Putney Mountain: A Narrative Fiction

She uses modern psychology and old ghost stories. These elements entice the reader to ponder what is real and what is not. When you combine the nature of the characters in Hill House and then compare them to the events taking place in the house “(blood on the clothes, blood on/in the walls, mysterious voices calling out and children laughing)”,

Nothing of interest was in the room, only dimly lit candles and trunks of old, moth eaten clothes. She felt as if someone, or something, was watching her, waiting to drag me into the shadows. Then there it was it was she was unsure but almost certain it was a ghost. The ghost was a white cloud like figure and its eyes and mouth were as black as the night sky's. It was more silent than the grave it arose from, staring with heavy lidded eyes and a slack mouth..As Emily turned to leave, “Don't go.” said a gentle voice, “we can be such good friends.” A blue-white glow filled the room making her skin appear paper thin. “Who are you” Emily asked in fear “We met the day I turned twelve. At the train station, you sat across from me with a small smile. Our toes could hardly touch the floor then. I remember being so very close with each other, but I don’t know how after what you did to me” Emily shook her head mutely. She'd been here an hour tops, or this was some nightmare. It wasn't real, how could it be. “Stay with me” the ghost repeated as Emily was trying to find a way out. She shook her head. “Why refuse

Day after day, we would pass the mansion building on our way to and from school. Branches of vines and clusters of moss crawled up the sides of the building. I could see the paint, tearing off the walls. People for years have said the mansion building is haunted, but I don’t believe it. They say people have been possessed and killed there. Olivia, of course, believes every detail anyone tells him. To teach him a lesson, we decided to plan to spend the night in the mansion building this Saturday.

The ride home was much different than the ride to the hospital, Mrs. Girroir reminisced about all the good and the bad times they shared. She told me how he served in the U.S. Army during the Korean War and got several Medals of Honor. She told me the story of how they met in Honduras while he was stationed there. She grinned as she explained how he told her father he would marry her before they even spoke to one another. He was a very confident man, very romantic, yet stubborn and sarcastic. I glanced in the rearview mirror at the girls and saw them smiling listening intently to their mothers stories. The mood was no longer melancholy but lighthearted almost mirthful. We attended the funeral, Janice and I. We had become a part of their family, experienced both sorrow and pain alongside them.

In her essay “Nine Days of Ruth,” Angela Morales eloquently yet humorously narrates the final nine days of her grandmother’s life. Initially, Morales reminisces about the day her grandmother Ruth passed away projecting a gothic, murky and vacant atmosphere. However, Morales shifts from a leaden tone to a more gratifying voice revealing her grandmother’s life trajectory: betrayal, death, and struggles. The author ends with a eulogy expressing to her grandmother that while other will bury with a different image or perspective in mind, she will bury her as a luminary. Make-believe, fantasy, and imagination play an important role in the essay because it conveys the beauty of death.

After two long hours of traveling with nothing to look at but the passing trees, we finally arrived at the farm. As we piled out of the car, I looked at the dirt road we came in on and turned to the house. It was one story and had a red tin roof, surrounded by a large grassy field and then woods beyond that. Twirling around, I walked into the house and plopped onto the closes bed. As everyone else unpacked, I locked myself in the room like a petulant child.

“Grandfather, I’ll always come home,” Painted Girl touched his shoulder and smiled at him, “You know that, I’ll be here forever.”

“Why are you being so formal? You can call me, Ernest. I won’t have a bunch of women messing around my house.”

Tuesday, September 12th wasn’t any normal day, it was a day of remembrance and sadness. Everyone in the family met at the church at 10 a.m., we then sat there and socialized until eleven o'clock. The preacher, pianist, and singer then walked out into the chapel where we all sat, with emptiness in our hearts. The pianist then started playing a church tune, and the singer, a lady from the church, started singing. Some of the people in the family then glanced at each other and tried not to laugh at the horrid sound of the lady. After she finally stopped singing, the pastor walked up to the casket. He then said, “Bow your heads, We stand here today to honor Robert F. “Bob” Williams.”

Yesterday, my father took me to the flat of Irene Williams. It was a beautiful little place, with big windows looking out upon the busy street. She had lace curtains, a small pink couch made of velvet, and a birch coffee table. On the table was a jar full of biscuits and a cup of tea, still hot. She had pictures of friends, family, and relatives hung up on her walls. It’s a shame I never got to meet Irene, she seems like such a lovely person to talk to. But Irene Williams is dead, and let’s face it, dead people are boring to talk to. They never listen.

"It must be hard to have nowhere to go at the end of the day," I look at her with regret on my face realizing that what I had just said was probably insulting. She just smiles, "its really not bad once you get used to it." I sigh with relief, "I think this is good enough for now. Would you like something to eat?" I ask as I sit down against a stump....How

After the short hour and a half plane ride, we arrived at her “house.” My eyes glowed at the sight.

“ They’re planning to go down Wachusett mountain.” I replied. A wave of disbelief washed over her face, and I got pretty confused, not knowing that Wachusett was a very dangerous mountain; especially for beginners like me.

The moment I emerged from the stairway I began to stare at the man sitting in the chair across the room. This man was not the man I remembered; this man was pale, weak, and lacked motivation. He was not my grandpa: outspoken, stubborn, and jolly. However, the house had not changed one bit. There was still a cluttered mess on the table and reminisce of my departed great-grandma all throughout the house.

I looked up at the morning sky painted in hues of purple and pink. The crisp air tickled at my nose. I stood in front of the open passenger door of the truck while waiting for Jacob to give me further instructions. I found Jacob on one of those mountain-climbing adventure websites. He had the highest rating of all the Mountaineers featured.