Blood on the Walls - a short story by my 6th grade self

I haven't had much to blog about.  Which is why I was delighted while cleaning out our file cabinet to find a bunch of old essays and stories from my younger years.  I pulled out a green folder with BUDGET MOTEL emblazoned in gold lettering across the front.  Inside I had stapled a short story I had printed out on our old control-alt-delete computer from 1991.  The gray lettering was single spaced and faintly reminiscent of type writer font.  Apparently my masterpiece was written in a little under a month.  How do I know?  At the top as if it were a school assignment (which it wasn't) it reads Denise Cooper, 6th Grade, Oct. 8, 1993 - Nov. 2, 1993.  I think I wanted to record it for future generations, you know, when my story was included in an anthology entitled Best Loved Short Stories of the Late Twentieth Century.  I give you fair warning that I was deeply enamored with anything written by R.L. Stine at the time.  For your reading pleasure I give you -

Blood on the Walls

Chapter 1

It was a rainy night.  Pitch black and freezing cold.  I sat close to the crackling flames, warming my hands.  It was only the end of October but my house was a creepy century old Victorian mansion and was heated by and old fashioned wood burning stove.  Some of the people in town said it was haunted  Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong!, I about jumped out of my wits.  I was relieved it was only the old village church bell.  Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! the clock on the mantle chimed twelve. (Yes we know because I just included, for accuracy, exactly twelve chimes of both the old village bell and the mantle clock.  That's some bell if she can hear it out in the country.  She lives out of town as you will shortly learn.) Time for bed.  I climbed the creaky steps up to my bedroom.  It was dark in my bedroom it was one of the many rooms that didn't have a light so I struck a match and lit a candle the orange flame burned bright.  (Did I mention I was the queen of run on sentences?  Also, I know it was an old house, but to not have electricity in many of the rooms????  Maybe she just forgot to pay the electric bill that month.)  I yawned and stretched and climbed under the flanel quilt.  I just about sank my head into the down pillow when suddenly I heard footsteps coming up the stairs faintly at first and then it got closer.  What am I going to do?  Who was in my house, a burglar, no it couldn't be it must be my imagination.  Then there was a knock.  "Who's there?" I whispered hoarseally. (I do believe I meant for the character to whisper hoarsely, unless I intended for her to have a Mr. Ed. moment.) Somebody entered my room.  It was a dark figure who ever he or she or it, was tall wearing a cloak of some kind.  I heard screaming but who was it?  To my horror it was me. (GASP!)  I heard a loud thump and instant pain came over my body I felt dizzy and there was a warm sticky liquid tickeling the back of my neck and then darkness danced around me, my head hit the pillow and I was out.  

Dun! Dun! Dun!  I know you're just wondering what has happened to our cold, dark-house dwelling, protagonist...who ever he, or she or it is!  Stay tuned for the next chapter of Blood on the Walls.  If it was a story written by me today about my daily life it might be entitled Boogers on the Walls.  Yeah, my five year old needs to find a more appropriate place to dispose of her nose waste.  Sorry for the gross out!