Cathy_May
12-31-2007, 04:26 AM
A story written three years ago. Copy it here from my blog.
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This story was written as a composition to one of my English teachers, I forget why the teacher wanted us to write a composition or how he asked us to write. What I can remember is only the story, which was written on a notebook, for I didn't have my own computer that time, and was heavily influenced by Edith Wharton's ghost stories, which I quite liked last year. I imitated her style on purpos. I find the western ghost stories are different from the Chinese ones, in which the ghosts are usually used as a animated tool, the humans become them to do something they can't while being alive, such as killing. a powerful devil. Whereas the western ones are focused on the ghost itself, which frightens human beings strongly but also callously, for you can't find any reason why a ghost in one story prefers frightening to enjoying themselves alone or playing with themselves. They just appear suddenly and disappear lightely, and do you no harm except looking at you with a pale face. So the stories are always bewildering and make you read again and again but still can't understand it. Of course, not all the stories are like this. But I found Mrs, Wharton prefered to writing this kind of ghost stories and I thought why not write one like them myself? So I wrote this one. Maybe after you read it you are confused too but don't ask me what exactly I am telling,. I won't answer any this kind of question, for I'm confused by my ghost too.
The sentences with the line below are the parts corrected by my teacher.
The Death of My Friend
――a modern ghost story
When I went to see what Edward was doing it was 10 o’clock in the morning, but (what strange was――how strange it was), it wasn’t a sunny day as usual. I opened the window, the grey clouds were flowing in the gentle but cool wind. The air was a little wet. I knew it would rain soon.
“Don’t you want a cup of coffee?” I knocked on the door and entered. I was sure I was smiling, but my smile gave him a start.
“Thank you, Cathy. You are so kind.” He forced a faint smile then.
“What’s the matter with you? You look so pale!” I felt a little worried about him. His pale face shocked me.
“Oh, nothing. I’m well….Only a little cold…..but, I’m writing.”
“What? (Write―writing) again?” I began to speak reproachfully.” Your writing has troubled you so much. You shouldn’t do it any more!”
He flushed after hearing my words. He forced a faint smile and said:” I just cannot help it….I, I must….”
“All right.” I said ”I cannot force you. But you should take care of yourself. Your poor health！”
“Thank you. I know.” He smiled gently. “I’m grateful to you. You are always so kind to me….”
“I’m your friend.” I smiled too. I was moved by his tenderness.” All right, I won’t bother you any longer. Read your story to me after finishing it.”
“I will. I promise.”
Then I left him.
I went back to my room but found nothing to do, so I found out Edward’s stories to read. I had to tell the truth, I couldn’t understand them at all. Edward liked writing strange stories, which could be understood only by himself.
Some hours passed, my eyes ached a little. I put the story down and walked to the window. The sky was all grey, you couldn’t tell which part was cloud and which part was the original sky. The whole sky seemed like the pale face of a mournful widow. She wanted to cry, however, her misery stole her tears.
“Cathy! Cathy!”
Suddenly a wail broke the silence. I was frightened.
“Cathy! Cathy!”
“Oh! It is Edward!” I found myself again and ran to his room immediately.
He was crying bitterly, saying some strange words I couldn’t (tell―understand). I was frightened by his crying. I held his hands and asked:” What’s the matter with you? Why are you crying?”
“She is dead! She is dead!” He wailed these words to me.
“Dead? Who is dead? Did you fall into a nightmare?”
“No! No! She is dead! I killed her!”
“What are you saying? I don’t understand at all! Who is dead?”
“Catherine! Catherine is dead!”
I was shocked.
“Catherine?” I asked.
“Yes. I killed her.”
“ But, are you mad? Who is she?”
“She is the heroine of my story.”
“Oh, dear!” I laughed. ”Then it’s not a real person? Why did you kill her if you like her so much?”
“I, I just want to write a love tragedy, so I made my heroine die but kept the hero alive. But I fell in love with my heroine myself. I’m jealous of him. And I killed her. But she begged me not to kill her. But I refused and I killed her! She begged me last night. I loved her so much!”
I didn’t know if I should cry or laugh. I was sure he was mad. I persuaded him to lie down and sleep a while. He obeyed but couldn’t stop weeping. I held his hands, coaxed him a lot and he fell asleep eventually.
After making sure he was sleeping I went out to drink some coffee. I was not sure if my eyes saw something but I could feel a thin white thing suddenly flew away. I was frightened. However, just the moment I went to see if there was something, a big thunder gave me a start. I looked back and found the window was open. I felt curious. Who opened it? I closed the window immediately. It was raining outside.
I went back to Edward, he was still sleeping. I was relieved a little. Suddenly I thought of his story. What kind of story it was? Who was Catherine? I sat before his desk, picked up his story. It was written on many pieces of yellow paper, Looking like the sketches of a hundred years ago.
I began to read the story, in my opinion, it was just a plain love story with a sad ending. His Catherine was a pale unhappy woman in a snow-white dress, who lost her lover and died. I wondered why he troubled himself with such a plain woman.
“Catherine! Catherine!”
I was frightened by the cry and ran to Edward’s bed. He was still in dream. “Edward! Edward!” I cried out and he was awake.
“Where am I? My heart aches badly. She wants to kill me….”
It was my turn to weep now. “Oh, Edward, you were in dream. No one wants to kill you. I’m here. I’ll protect you.”
His face was as white as a piece of paper. He breathed heavily. I held his hands, wept bitterly. After a long time he said weakly to me:” Cathy, never be a writer, for the writers are the cruellest people in the world. They kill people without blood. No one loves them and at last they’ll be revenged by the characters they killed themselves.”
I cried bitterly and couldn’t say anything. After saying that he fell silent for a while. His eyes closed, his breath became lighter and lighter. I thought he fell asleep again. But suddenly he held my hands tightly and shouted:” Catherine! Catherine!”
“I’m here! I’m here!”
“She is here! She is here!” His eyes were wide open.
“Who? Where?”
“There! Behind you! Beside the window! There is a knife in her hand” Look out! She is coming!” He shouted wildly. I tried to look what he saw but there was nothing.
“She is coming! Cathy! Help me!”
“Edward! Edward! I’ll die with you!” I flew upon him, crying bitterly. He gave a sudden and wild cry loudly, them fell silent again. He was dead.
I held his body, cried and cried. A flash of lightening cut through the room and the loud thunder followed. I sat up to look at the window. A pale female face was smiling at me, her long black hair was flowing in the wind. Her ghost-like laugh sounded loudly in the room and then that pale face became a skeleton.
2004, 11, 28
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This story was written as a composition to one of my English teachers, I forget why the teacher wanted us to write a composition or how he asked us to write. What I can remember is only the story, which was written on a notebook, for I didn't have my own computer that time, and was heavily influenced by Edith Wharton's ghost stories, which I quite liked last year. I imitated her style on purpos. I find the western ghost stories are different from the Chinese ones, in which the ghosts are usually used as a animated tool, the humans become them to do something they can't while being alive, such as killing. a powerful devil. Whereas the western ones are focused on the ghost itself, which frightens human beings strongly but also callously, for you can't find any reason why a ghost in one story prefers frightening to enjoying themselves alone or playing with themselves. They just appear suddenly and disappear lightely, and do you no harm except looking at you with a pale face. So the stories are always bewildering and make you read again and again but still can't understand it. Of course, not all the stories are like this. But I found Mrs, Wharton prefered to writing this kind of ghost stories and I thought why not write one like them myself? So I wrote this one. Maybe after you read it you are confused too but don't ask me what exactly I am telling,. I won't answer any this kind of question, for I'm confused by my ghost too.
The sentences with the line below are the parts corrected by my teacher.
The Death of My Friend
――a modern ghost story
When I went to see what Edward was doing it was 10 o’clock in the morning, but (what strange was――how strange it was), it wasn’t a sunny day as usual. I opened the window, the grey clouds were flowing in the gentle but cool wind. The air was a little wet. I knew it would rain soon.
“Don’t you want a cup of coffee?” I knocked on the door and entered. I was sure I was smiling, but my smile gave him a start.
“Thank you, Cathy. You are so kind.” He forced a faint smile then.
“What’s the matter with you? You look so pale!” I felt a little worried about him. His pale face shocked me.
“Oh, nothing. I’m well….Only a little cold…..but, I’m writing.”
“What? (Write―writing) again?” I began to speak reproachfully.” Your writing has troubled you so much. You shouldn’t do it any more!”
He flushed after hearing my words. He forced a faint smile and said:” I just cannot help it….I, I must….”
“All right.” I said ”I cannot force you. But you should take care of yourself. Your poor health！”
“Thank you. I know.” He smiled gently. “I’m grateful to you. You are always so kind to me….”
“I’m your friend.” I smiled too. I was moved by his tenderness.” All right, I won’t bother you any longer. Read your story to me after finishing it.”
“I will. I promise.”
Then I left him.
I went back to my room but found nothing to do, so I found out Edward’s stories to read. I had to tell the truth, I couldn’t understand them at all. Edward liked writing strange stories, which could be understood only by himself.
Some hours passed, my eyes ached a little. I put the story down and walked to the window. The sky was all grey, you couldn’t tell which part was cloud and which part was the original sky. The whole sky seemed like the pale face of a mournful widow. She wanted to cry, however, her misery stole her tears.
“Cathy! Cathy!”
Suddenly a wail broke the silence. I was frightened.
“Cathy! Cathy!”
“Oh! It is Edward!” I found myself again and ran to his room immediately.
He was crying bitterly, saying some strange words I couldn’t (tell―understand). I was frightened by his crying. I held his hands and asked:” What’s the matter with you? Why are you crying?”
“She is dead! She is dead!” He wailed these words to me.
“Dead? Who is dead? Did you fall into a nightmare?”
“No! No! She is dead! I killed her!”
“What are you saying? I don’t understand at all! Who is dead?”
“Catherine! Catherine is dead!”
I was shocked.
“Catherine?” I asked.
“Yes. I killed her.”
“ But, are you mad? Who is she?”
“She is the heroine of my story.”
“Oh, dear!” I laughed. ”Then it’s not a real person? Why did you kill her if you like her so much?”
“I, I just want to write a love tragedy, so I made my heroine die but kept the hero alive. But I fell in love with my heroine myself. I’m jealous of him. And I killed her. But she begged me not to kill her. But I refused and I killed her! She begged me last night. I loved her so much!”
I didn’t know if I should cry or laugh. I was sure he was mad. I persuaded him to lie down and sleep a while. He obeyed but couldn’t stop weeping. I held his hands, coaxed him a lot and he fell asleep eventually.
After making sure he was sleeping I went out to drink some coffee. I was not sure if my eyes saw something but I could feel a thin white thing suddenly flew away. I was frightened. However, just the moment I went to see if there was something, a big thunder gave me a start. I looked back and found the window was open. I felt curious. Who opened it? I closed the window immediately. It was raining outside.
I went back to Edward, he was still sleeping. I was relieved a little. Suddenly I thought of his story. What kind of story it was? Who was Catherine? I sat before his desk, picked up his story. It was written on many pieces of yellow paper, Looking like the sketches of a hundred years ago.
I began to read the story, in my opinion, it was just a plain love story with a sad ending. His Catherine was a pale unhappy woman in a snow-white dress, who lost her lover and died. I wondered why he troubled himself with such a plain woman.
“Catherine! Catherine!”
I was frightened by the cry and ran to Edward’s bed. He was still in dream. “Edward! Edward!” I cried out and he was awake.
“Where am I? My heart aches badly. She wants to kill me….”
It was my turn to weep now. “Oh, Edward, you were in dream. No one wants to kill you. I’m here. I’ll protect you.”
His face was as white as a piece of paper. He breathed heavily. I held his hands, wept bitterly. After a long time he said weakly to me:” Cathy, never be a writer, for the writers are the cruellest people in the world. They kill people without blood. No one loves them and at last they’ll be revenged by the characters they killed themselves.”
I cried bitterly and couldn’t say anything. After saying that he fell silent for a while. His eyes closed, his breath became lighter and lighter. I thought he fell asleep again. But suddenly he held my hands tightly and shouted:” Catherine! Catherine!”
“I’m here! I’m here!”
“She is here! She is here!” His eyes were wide open.
“Who? Where?”
“There! Behind you! Beside the window! There is a knife in her hand” Look out! She is coming!” He shouted wildly. I tried to look what he saw but there was nothing.
“She is coming! Cathy! Help me!”
“Edward! Edward! I’ll die with you!” I flew upon him, crying bitterly. He gave a sudden and wild cry loudly, them fell silent again. He was dead.
I held his body, cried and cried. A flash of lightening cut through the room and the loud thunder followed. I sat up to look at the window. A pale female face was smiling at me, her long black hair was flowing in the wind. Her ghost-like laugh sounded loudly in the room and then that pale face became a skeleton.
2004, 11, 28