GoodWrites discussion

Hiya Loves <3

Here is the writing prompt for Week Eleven. Abi and I will be able to participate in this one (I know I will, idk if she wants to or not lol). Have fun writing, can't wait to see what you come up with! Xx
"Tell a story using a series of diary or journal entries."

MIAcat <3

Hiya Loves <3

Here is my short story from this prompt! TW: minor descriptions of drowning. Hope you enjoy.

August 3rd
We’re here. Finally.
After five hours of driving with Mum chain-drinking coffee and Dad singing off-key to Paramore and BLINK-182, we’ve arrived at what Mum called “a fresh start.” It’s a tall, aging house at the edge of Windermere Hill — the kind you only ever see in black-and-white photographs, leaning to the side, as though the weight of the air above it is too much to hold. The shutters creak in the wind, opening and closing as they drifted in and out of the open windows that looked like they would take an army of men to close them. Vines crawl up the eastern wall like green fingers. The porch sags a little on one side. But it’s beautiful in its own way — the kind of beautiful that looks like it’s hiding something.
The attic caught my eye first. There’s a single round window up there, the glass slightly smeared, cloudy, like glasses after crying. I asked Mum if I could turn the attic into a reading space. She laughed and said she wouldn’t even dare open the door — it’s probably “full of dust and old ghosts.” I know she was joking, but my chest still fluttered when she said it.
Part of me hopes it is haunted. At least that would mean something is happening. Something real. Something I didn’t expect. Maybe make it worthwhile moving here.
I haven’t made any friends since we moved from the city. No one’s even waved. But there’s a boy I saw through my window. He stood just past the trees, hands in the pockets of his coat that reached his knees, staring toward the house, curly hair blowing in the wind. I blinked and he was gone.
I’ll check the attic tomorrow.
—Elise

August 5th
It’s worse than I imagined. The attic, I mean.
Dust layered like snow. Spiderwebs in all the corners. But under it all… there’s something strange.
A trunk. Locked. But not tightly — the old latch was rusted enough that I could force it open with a screwdriver. Inside were letters, scraps of old fabric, two worn-out books, and a journal, a light blue one, with a dove on the front, gathering dust. The name on the inside cover is Clara H. Her handwriting is the kind of neat that comes from practice, not personality. Typewriter handwriting. The kind of handwriting you use when someone’s always watching.
I read five entries. Then I had to stop.
Clara talks about school at first, and a cat named Daisy, and a teacher she hated named Mr. Lamb. But then… it shifts. Entry #6 mentions “the boy at the tree line.” She says he was there the day she moved in, too. Watching. Never blinking. She described him exactly the way I saw him.
I didn’t sleep last night.
Because I know I saw him. I know I did.
—Elise

August 9th
I think something’s wrong with this house.
It’s not just the usual creaks and groans of old wood. It’s footsteps. In the attic. Always at night. Always the same slow pattern: four steps. Pause. Then three steps back. Over and over.
Last night I finally called Dad to listen. But when he came into my room and lay down on my floor, staring up at the pale blue ceiling, they stopped. Of course they did. It’s like when somethings broken but when you ask for help it works again. Annoying isn’t it?
He smiled like I was a child again, a big toothy grin, like I had just told him there was a monster in the closet. He patted my head and said, “Your imagination has always been a little wild, kiddo.” Then he left, poking his tongue at me as the door clicked closed.
But the moment the door shut, I heard the steps again.
Four. Pause. Three.
I know what you’re thinking, but it wasn’t Dad’s in the hall. Dad wears big chunky boots, the kind that make every step sound like a miny earthquake and make the wood planks groan.
I went back into the attic this morning. There were footprints in the dust. Bare feet. Small — like mine.
But I swear, I haven’t been up there barefoot.
—Elise

August 15th
I finished Clara’s journal.
Her final entries are… terrifying. Not because they’re bloody or violent — they’re not. They’re quiet. Desperate. She starts forgetting words. Her spelling slips. She repeats the same lines over and over, like she’s trying to remind herself of what’s real.
She writes:
"He watches from the tree line."
Then, a few pages later:
"He watches from inside now."
The final page is just a name: Elise.
Written three times.
I never told anyone my name before we moved in, I haven’t talked to anyone, not except the lady who bagged my apples at the market, but all I said was “six please.” And this journal is decades old — dated 1983.
How does Clara know me?
Unless... unless something is bleeding through.
I’m scared. I don’t want to go into the attic again. But I know I will.
It’s like something’s calling me back.
—Elise

August 21st
I’ve been dreaming of drowning.
In the dreams, I’m walking through the forest behind our house. Everything is unnaturally green. Heavy. Like the air is thick with syrup. And then I find the lake.
But there is no lake in Windermere Hill. I’ve checked every map, asked my parents, even searched the local library’s archives. Nothing.
And yet, in the dream, I walk straight in. The water is warm at first — then freezing. Hands pull at my ankles. Faces drift beneath the surface, all blurred and pale.
The boy from the tree line is always on the shore, watching. Never moving.
I wake up gasping. My skin wet. My feet dirty.
This morning, I found pine needles in my bed.
I think I’m sleepwalking.
Or worse — I think the dream is real.
—Elise

August 30th
Everything is wrong.
Clara wasn’t the only one. I found another journal tucked behind a beam in the attic. Different handwriting — this one belonged to someone named Anna. Dated 1967.
Same house. Same tree line. Same boy.
Anna’s journal ends with:
“If I forget my name, remind me.”
And then there’s a smear of something reddish across the page.
When I looked in the mirror this morning, for a split second, I saw someone else. Not a reflection — a replacement. Brown curls instead of my straight hair. Green eyes instead of grey. I blinked, and it was me again.
But now I’m afraid.
Not that the house is haunted.
I’m afraid I’m becoming one of them.
—Elise

September 2nd
He’s inside.
No one believes me. Mum is distant. Dad’s barely home anymore. I hear whispering through the walls, soft voices repeating names I’ve never said aloud.
The boy doesn’t stay at the tree line now. I see him in reflections. In the shadows.
He wants me to write.
He wants me to finish what Clara and Anna started.
He wants to erase me.
And somehow… I’m tempted to let him.
Because at least then, I’d stop being afraid.
—Elise

September 6th
Dear Diary,
Today I locked the attic door.
From the inside.
The steps have stopped. The whispers are quiet.
And the boy? He’s not watching anymore.
Because now… I’m watching him.
My name is Elise Harper.
And I will not be forgotten.
Not like the others.
Not this time.
—E.H.

MIAcat <3

Whoa... This is good

Daisy wrote: "Whoa... This is good"

Thanks! It still needs finetuning but I think its a good base. Xx