Bonnie was named after her nanna. She loved history and everything historic; her love of history came from her nanna. When Bonnie was young, her nanna would tell her heroic stories and travels she had witnessed.
Bonnie was now 19 and a photojournalist for a company called P.E.P (Photographer’s Eye Photos). One day she was asked to take a photo of an old house being knocked down and renovated. Her boss told her to get some snaps of the place and write a story on it. She gave her the address and sent her on her way.
Bonnie trudged out in the rain headed towards 41st Liver Street, Marcooma. She could smell the mixture of pollution and nature mixing as the wind whipped past her face. Finally, she arrived. In front of her stood a black, brick house surrounded by leafless trees and overgrown bushes. Chipped, white paint on rotten wood framed two open windows, which wore lace curtains that blew with the wind. Copper eaves seemed to hold up an attic; the feel of it made Bonnie uncomfortable, but what bugged her the most was the wide open door. That and the house seemed oddly familiar.
At that very moment, out of instinct, Bonnie jumped over the gate and ran to the house stopping at the porch. She edged closer and closer to the door until her nose was around three centimetres away from the wood-chipped door. It was as if the house was somehow pulling her in. Gathering all her courage, Bonnie slowly pushed the door open and a sharp gust of wind almost blew her over. It took all of her courage, but she knew she had to do it. Bonnie pushed the door open and took her first step in.
As soon as the door swung open, voices started chiming and chanting, “This blood smells familiar, a new air has come, one of the family, the ritual has begun”.
She was standing in a creaky hallway with old fashioned things in it, like a lace umbrella and a bureau hanging on white hooks. Above her head were glass and lace chandeliers. She almost got so carried away in all the beautiful historic items she forgot to look for what or who made those voices.
The first turn off from the hallway was to the study. Bonnie just knew she needed to go in. The study was beautifully old-fashioned. The objects were breathtaking. She spotted an 18th century desk with an inkwell, she knew was called an escritoire. An elegant Campeche chair sat in the corner, with a majestic Grandfather Clock standing proudly opposite. Best of all, next to the desk sat a beautiful, strong Moorish Cabinet.
At that moment Bonnie knew she needed to explore find out more about this Historic House! But more urgently she needed to find out whom or what made those sounds or voices. So she crept into the room opposite to her and started to look for clues. This room was the ballroom, but it didn’t have much in it just a wide open space with peeling wall paper and a dust covered floor.
The ballroom wasn’t interesting to Bonnie so she moved on to the next room: the kitchen. In the middle of the room sat a strong banquet table and seven Campeche chairs. Off to the side lived an early 1800s style coffee mill, and a gorgeous Eastlake Moorish cabinet holding a lot of 1800s-style silver. Bonnie decided if she kept exploring instead of investigating, she’d be there forever, so she went back to the hallway and with every step she made a thousand more cracks in the floorboards.
She continued making her way to the end of the hall where she had heard the voices before. Gathering all her courage, Bonnie stepped forward and whipped the door open so hard the door fell off it hinges. Dodging the falling door, Bonnie prepared herself for what she would find. In front of her sat an old lady on a rocking chair looking quite sick.
The old woman looked strikingly like her grandmother. Bonnie screamed as the woman chanted, “This blood smells familiar, a new air has come, one of the family, the ritual has begun!’’
“Who are you,” Bonnie demanded.
“Your great, great grandmother, Bonnie,” the woman started explaining. “I have kept this house from being destroyed for many years, though I am getting weak and need someone to keep it up. If this house is knocked down you and I will lose our power.”
“What power?” Bonnie trembled.
“We are 1800th century witches. Sit on this throne and keep up our family ritual.”
“No!’’ Bonnie screamed.
“Then I’ll tie you to it,” the woman said, grinning.
A wave of green smoke shot directly towards her and Bonnie felt a pull in her gut. A wave of purple smoke appeared and met the green, but Bonnie ran without looking back.
Two weeks later when the demolition trucks came in to raze the house to the ground, Bonnie watched on, hoping the evil spirits would be buried with it.
But above the noise of the walls falling and concrete being crunched, she heard those words, “This blood smells familiar, a new air has come, one of the family, the ritual has begun!’’
Story and photos by Keeley Trainor
(Written as part of Expressions Media’s Express Yourself school holiday creative writing workshop.)