Grandfather's Creighton: A Fictional Narrative

Thunder crackled in the night sky, lighting it with a brilliant flash of white, abruptly going back into darkness. An old man stares out the window, sighing, as he soaks in the ambient noise of the storm. It calms his nerves as he recalls a story, passed down the generations of his family. Horrid images flash through his mind as he slowly closes his eyes, running his hand over the aged skin of his face. This old man, he wasn’t there to experience the carnage, the curse of that grim night, even so, the story was so vivid in his mind.

“Creighton, will you come and help me to my chair?” He beckons a young boy to take hold of his arm, eyes still closed. He can hear the soft thumping of footsteps against the polished stone floors, a small and
I cannot bear to see the day when she returns to us.” Distress filled the old man’s face, defining his deep lines.

“She? Who is she? Grandfather..?”

“You will know soon, close your eyes, child and let the darkness engulf you as I tell you the story of the Mistress of the Ritual...”

-

The seaside town of Penrith was always a mystery to people who had ever stepped foot in it, chills would crawl up their spine, over their arms and into the fingertips of their hands by just taking in the atmosphere of the place. Ones with the faintest of hearts would always feel sickly. It was a sad town, overlooking the deep, blue-black ocean. Sharp rocks lining the shores below the town on the cliff. Something hung in the cool, salty air, something eerie; it was beyond the normalcy of the townsfolk. No one ever knew what it was nor did anyone try to figure out what made it so.

“A little further out into the ocean is the Knife’s Edge, where colossal statues of fearsome warriors were erected, towering over everything else, protectors of the weak and tired or so the story goes.” A young woman rambles on as she carefully scales the rocky walls to another winding