"
Another gap filled with awkward silence. Daringly, I glanced upwards and pursed my lips, thinking cautiously if I should bring up the topic of the demons. If I were to mention the spirits, would he open up to me? Or would he scream and try to hurt me? Hurt himself again?
I bit my lip and too lowered my head, the cup of water now shaking. I couldn't do it, not yet anyway.
It was a disturbing thought, a hazy nightmare that just lingers and pokes at me in reminder that it was still there like an alarm clock going off every half an hour. Tick! Tick! Tick! Tick!
Suggested Collections
My Demonic Ghost - Chapter one Page three
My Demonic Ghost is now a completed trilogy:
My Demonic Ghost: Banished Spirits www.amazon.com/Banished-Spirit…
My Demonic Ghost: The Reapers www.amazon.com/Reapers-My-Demo…
My Demonic Ghost: Hunters and Creators www.amazon.com/Hunters-Creator…
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My Demonic Ghost is now a completed trilogy:
My Demonic Ghost: Banished Spirits www.amazon.com/Banished-Spirit…
My Demonic Ghost: The Reapers www.amazon.com/Reapers-My-Demo…
My Demonic Ghost: Hunters and Creators www.amazon.com/Hunters-Creator…
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I hope you don't mind but I'll end up correcting and suggesting some things as I read through your story, no doubt. I don't know yet if your writing has improved beyond this, but...
He stepped out and hugged me.
I could've burst into tears right there and then. He looked like he was nothing more but -than would suit better, as it is a comparison
the waste left from his former life. He was old beyond his years, frail, balding so -balding so badly that only patches of his blonde hair could barely be seen across his grey scalp? I feel like there has to be a descriptive word or something after so because the empty so there seems to say that it was his intention to go bald so that patches of his hair could barely be seen.
patches of his blonde hair could be seen barely across his grey scalp. His eyes were drooping, his skin was paste -? I'm not familiar with that word to describe skin.
and bones could be seen poking through the thin fabrics of his robe. Even as he hugged me, I could feel the quiver in his breathing and the cripple of his spinal cord down the back of his leatherY skin.
He was dying, but not from body failure. It was something else, a mental thing, and it was the reason why everything had turned out the way it did. -what is this referring to? I realize it will no doubt be explained, but in this context, to me, it seems out of place. How is his mental thing the reason everything had turned out the way it had? I can gather that it's probably the reason she's moved, come to this place, I would guess it leads to several major plot points along the way. It would be more succinct to simply say that his mental thing was the reason why she was there. And I wonder what mental thing even means, a mental illness or something more? Will be interesting to see.
My world had changed again and again, just like a boat being thrown onto its side by each large, passing wave, never letting me have time to assemble myself and resettle before the next hit bawled me over. -unless she's crying, I think you may have met bowled?
No amount of medical treatment could find out what was wrong with him, out of all the hospitals and out of all of the psychiatrists that submitted him. -where did they submit him? He just started dying …without warning. No cancer cells or signs of rare diseases, it was like his body had sped up to meet that of an 88 year old. -well how old is he really? Would be nice to have that comparison considering his description reminds me of an 88 year old too.
The doctors wanted to write a book on him, but he wouldn't allow it and neither did I, -what's the significance of her refusal? I don't have a sense for how old she is yet or what kind of authoritative power she has over those sorts of decisions.
this is not how we wanted to remember him. -this is a nice explanation for her refusal, now I would like to know what her father's explanation for refusal is.
I left my bag sitting at the front foyer and followed dad into the kitchen. He used a cane to help himself stay upright and had a terrible limp. -Why say he used a cane to stay upright and then mention his limp? Start with that he had a limp and had to use the cane, or you can leave the limp out of it because generally when people use canes there's a reason for it due to leg trouble of some sort, also other problems as well, I recognize.
The walls, the carpet, the windows and even the stairs were covered in grinded mud; his feet completely bare and blacken as he dragged himself around. -the windows? how did that happen? he walked on the windows? he crawled in the mud and got his hands dirty and raked them down the windows? How did this happen?
Also the mud was ground into the walls, the carpet, the windows and the stairs. However I would seriously reconsider this description considering that for mud to be ground into all of these places he would have to be like Spiderman or something, with boots on XD. The carpet and stairs make perfect sense though.
Also, is there a reason he drags himself around barefoot? What happened to shoes and socks? I'm guessing it might be related to his limp and the requirement of a cane.
He was gone behind the kitchen wall where I could hear the clattering of cups and silver wear. -silverware is spelled this way and is only one word. I wonder about him being behind the kitchen wall? It's kind of awkward, especially since I don't know how the layout of the house is. Simply saying that he's in the kitchen would suffice. Otherwise I would have to ask, how exactly is he behind the kitchen wall? Because if he went behind say the living room wall, that could indicate that he's in the kitchen but by saying behind the kitchen wall, I'm automatically thinking he's in the kitchen and he's gone behind that wall so then he's in say the pantry. But since he's looking for a cup or something, I don't think so. Also if it is a cup he's looking for, then why is the silverware being rattled?
He returned with a glass of water then sat down so we were facing each other at the dining room table. The blanket of dust that covered the table was thick (I really like this description); I had even started to wonder what dad actually did with all his time. All of his belongings hadn't been touched in a while, dust being collected across -also for a more concise way to say this, dust was gathering/collecting across nearly every surface. It's barely a difference, but it keeps the use of being and collecting in the same tense.
nearly every surface and there were mud marks all over the floor, perhaps he would spend his days outside in the garden and wobble in with the dirt still stuck to his feet for bed? A part of me even suspected that the bed would be also covered in dust and neglect.
I couldn't help myself feeling just slightly offended, but quickly wiped my face clear before he noticed. -when using the word wipe, I imagine her using her hand to wipe her face in order to change her expression. Hiding her offended expression would work just as well I suppose. Myself isn't really necessary there either, neither is just, it makes sense that she would be hurt/offended by her own father not knowing how old she is. The just slightly offended means she's not really hardly offended, I think the slightly would suffice but there's nothing here that has to change or anything. Options. "No dad… I'm fifteen now." There was an awkward pause. My dad's eyes dropping to the ground as I fidgeted in my seat.
"My own daughter is nearly sixteen?" Upset, he rolled his forehead into his palm and exhaled deeply. The tension made everything feel like I should be walking on egg shells. "And your mother?" He spoke still -still spoke -with his head being cropped up by his arm, his voice slightly muffled into his wrist.
"She's fine too…"
Another gap filled with awkward silence. Daringly, -daringly? why daringly? what's wrong with looking up? I looked up and wonderingly thought if I should bring up the topic of the demons. From her looking up, I get the sense that she's considering it. Daringly... Daringly I thought of whether I should bring up the demons. Hm.
I glanced upwards and pursed my lips, thinking cautiously if I should bring up the topic of the demons. If I were to mention the spirits, would he open up to me? Or would he scream and try to hurt me? Hurt himself again?
I bit my lip and too -too? too what? lowered my head, the cup of water now shaking. I couldn't do it, not yet anyway.
It was a disturbing thought, a hazy nightmare that just lingers and pokes at me in reminder that it was still there like an alarm clock going off every half an hour. Tick! Tick! Tick! Tick! -that reads more like a loud clock ticking. It would be better to give an indication of what the thoughts are like for her, since we all have an idea of what it's like to have an alarm clock go off. Since it's a thought in her head, what's it like? Cutting through her mind to remind her that not everything was the same? Echoing madly? What does it do to the main character -jolt her from her thoughts? etc. I know what an alarm clock sounds like, but I don't know what it does to her to be reminded of her father's condition.
This seems quite interesting, I hope you don't mind my style of editing. I give options and everything, but I really try to highlight the problem and have it so that the person reading can understand what about the section doesn't fit. Looking forward to reading more but the grammar stickler part of me will probably have me correcting a bunch of stuff.
He stepped out and hugged me.
I could've burst into tears right there and then. He looked like he was nothing more but -than would suit better, as it is a comparison
the waste left from his former life. He was old beyond his years, frail, balding so -balding so badly that only patches of his blonde hair could barely be seen across his grey scalp? I feel like there has to be a descriptive word or something after so because the empty so there seems to say that it was his intention to go bald so that patches of his hair could barely be seen.
patches of his blonde hair could be seen barely across his grey scalp. His eyes were drooping, his skin was paste -? I'm not familiar with that word to describe skin.
and bones could be seen poking through the thin fabrics of his robe. Even as he hugged me, I could feel the quiver in his breathing and the cripple of his spinal cord down the back of his leatherY skin.
He was dying, but not from body failure. It was something else, a mental thing, and it was the reason why everything had turned out the way it did. -what is this referring to? I realize it will no doubt be explained, but in this context, to me, it seems out of place. How is his mental thing the reason everything had turned out the way it had? I can gather that it's probably the reason she's moved, come to this place, I would guess it leads to several major plot points along the way. It would be more succinct to simply say that his mental thing was the reason why she was there. And I wonder what mental thing even means, a mental illness or something more? Will be interesting to see.
My world had changed again and again, just like a boat being thrown onto its side by each large, passing wave, never letting me have time to assemble myself and resettle before the next hit bawled me over. -unless she's crying, I think you may have met bowled?
No amount of medical treatment could find out what was wrong with him, out of all the hospitals and out of all of the psychiatrists that submitted him. -where did they submit him? He just started dying …without warning. No cancer cells or signs of rare diseases, it was like his body had sped up to meet that of an 88 year old. -well how old is he really? Would be nice to have that comparison considering his description reminds me of an 88 year old too.
The doctors wanted to write a book on him, but he wouldn't allow it and neither did I, -what's the significance of her refusal? I don't have a sense for how old she is yet or what kind of authoritative power she has over those sorts of decisions.
this is not how we wanted to remember him. -this is a nice explanation for her refusal, now I would like to know what her father's explanation for refusal is.
I left my bag sitting at the front foyer and followed dad into the kitchen. He used a cane to help himself stay upright and had a terrible limp. -Why say he used a cane to stay upright and then mention his limp? Start with that he had a limp and had to use the cane, or you can leave the limp out of it because generally when people use canes there's a reason for it due to leg trouble of some sort, also other problems as well, I recognize.
The walls, the carpet, the windows and even the stairs were covered in grinded mud; his feet completely bare and blacken as he dragged himself around. -the windows? how did that happen? he walked on the windows? he crawled in the mud and got his hands dirty and raked them down the windows? How did this happen?
Also the mud was ground into the walls, the carpet, the windows and the stairs. However I would seriously reconsider this description considering that for mud to be ground into all of these places he would have to be like Spiderman or something, with boots on XD. The carpet and stairs make perfect sense though.
Also, is there a reason he drags himself around barefoot? What happened to shoes and socks? I'm guessing it might be related to his limp and the requirement of a cane.
He was gone behind the kitchen wall where I could hear the clattering of cups and silver wear. -silverware is spelled this way and is only one word. I wonder about him being behind the kitchen wall? It's kind of awkward, especially since I don't know how the layout of the house is. Simply saying that he's in the kitchen would suffice. Otherwise I would have to ask, how exactly is he behind the kitchen wall? Because if he went behind say the living room wall, that could indicate that he's in the kitchen but by saying behind the kitchen wall, I'm automatically thinking he's in the kitchen and he's gone behind that wall so then he's in say the pantry. But since he's looking for a cup or something, I don't think so. Also if it is a cup he's looking for, then why is the silverware being rattled?
He returned with a glass of water then sat down so we were facing each other at the dining room table. The blanket of dust that covered the table was thick (I really like this description); I had even started to wonder what dad actually did with all his time. All of his belongings hadn't been touched in a while, dust being collected across -also for a more concise way to say this, dust was gathering/collecting across nearly every surface. It's barely a difference, but it keeps the use of being and collecting in the same tense.
nearly every surface and there were mud marks all over the floor, perhaps he would spend his days outside in the garden and wobble in with the dirt still stuck to his feet for bed? A part of me even suspected that the bed would be also covered in dust and neglect.
I couldn't help myself feeling just slightly offended, but quickly wiped my face clear before he noticed. -when using the word wipe, I imagine her using her hand to wipe her face in order to change her expression. Hiding her offended expression would work just as well I suppose. Myself isn't really necessary there either, neither is just, it makes sense that she would be hurt/offended by her own father not knowing how old she is. The just slightly offended means she's not really hardly offended, I think the slightly would suffice but there's nothing here that has to change or anything. Options. "No dad… I'm fifteen now." There was an awkward pause. My dad's eyes dropping to the ground as I fidgeted in my seat.
"My own daughter is nearly sixteen?" Upset, he rolled his forehead into his palm and exhaled deeply. The tension made everything feel like I should be walking on egg shells. "And your mother?" He spoke still -still spoke -with his head being cropped up by his arm, his voice slightly muffled into his wrist.
"She's fine too…"
Another gap filled with awkward silence. Daringly, -daringly? why daringly? what's wrong with looking up? I looked up and wonderingly thought if I should bring up the topic of the demons. From her looking up, I get the sense that she's considering it. Daringly... Daringly I thought of whether I should bring up the demons. Hm.
I glanced upwards and pursed my lips, thinking cautiously if I should bring up the topic of the demons. If I were to mention the spirits, would he open up to me? Or would he scream and try to hurt me? Hurt himself again?
I bit my lip and too -too? too what? lowered my head, the cup of water now shaking. I couldn't do it, not yet anyway.
It was a disturbing thought, a hazy nightmare that just lingers and pokes at me in reminder that it was still there like an alarm clock going off every half an hour. Tick! Tick! Tick! Tick! -that reads more like a loud clock ticking. It would be better to give an indication of what the thoughts are like for her, since we all have an idea of what it's like to have an alarm clock go off. Since it's a thought in her head, what's it like? Cutting through her mind to remind her that not everything was the same? Echoing madly? What does it do to the main character -jolt her from her thoughts? etc. I know what an alarm clock sounds like, but I don't know what it does to her to be reminded of her father's condition.
This seems quite interesting, I hope you don't mind my style of editing. I give options and everything, but I really try to highlight the problem and have it so that the person reading can understand what about the section doesn't fit. Looking forward to reading more but the grammar stickler part of me will probably have me correcting a bunch of stuff.