Warwick House

Submitted into Contest #64 in response to: Set your story in a Gothic manor house.... view prompt


Horror Suspense Sad

I arrived at Warwick House too early. Jude looked back at me when I checked my watch—9:10—as we drove under great iron arches toward the looming manor. 

“You okay, Bethe?”

“I’m fine. I’ll wait outside. Thanks for driving me, Jude. I owe you one.”

“Anything for you, Bethy.”

“Shut up.”

He laughed.

Gravel crunched and spat under my feet as I rolled my suitcase over the driveway. Jude turned in an ungainly circle in the white driveway and the car disappeared from view. He was proud of that car, a nice little 2017 remodel.

I went all the way up to the wide, flat stone steps which tunneled through yawning stone arches toward a great metal door. I was forty minutes early so I took a seat behind one of the pillars. To my right was a large prickly climbing-rose plant blocking a mist-shrouded garden area, which lined the front face of Warwick House. 

Place is a little lonely, I thought.

Oh well. I wouldn’t be staying long. Just enough to scrape together some money. I’d been fired from my last job, managing another place like Warwick House—that’s where I met Jude—because the owner didn’t seem to like smoking on the job.

Finally, the door clicked and heaved open. A middle-aged man looked out of the doorway, his greying sandy hair dim from the darkness inside. He began to withdraw, like a tired turtle into its shell. 

I scrambled upward. He stopped and I rushed forward, my hand outstretched, my suitcase dragging behind me.

“Sorry, I’m here,” I said. “I’m Bethe Cavanaugh, I’m here for the management position?”

“Ah,” he said, shaking my hand. His own was dry but limp. “I’m Ben Del Rey. You’re here to see Mrs. Warwick.” His voice was gentle. I had to lean in to hear him. 

“Don’t mind the mess,” he said as we walked in. The ceilings were impassively high, the walls dark oakwood, one of the greatest Gothic-style manors I’d ever seen, but the ground was spread with crumpled papers, rolled up pieces of cloth, and broken pieces of furniture. “We’re—er—cleaning up.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, because it genuinely seemed to pain him. “The last place I worked—” I rethought what I was about to say. I didn't want to say anything he might interpret the wrong way. I ended up saying “Started out pretty messy too. Not when I left it!” and laughed.

Ben smiled and turned toward a massive grand staircase.

“This is the bedroom wing,” he said, gesturing up. Then he pointed underneath. “In there is the living room, the parlor, the greenhouse, the library. You can also get to the game-room that way, but we don’t use that room much. Mrs. Warwick is the only one who’d use that room, and she doesn’t get out of bed much.”

“I see.”

“Yes,” he said. “She’s always sick and she needs someone to manage the place.”

“Who managed it before me?”

“A young lady named Mia,” he said, walking up the staircase. “I’ll show you to Mrs. Warwick’s room, and then I’ll take you to yours.”

We reached the top, where there were two long branching hallways of doors. Ben pointed to the left one. “That’s the servants’ hallway. That would be Mrs. Lourth, the cook, Dacia, the housekeeper—they’re both eighty—Winston, the gardener, and myself. And you, of course.”

He pointed and started walking to the right. “Here are the family rooms. Mrs. Warwick has no family left, so these rooms remain empty.” He sounded wistful. “And here, at the end of the hallway, is Mrs. Warwick’s room. She’s just had a recent blood transfusion, about a week ago, so she’s stronger than usual. Go on.”

He left. I walked toward the closed, black door, framed by two burning yellow wall-lamps. I knocked, and heard a faint, breathy “Enter!”

I pushed the door open and entered. It was a whitewashed room, brilliantly bare. Directly ahead of me was an immense white bed in an ebony bed frame, underneath a window smeared with white paint. I blinked and tried to focus on the creature in bed. 

She was enormous. That’s all I thought at first. Her wide, pink face took up half the pillow supporting her. Her flabby, pink flesh spilled out from under the white bedding, over the entire bed. Her small pink hands were folded on her huge stomach, their hue strangely enunciated by the brilliant white everywhere else. Her eyes were small but not beady; they were blue and piercing and looking directly at me.

“Good morning, Mrs. Warwick,” I heard myself say. I felt very hot and cold in flashes, like I was pulled out of myself and just frozen, watching myself talk to this monstrous woman. 

“Good morning,” she replied, her voice surprisingly light and airy. 

“I’m Bethe Cavanaugh,” I said, walking a little closer. “I’m here for the managing position.”


A week later I fell into a routine. I always do, just about that week or two-week mark. I knew what to say to please Mrs. Warwick to be sure the bills were paid on time and the servants kept happy. Mrs. Lourth and Dacia were both over eighty, so shriveled I could barely believe they could stand up in bed each morning. Winston was seventy at least. Ben Del Rey, on the wrong side of middle aged, was youngest. I seemed to be the only person in the entire vicinity under twenty-five. 

There was something strange about them, though. Dacia had a face like a child. It was wrinkled as it should be, but underdeveloped, without a real jawline and a short nose like a toddler’s. Ben and Winston could have been twins, just fifteen years apart, and both had eyes that were just not quite right. Almost demonic, and I couldn’t tell why.

Once, just before bed, Mrs. Warwick called to speak to me about finances for the kitchen. When I entered, I accidentally scraped my arm against the old mahogany splinters poking out the door, making a little slice on the outside of my forearm. I didn't notice until she said something.

“Why, dear, you’re bleeding! Come here.”

I went. Gently, she wiped away the blood with her own fingers. When she thought I wasn’t looking, she rubbed on her own arm until the porous pink skin absorbed it completely, closing her eyes in ecstasy. I jumped back, made an excuse, and ran out.


The Wednesday after I came, I was going to meet with Mrs. Warwick about ordering supplies for the garden, and heard her already speaking with Ben inside. 

“But Mistress—” I heard him say, whiningly, and she in response: “No. It must be soon. I can feel it soon. And she’s the last I need! After that everything will be perfect.”

“But it’s so hard to find someone else, and she works so well! Just another few weeks, Mistress.”

I knocked softly and heard a jump. 

“Shh,” I heard Mrs. Warwick whisper. 

I entered. “Hello, ma’am? I’m here to talk about buying for the garden in the fall. Are you busy right now?”

She shook her head, jowls shaking, and said in her girlish, unnatural voice, “Leave me, Ben. I’ll talk with Bethe now.”

Then: “Let’s not talk about that right now, Bethe. I want to talk about something else.”


“As you know, my dear—” She took my hand, caressed it like she loved the very blood flowing in my veins. “—I’m sick. Very sick.”

“Yes.” Everyone else had made a point of telling me this; not to upset her, not to worry her too much. They showed where her medicine was if she needed help. They said things like: “She gets transfusions often, a regular thing, about once a month, and another soon. She gets all weak and needs emergency measures if we can’t get to the hospital in time for the transfusions.”

I looked full in the face of the enormous old woman. “Why did Ben Del Rey call you ‘Mistress’? He’s not the kind of servant who does that.”

A real scowl came over her face and she gripped my hand painfully. “Don’t ask questions like that, Bethe. You don’t want to know what will happen to you if you do.”

I sat frozen, trying to tug my hand out and failing. Finally I nodded, and she relaxed her grip. 

“I’ll need another transfusion soon, dear heart,” she said, looking up at me with her little sky-blue eyes. “I just need to know, just in case, what type of blood you have?”

I didn’t know what to say. I looked at her, watched the little twitches at the corners of her mouth, the desperate, hungry look in her tiny eyes, the way her too-pink hands scrabbled nervously. 

“B negative,” I said finally. It wasn’t true. I didn’t know why I said that. Maybe I didn't want her rubbing my blood on her skin again.

She smiled dollishly, and said, “Perfect. That’s just lovely, Bethe. Ben sure has a knack.” Her eyes trailed up my arms, tan and warm from the sun outside when I talked to Winston that morning. I crossed them self-consciously. “You may go.”

I nodded at her and left. I ran down the stairs to the kitchen, turned on the sink, and rubbed my arms and face in water so hot it was almost unbearable. I tried to scrub every oily memory of her off my body. 

Mrs. Lourth watched me silently. 

“Tell me,” I said, turning from the sink, water dripping down my neck. “Are you all related? How come Ben calls Mrs. Winston ‘Mistress’ and only when I’m not there? Why do Ben and Winston look so alike? Why does Dacia—”

She walked over, her thin mouth set angrily, and slapped me hard across the face. I reeled back, tasting blood in my mouth. Staggering, I touched my cheek and gasped, “Hey! What—why did you do that?!”

Mrs. Lourth walked to the knife drawer, turned, and looked at me with crossed arms. “Don’t ask questions, Miss Cavanaugh. I thought we talked about this.”

She left. I stared at her retreating back, my hand still on my stinging cheek. 


“Winston,” I said carefully, the next morning. “Why do you work here? How come everyone looks at me funny?”

He was digging holes for crocuses. He stood, dusting off his hands. “You don’t learn, do you?” He stepped closer. I stepped back. 

“I just want to know,” I said, uncrossing my arms. I was not going to get slapped again. 

He returned to the crocuses. “We’re all. . . linked, if you will, to the Mistress.” The way he said it made my skin crawl. I saw a flicker in his eyes, and realized why they looked so strange. The whites weren’t white at all; they were pink, like Mrs. Warwick’s skin. 

“You look so strange, all of you.”

He shrugged again. “We’re old, Miss Cavanaugh.”

“Old doesn’t make Dacia’s face look like that.”

He didn’t reply.

“Why does Mrs. Warwick stay up there? How come she needs transfusions so often?” I didn’t ask why she'd rubbed my blood against her skin, or why she seemed to take such pleasure from it.

He glared with such ferocity that I stepped back.

“She’s sick,” he said shortly, and shut his mouth. 


That night, when the house was dark for the night, I called Jude. I needed to hear a familiar voice.


“Hey, what’s up?”

“Jude, I don’t know what’s going on here. I’m scared. Everything’s creepy, and the lady has weird skin and gets transfusions a lot—”

“Blood transfusions?”

“Yeah. The servants are all really old and their eyes look weird and they call Mrs. Warwick ‘Mistress’ but only when I’m not there. I’m scared.”

“You’re okay, right?”

“For now.”

Jude paused. “Blood transfusions, huh?”


“You. . . want me to come get you?”

“I don’t know, Jude. I called just to let someone know—in case something happens to me.” I choked on the words. 

“Okay, Bethe,” he said. “Call me at noon tomorrow, and if you don’t, I’ll call the police.”

“Okay,” I whispered. I hung up, standing there beside my bed, my phone pressed against my mouth, tears running down my face.


The next morning, Dacia cornered me in the parlor. 

“Miss Cavanaugh.” A tiny sneer curled her mouth. “I’ve heard you’ve become a little busybody.”

I looked at that old-yet-young face. 

“You’ve talked to Winston, to Ben.” She ticked off her fingers. “To Lourth, and even to Mrs. Warwick.”

“So?” I asked. 

Dacia’s face contorted into a grimace. “What are you prying at, girl?”

I stood and felt a little safer. I was twice her height. “I think you’re all demons, Dacia.”

I was lying, but as she stepped back, stricken, I reconsidered. She left the room and I bit my lip. Could it be? I would call Jude in four hours.

Then I heard a shriek from upstairs. I jumped, set my phone on the coffeetable, and dashed up the stairs. It was Mrs. Warwick. Dacia and Ben ran from the hallway, Mrs. Lourth just behind me. I looked at them, panicking, but in the split-second of terror I could see that though their expressions were fearful and shocked, their eyes were calm, calculated. We burst through the door. 

Mrs. Warwick lay on her bed, mouth open in a scream, body still. Her arms were flung out, her face white as a sheet. 

“Transfusion!” Ben shouted, and leaped over the sprawled pillows on the ground, grabbing the fat pink arm. Dacia dashed to the medicine cabinet and pulled out a makeshift IV line, which tumbled out of her hands onto the ground. 

Ben looked up at me. “We don’t have the supply! It’s supposed to come this afternoon!”

“How long to the hospital?” I shouted back. 

“Three hours!” His voice broke. His eyes caught mine before they strangely lost their panic. “What’s your blood type, Bethe?”

I’d never gotten tested. “B negative!” I said, repeating the lie. It was the first thing that came to my head. 

I’ve read The Ring of Endless Light. But I didn’t realize that Mrs. Warwick wasn’t bleeding from the mouth or nose, as you do when you need an emergency transfusion. She looked peaceful.

“Can we?” Ben shouted in my face, already attaching the end of the IV to Mrs. Warwick’s inner-forearm vein and brandishing the other at me. “You’re the youngest, you can give enough to save her!”

I stuttered, blinked, and that was all it took. They had the line in my arm within seconds, like they’d done it a hundred other times to a hundred other women. 

“But what’s her blood type?” 

“O positive.” They watched the blood seep out of me and drain into Mrs. Warwick. 

“Don’t cross your ankles,” Dacia said irritably. 

“But she’ll die if it’s a different type!” I gasped, moving to detach myself. Ben gave a shout and stopped my hand. 

“No! Blood type doesn’t matter,” he said with a greedy glint. “It’s the youth in the blood.”

I looked at him, repulsed. “What are you talking about?” I started to feel lightheaded, and felt sweat break out on my forehead. 

“A little more.” Ben leaned forward. Mrs. Warwick started turning pinker, and as I watched, she began to change. Her face started to slim and turn almost younger. My heart pounded.

“Why—?” I begged. 

Dacia looked at me harshly. “What do you think, kiddo?” I suddenly understood why there were no younger servants at the house. They’d already given their blood and died for their Mistress.

I stared at the IV bag hanging between us. It had filled twice. My thoughts began to slow. I stood, my brain like a drowning man trying to keep his head afloat. I yanked the IV out of my arm, barely registering the slice of pain and the warm drip of my own blood down my arm. 

“Demons!” I shrieked and fumbled out. I think they were too shocked to move. I felt hot and cold together, ears starting to ring. As I half-ran, half-fell down the stairs and out the door, the ringing grew, my eyesight peppered with bright lights. I was not going to die for Mrs. Warwick’s youth. 


Away from that evil house, my vision returned and the ringing partly receded. When I could breathe normally, I started running, out the open gates, to the road. I turned right, blindly. I’d left my phone, my suitcase, everything except my very life. Jude would be worried, but at least I was alive.

I realized why they were ‘cleaning’ the first day. They were hiding another, bloodless, body.

Behind, in the great yawning house, a shrivelled ghost-body crumbled in the white bed, ghostlike wisps of dead demon-servants gathered around. Somewhere, I knew, there was a tomb lined with the bodies of young women just like me, blood drained from their bodies and given to Mistress. Their arms crossed their shrivelled chests. Lilies slept above them. 

Warwick House finally out of sight, I slowed to a walk.

“The last one.” I repeated what the old lady had said. Mrs. Warwick used the blood of girls to give her youth again, I thought. That’s why she loved my blood on her skin so much.

Wicked, demonic magic.

I was the last one needed to truly restore her. 

I shivered, kept walking. The autumn air was crisp around me, and I finally felt clean.

Gentle tendrils of rose-ivy and bushes of pearled hyacinth framed the road. Somewhere above a hundred girls’ bodies buried under young loam, cool wind blew around the mouths of open-faced white lilies.

October 19, 2020 20:48

You must sign up or log in to submit a comment.


Zilla Babbitt
20:51 Oct 19, 2020

Literally the longest story I've ever written. I told myself before writing, knowing it would be long, to just write to the end. The end was 3,500 words, and I cut it to about 2,970. My second-longest is "Nightfall," a romantic reimagining of the awful Twilight story. "Warwick House" is based on the legend of Elisabeth Bathory, a serial killer in the Middle Ages, and another Arthurian legend that I can't remember. I went more in the way of the Arthurian legend, because I read up on Bathory during writing and was incredibly repulsed.


Ru .
21:00 Oct 19, 2020

Ooh, this chilled me to bone. Interesting, the serial killer legend. Reminds me of a story where a women moved into a house and found that the wallpaper was human skin. Love the descriptions, especially "pearled hyacinth" and "open-faced white lilies". I'm working on this prompt too — it jumped at me when I first saw it,.


Show 0 replies
Show 1 reply
21:44 Oct 19, 2020

Both lyrical and horrifying. Nathaniel Hawthorne would approve! (See his short story "Young Goodman Brown" about a man who chooses to walk with the devil in the woods. Save vibe!) Loved the grotesquerie of the household, the pink gelatinous monster. "Small eyes" always eerie. The closing paragraph is pure art. Pedantic nonsense: I'd use "oleaginous" instead of oily and -em dashes instead of double hyphens (which get chaotic) and spacing of ellipses . . . (instead of ...) But who cares? It was a great read. :)


Show 0 replies

(Just a disclaimer, this post is going to be VERY long, so hold on tight!! Also, I am NOT one of those Wednesday critique people, it's just that I LOVE commenting on other people's posts. Now that we got that out of the way, I can actually start writing.) 😁 (Also, when I took another read at your story, I found some things you could add to improve your story.) Hello there!! I just want to say that your story's flow, and the emotion and scene building you did was just absolutely amazing!! I loved how you built all your characters! Trust...


Show 0 replies
Jonathan Blaauw
15:28 Oct 20, 2020

I really loved this story! There's a controversial company (Ambrosia I think it's called) that offer blood transfusions to make the old feel young again. Vampires drinking blood and being immortal is also a common myth, and, of course, the Christian practice of drinking blood for eternal life in communion bears a mention. There's definitely something there, and your story explores the idea chillingly! I read mainly because I want to go to new places and experience different things, and your story did that brilliantly. I felt Bethe's growi...


Show 0 replies
Elle Clark
20:08 Oct 22, 2020

I have been looking forward to reading this since the sneak peak and it did not disappoint! The blood as life thing is a classic horror trope and I love it every time. I’m really glad that none of the ‘demons’ were recognisable as specific vampires/ghouls/ etc because then you get into the lore and here you were able to build your own. Loved the connections between the servants and Mistress. I do think that some of the dialogue reads as a little unrealistic - would she have confronted them so bluntly if she honestly believed that...


Show 0 replies
A. S.
15:47 Oct 20, 2020

Great job with this story! From the first line all the way to the end there was this palpable tension threading through your story. One thing I would recommend (and I understand you are pushing the word limit on this one, so it is just a suggestion) would be to describe your characters emotions a bit more. Although I was dreading the ending, there were a few sections where I wanted to know more about what was going through your character’s mind. Especially because this is told through first person. Would you be willing to read my sto...


Show 0 replies
Amaya .
15:01 Oct 20, 2020

Hey Zilla, I have a question: are you the type who's stories end up at around 1500, or are you the type who struggles to stay under the 3000 limit? Do you struggle to get past 1000 often?


Zilla Babbitt
18:08 Oct 20, 2020

I am the one who scrapes her way to the 1K limit, though recently I've made it up to 2K in a couple of mine, and this is the first one I've struggled to get under 3K. So now I don't know :) You?


Amaya .
22:30 Oct 20, 2020

Same as you, except I've never made it to 2k, and definitely never struggled for 3K. My usual is 1500. I actually just turned in a story, you should read it :) if you want


Zilla Babbitt
00:40 Oct 21, 2020

For the longest time I was the same. I'm scared this is only a phase and I'll be back to watching the word count climb haha. I'll try to get over to yours soon.


Amaya .
00:59 Oct 21, 2020

thanks! haha I definitely know what you mean by hoping that it isn't a phase :)


Show 0 replies
Show 1 reply
Show 1 reply
Show 1 reply
Show 1 reply
Felicity Anne
14:23 Oct 22, 2020

Wow, wonderful job! You paint such vivid pictures with your words! There were a couple grammatical issues I noticed that I'd thought I'd tell you: I felt very hot and cold in flashes, like I was pulled out of myself and just frozen, watching myself talk to this monstrous woman. - remove the comma after 'flashes' Ben Del Rey, on the wrong side of middle aged, was youngest. - change 'middle aged' to 'middle-aged' The Wednesday after I came, I was going to meet with Mrs. Warwick about ordering supplies for the garden, and heard her alr...


Show 0 replies
Akshat .
05:06 Oct 22, 2020

Whoa. This is one of the most thrilling stories I've ever read. Great job! "Okay, it's all going to my head. From now on, no compliments. Just hard critique. Please." <--- I don't really have that much critique. But here's one piece, if you really want it. “In there is the living room, the parlor, the greenhouse, the library." <-- I'm pretty sure you have to add an "and" after "the greenhouse," Well, that's all! Great story :) PS. I'm not trying to be pushy, but in my last comment, I asked you if you could read my latest story. Y...


Show 0 replies
Sia S
05:30 Oct 20, 2020

Woah Zila!! You got me hanging on every line!! You should totally write more on this!! Wonderful read!!! I just adore your imagination and your sense of stories!!!


Show 0 replies
Avani G
01:17 Oct 20, 2020

Nice story! You did mention that you spent a lot of time on this one, because it was a lot longer than the stories you normally write. Your effort really showed! Some things to keep in mind: 1) Location. You mention that this story was based on Elizabeth Bathory. She was born in the Middle Ages, so is this story in the Middle Ages, too?? 2020, 2010? You might want to clear that up. 2) The ending seems a little vague. The story was kind of creepy in the middle, but I had no idea that the main character(s) were serial killers! You might want...


Zilla Babbitt
13:06 Oct 20, 2020

1. I'll fix the timing. It's based on Bathory, and I had the general idea that Mrs. Warwick is from at least the 1700s and is using hundreds of girls to stay alive. But Bethe uses a laptop and a cellphone, so it's at least the 2000s. 2. And I'll fix that too. Up the creepy/bloody factor in the middle? Gotcha :) 3. Ugh, I know. While editing I kept looking for a section I could cut out completely to get rid of 500+ words, but I couldn't find any! I can cut away at the beginning scene and add something to develop Bethe more. 4. Yeah...


Avani G
13:25 Oct 20, 2020

Haha, np! :)


Show 0 replies
Show 1 reply
Show 1 reply
ℤ ℍ☮️
21:37 Oct 19, 2020

This is a really interesting story. It is great how you keep building it up, and you even give hints so that the readers can try to guess what is happening. This story gave me goosebumps. I do have one question, at the very end of the story. She says, "I was the last one needed to truly restore her." How does she know that? If you don't mind, can you please read my latest story, "Scarecrow boy". I really need some feedback. Anyways this story, is very good and your descriptive vocabulary is super advanced. I really enjoyed reading it!


Show 0 replies
Poornima Shehani
20:01 Oct 22, 2020

Wow I'm speechless! Love the story, love your style and literally I love the whole thing 😊


Show 0 replies
Zea Bowman
02:22 Oct 21, 2020

"No compliments"? You can't be serious, but here. I won't say anything. 😆 11/10.


Show 0 replies
Scout Tahoe
13:55 Oct 20, 2020

*shivers* This is gruesome. Definitely Halloween-y. You had me from the very first line to the last one. Speaking of last, your last paragraph was pure magic. "Open-faced white lilies," is my favorite. Just a bit of critique/clearing-up: 1) So I know some people have already said this, but the location of the story and the exact time of it is unclear. It doesn't really matter, but it'd be nice to know some inventions (like Uber and phone) that existed around that time. 2) Jude. Who is he? 3) You don't usually have underdeveloped cha...


Show 0 replies
Claire Lindsey
19:49 Oct 25, 2020

This story is so eerie-- the scene-setting and the way you describe Mrs. Warwick and the servants in the house really drove home the horror theme. I love how you contrast the imagery of the flowers with the bodies in the ending paragraph... very creepy!


Show 0 replies
B. W.
00:51 Oct 22, 2020

i need some advice


Show 0 replies
20:06 Oct 21, 2020

Neat creepy story. Nice work. ;) The only thing I can possibly critique is that the story feels a bit short and cut off at the very end. Great how it is, even if the end feels a bit cut-for-time. ;) Keep on writing! I also went through your suggestions on my doc--resolved most of them...I think. :P


Zilla Babbitt
01:02 Oct 22, 2020

Thanks! I know, the plot has way more potential. I'm at the limit for words though, and I just can't elaborate on that ending. I'm glad to help!


01:04 Oct 22, 2020

Yeah, the Reedsy word constraints kinds suck, but they have to have them.


01:09 Oct 22, 2020

I'm at the brink of 2,400 words myself, and beginning to wonder if I'll be the one editing for length...


Show 0 replies
Show 1 reply
02:51 Oct 22, 2020

Finished it! Finally!


Zilla Babbitt
14:41 Oct 22, 2020



15:02 Oct 22, 2020

Lol, I referenced in my bio that the down voter/voters must be on the leaderboard, and I just lost about 170 points.


Zilla Babbitt
15:05 Oct 22, 2020

Yeah, when I went and read through your story I saw that your comments there had 0 points. They should have 1 by now.


Show 1 reply
Show 1 reply
Show 1 reply
Show 1 reply
Show 2 replies
Show 1 reply
Charles Stucker
21:29 Oct 20, 2020

Gravel crunched under my feet and spat - gravel crunched and spat under my feet. As you wrote it, the gravel crunched under your spat. I was forty minutes early so I took - comma after so . . . linked. . . - unless British usage is different, you don't put spaces between ellipses. One ellipses break is enough to show hesitation, two might be overkill. Dacia and Ben from the hallway, Mrs. Lourth just behind me. - either move this information to the sentence with the protagonist dashing or use "came" after Ben. Or something. It needs...


Show 0 replies
B. W.
02:01 Oct 20, 2020

I'm going to give this story a 10/10 :) I really don't know if you need to fix anything with this story, you had done a really great job with it. The ending and some of the other parts really surprised me, though in a good way ^^ I'm excited to see more of your stories.


Show 0 replies

Bring your short stories to life

Fuse character, story, and conflict with tools in the Reedsy Book Editor. 100% free.