Everyone in the neighborhood was afraid of Ms. Donovan’s house. It was a towering, gray victorian style structure with an unkempt, dying lawn, a splintering front deck, and a front door that the local kids liked to say was “stained with the blood of her enemies.” In all reality, it was just crimson paint, but no one had the heart to tell them that. Nobody in the neighborhood had ever been invited to go inside of Ms. Donovan’s home, but everybody assumed that what was inside was just as creepy. Ms. Donovan herself was not a particularly menacing figure. She was a small, polite old woman, but most people seemed to agree that something was off about her. She rarely left her house, and whenever she did, she avoided her neighbors at all costs. In …show more content…
Donovan showed up on my family’s doorstep one cold December afternoon, it came as a surprise to all of us. She asked my mother in her kindly, frail voice if she knew of anyone responsible that would be willing to cat-sit her beloved cat, George, while she was away for the following day. Naturally, my mother volunteered her ever so responsible teenage daughter, to complete the task. Despite my fevered attempts to dissuade her, my mother remained adamant about not backing out of her deal with Ms. Donovan. The next morning, at nine o'clock precisely, I found myself on Ms. Donovan’s rickety front porch. My finger trembled as it pressed the discolored doorbell. My eyes shut instinctively out of the fear of what they might see when the door swung open. A rush of cold air surged past as Ms. Donovan answered the door. She simply smiled, urged a long to-do list into my hand, then shuffled past and went on her merry way. My feet timidly shuffled over the threshold and into the foyer. The sight of Ms. Donovan’s interior was… not terrifying. Though cluttered and somewhat unkempt, her home was completely normal looking. There were no excessive cobwebs, nor curious dark stains. There weren’t any creepy, beady eyed porcelain doll collections. There were no alarming smells wafting through the stale air. There was absolutely no apparent cause for concern. Maybe everyone was completely wrong about Ms. Donovan. Maybe she was just a normal old woman who liked to keep to …show more content…
It called for normal chores, like feeding George the cat, cleaning his litter box, playing with him, and giving him his flea medicine at noon. Ms. Donovan also listed that George enjoyed curling up and watching the television, so we were welcome to watch together once my tasks were completed. The jobs seemed easy enough. Something scrawled across the very bottom of the slip of paper caught my attention, though. Written in sloppy, all capital letters, as if it were a last minute afterthought, were the words, “DO NOT GO DOWN TO THE BASEMENT. THANK YOU.” My blood went cold. What was she hiding in the
The author illustrates the “dim, rundown apartment complex,” she walks in, hand and hand with her girlfriend. Using the terms “dim,” and “rundown” portrays the apartment complex as an unsafe, unclean environment; such an environment augments the violence the author anticipates. Continuing to develop a perilous backdrop for the narrative, the author describes the night sky “as the perfect glow that surrounded [them] moments before faded into dark blues and blacks, silently watching.” Descriptions of the dark, watching sky expand upon the eerie setting of the apartment complex by using personification to give the sky a looming, ominous quality. Such a foreboding sky, as well as the dingy apartment complex portrayed by the author, amplify the narrator’s fear of violence due to her sexuality and drive her terror throughout the climax of the
Filban said the home had a yard that was overgrown. “The trees and bushes were overgrown, and the house was dark,” Filban said. “And the windows were covered.” She and her sister slept in the front bedroom of the house. She remembers the bedroom having a large, floor-to-ceiling window. She said you could look out and see the wra...
In Mary Downing Hahn’s “The Ghost of Crutchfield Hall,” Downing Hahn shows that sometimes the best of people who deserve the best end up getting the worst. In this companion book, you will see the difference between the two main characters; Sophia and Florence. You will also find out about the setting and what dangers can go on at Crutchfield Hall. You will see what something in the book symbolizes, including the cat and the mice, and the cold. I will show you Sophia’s mind and her thoughts, and what she is planning on doing, more about her death, and possibilities of what could’ve happened.
Connected to the somber image of the town, The house is described with harsh diction such as “streaked with rust”, depicting the years of neglect. Affected by abuse, Petry describes the house as stained with “blood” in the form of rust. Despite the harsh outer layer, Lutie is drawn to it as her figurative and literal “sign”of refuge. A town that had been nothing but cold to her is finally seen as warm from the words on the sign; describing the house as “Reasonable” and open to “respectable tenants”.
The narrator begins by portraying the house to look like typical horror movie houses. It’s a large, pretty house, with locked gates, and is far away from the street and other houses. When they initially moved into the house, she feels spirits right away, saying “there is something strange about the house—I can feel it.” (377). She later declares there is a peculiar smell in the house. “It creeps all over the house. I find it hovering in the dining-room, skulking in the parlor, hiding in the hall, lying in wait for me on the stairs. It gets into my hair. Even when I go to ride, if I turn my head suddenly and surprise it, there is that smell!” (385). The way she phrased this brings the presence of the dead to the atmosphere. Spirits are often described as “hovering” and “creeping” around, popping up unexpectedly. She says it’s hiding and waiting for her, which probably scares her.
Throughout the story, the mood becomes more suspenseful. As Janet walks out of the strong spring storm and enters her cold damp house, she is overcome by feelings of isolation and loneliness. Her husband is not there; there are dead plants around her house as if nobody has been there for a lo...
A review of the house itself suggests that an architectural hierarchy of privacy increases level by level. At first, the house seems to foster romantic sensibilities; intrigued by its architectural connotations, the narrator embarks upon its description immediately--it is the house that she wants to "talk about" (Gilman 11). Together with its landscape, the house is a "most beautiful place" that stands "quite alone . . . well back from the road, quite three miles from the village" (Gilman 11). The estate's grounds, moreover, consist of "hedges and walls and gates that lock" (Gilman 11). As such, the house and its grounds are markedly depicted as mechanisms of confinement--ancestral places situated within a legacy of control and supervision.
Marie’s grandparent’s had an old farm house, which was one of many homes in which she lived, that she remembers most. The house was huge, she learned to walk, climb stairs, and find hiding places in it. The house had a wide wrap around porch with several wide sets of stairs both in front and in back. She remembers sitting on the steps and playing with one of the cats, with which there was a lot of cats living on the farm...
The feeling of uncanny continues throughout the next paragraphs. The house Mrs. Drover enters is given characteristics that suggest that it is living. There is a "bruise in the wallpaper" and a piano "had left what looked like claw-marks" (36). On their own, these descriptions would not have created uneasiness. But, the house that bruises and furniture that leaves claw-marks contribute to the sense of uneasiness that had already begun to develop. W...
Behind closed doors she felt different about everyone. She felt like something was wrong and that their was evil trying to travel in the neighborhood. She had this feeling toward everyone but herself. She thought she was the only one who was genuinely happy and wanted to keep peace within the town. She wrote theses anonymous letters to her neighbors saying cruel stuff about their personal
The reason that she was here was simple, but cost her much to say it. Her mother had died in a fire a month before, and her father had been a drunk who was hanged for murder three years beforehand. She had been invited to the Carew orphanage by her aunt who worked there and had done for over thirty years.
Our backs hunched over as we started lifting sustainable sandbags with our drained muscular arms onto a dark wooden shelf. The scorching sun heated up the unswept metal fence behind us. Our feet were burning as we stood on the blistering concrete floor. We were sweating from every inch of our dried out body’s. Looking around the isolated area the smell of freshly cut grass starts to fill up in the atmosphere. The crinkled brown autumn leaves abandoned the thin branches sticking out from the ancient oak tree stood in front of us. A mysterious slim figure approached us from the distance. As the strange shadow got closer to me I could see a velvet red knee high dress blowing in the wind; bright red lipstick on a slim face, it became clear to me that it was Curley’s wife! Her devilish eyes looked deep into our sole as she stroked silky, exotic hair with her perfectly painted, red finger nails. “Hey boys” she called. I looked away with no interest; Lennie followed my lead. Her face went from a cheery smile to a sulky frown and she bashfully strolled
I paced back and forth outside the huge Phantomhive Manor. I had heard many rumours of the manor being haunted but I wasn’t as scared as most. The manor had an eerie feel; inside the windows were pitch black and the manor outside was dimly lit by 5 oil lamps circling the iron fence. The gardens were still beautiful and tame but I guessed that a gardener visited daily. After building up the courage, I slowly pushed open the creaky Iron Gate.
The problem with most people is that they are always looking for the right time. Been there, done that. I kept looking for the right time to do something about my situation. Nothing bad was going on, but I wanted something better.
I wearily drag myself away from the silken violet comforter and slump out into the living room. The green and red print of our family’s southwestern style couch streaks boldly against the deep blues of the opposing sitting chairs, calling me to it. Of course I oblige the billowy haven, roughly plopping down and curling into the cushions, ignoring the faint smell of smoke that clings to the fabric. My focus fades in and out for a while, allowing my mind to relax and unwind from any treacherous dreams of the pervious night, until I hear the telltale creak of door hinges. My eyes flutter lightly open to see my Father dressed in smart brown slacks and a deep earthy t-shirt, his graying hair and beard neatly comber into order. He places his appointment book and hair products in a bag near the door signaling the rapid approaching time of departure. Soon he is parading out the door with ever-fading whispers of ‘I love you kid,’ and ‘be good.’