A Bloody Telegraph Descriptive Writing

I covered my mouth to keep it shut and not say anything. He was wearing black boots and black pants. I could see him running towards the open window in a hurry. Maybe he thought i jumped out or something. He began to run towards the stairs. “He’s leaving” i whispered… But there was no answer, I realized that the call was cut. The man was stepping down the stairs… when all of a sudden there was a loud ringtone coming from my hand. There was then a panic in my heart. The man rushed back into my room and entered, There was a moment of silence when all i could see was the man’s black boots staring straight at my eyes. When suddenly there was a powerful pull dragging me out of the bed. Closing my eyes all i could feel is was extrucenary pain all over my body, every second. I reached out for anything near by so I could at least fight. I felt something from the tip of my fingers. I got a grip of something and swung as hard as I could, I hit him hard. The man fell back. I opened my eyes and there he was, Lying on the ground. Weak and hurt i got up and slowly started walking out of my room and down the stairs. My whole body hurt it was hard to move. I heard the man start to get up, I was terrified. I decided to walk to the basement door to try and hide. I remembered the small door that was in the basement. And went gently to open the door. Weak and in pain I was able to get down the old sketchy stairs and move some boxes to open the door. I opened the door. On the other side was a little room. It was dark and had a little bit of light coming from the outside. Maybe the moon light from the outside. I sat on the small corner of the room.I wrapped my arms around my body to try and stay warm. It was quiet for a second. Until I heard the basement door slam open. The man's foot steps were loud and you could tell he wasn't very happy. I could easily read exactly where he was. He was looking for me,

There I was. An undersized 3rd grader, meeting with the school librarian, who was probing at my ability to read and comprehend the book I chose for that week. It was during this particular week in which I refused to join the class in their sticky hand raid, but rather, shift through my new library at home. It was the weekend prior in which my grandmother purchased a white box from a garage sale.

On the first week of school in second grade, my teacher, Ms. Byrd, took us to the library to check out a book. I wasn’t very excited at the time because reading used to bore me. I viewed reading to be a hassle rather than a way to gain knowledge. As our class marched up the ramp leading into the library, we were immediately greeted by a fragile old woman with hair as grey as a pack of Alaskan wolves. The old lady turned out to be the school librarian. She was extremely enthusiastic about reading and asked the class “who is excited to pick out a book today?” All of my classmates swung

There I was, a content, ignorant, obnoxious 4th grader, just returning in from our recess period. I was going along my merry way, when out of the dark depths of the hallway this middle aged, dark-haired gentleman shuffled ominously into our classroom. I thought nothing of it, as slightly creepy, somewhat elderly men were no oddity to be seen wandering about an elementary school. He snaked his way to the desk of my teacher, inquiring about my whereabouts. My classmates quickly betrayed me with a simple pointing of their

I was so preoccupied with looking around the room I didn’t notice a short, elderly man creep out from the shadows. “What are you doing here?!” he shouted, “This here is private property!”. I turned around and took a good look at the man. He wore bleached, old fashioned clothes that resembled a style from the 1960s, with thick spectacles. He looked familiar. “A corpse was found in this area this morning, I’m questioning the residents surrounding the crime scene.” I replied, “Have you ever seen this man?” I inquired, pulling out the victim’s wallet showing him the photograph of the victim. An expression flickered across the man’s face almost too quickly to catch it, but he quickly regained his composure, “I ain’t never seen ‘im.” the man said indifferently.

Daniel Sempre, age 10, son of a book collector. Not just any book collector- an antique book collector. One day at dawn, his father took him to the Cemetery of forgotten books, a library. Not any type of library, a secret library where books are passed down from generations, books that were forgotten and

My hand reached for my suitcase, intending to take out my sketchbook. The leather bound book was a comforting thing, the turmoil of anxiety in me calmed as my fingers skimmed across the soft cover. It had been with me through all of this; it still is now. This book was not a traitor, not like Charles, not like Oswald.

Heavy raindrops spilled from the gray clouds above and people were scattering in all directions. I remember tightly clenching my mother's wrist out of self-assurance as we continuously bumped into frustrated strangers. "Let's wait this storm out in the local library," she had told me in between shivers. At the craziness of the moment, I wasn't sure if her decision was due to home being five blocks away or my nonstop complaints. I wanted to ask what a library was, but I figured that my question would just add to my mother's stress and annoyance. We stopped before the doors of a typical building that displayed the following words in huge yellow print: "Welcome to the Brooklyn Public Library." I specifically recall breathing a sigh of relief

The room I was in was a cell and there was blood stains all over the walls. Then the floor was covered in bones and flesh that was rotting. I then realized I was hanging from the ceiling I was attached by a thick leather rope. I heard footsteps and my heart stopped. It was the man but he had a mask a mime mask. He held one thing in each hand one was a key the other was a long sharp knife. I wanted to scream but I couldn’t shock had overwhelmed me and all I could do is stare. He slowly opened the door and said with a sigh “I am sorry for such harsh conditions but it has to be done, you see I need your body for my collage”. Then he took the knife and dug it into my shoulder slowing the pain was unbearable. He was carving my cutting me to shreds I cried in agony and pain then he stopped he forcefully jabbed the knife into my collarbone and chuckled “Be right back don’t go anywhere”. He strood of comly singing the phantom of the

I walked down the street. Right in front of me there was a man. But he was not walking, he was floating. I darted back inside my house and grabbed my gun. It was my prized possession, a Winchester 1894. I then saw the man again, this time he said something.

The smell of old books in the stuffy back room of the library was overwhelming, but also quite comforting. It reminded me of a much simpler time. This caused me to briefly stop and reminisce about my childhood. But enough of that, I am here on a mission, I am researching old newspaper articles to get information for a genealogy project. I never thought that there would be a time that I would willingly research and write this much once I was out of school, yet here I sit, sorting through decades of information and taking pages of notes.

It had been a very foggy and rainy night as I was going to investigate a suspected drug gang. Being the overachieving detective I was, I decided to cut through a dark, musty forest to see if I could find clues for a case my colleague was trying to crack. As I walked into the forest, something made a spine-chilling cackle, and I stopped. My heart began to beat quickly, and I put my hand in my bag to reach my pistol. Just when I had wrapped my hand around the grip, something tall and pudgy came hurtling towards me, and everything went black.

the bank alarm goes off. I race to the scene. There was no traces of the crooks. I went inside the bank I got cornered by pigs! Then they raced away on motorcycles.

As he sneaked crossed the hallway in silence making sure he heard no police sirens. ' I not getting caught today.' He thought, he neared room 132 that's when he heard a click. And the door eased open slowly, ' The police, run, run away' is the last thing he thought before a little head with black hair and blue eyes peeked thru. Charles had just got thru the door unnoticed, he closed the door as quietly as he could absolutely worried he would be caught. As he turned around he realized it was already too late a tall, thin, man was standing there smirking but Charles noticed he had a speck of fear in his eyes. Charles ran, ran not away from the intruder but away from his

Gun fire. Schklikt, klikt. One, two, three, four… There are too many shots to count. They seem random, but every single one sends a chill down your back. Laughter, shrill, joyous laughter just outside the library’s doors echoes through the hallway. Your heart stops, you freeze. Any movement could be your killer. After what feels like hours you hear an explosion below. “Get under the tables!” You scurry over to the nearest table and look towards the entrance. Dark shadows appear and you pull your knees closer to your chest. The doors burst open. The gunmen cross over to the west windows that shatter when the bullets hit them. Schklikt, klikt. You hold your breath as the screams from outside echo into the library. It takes everything inside you not to cry, not to scream. The gunmen turn away from the windows and grin. They know what they have done, and they are proud of it. Shots are fired, and a chorus of cries erupt from the victims. You see a set of legs walk toward you. You bury your face in your knees and began to pray for your life, for this all to end, for this to be a nightmare, a terrible nightmare. You pray to wake up. “Peek a boo.”