Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-33531395-20171113200011

I wrote this story recently and would love to hear any opinions about it. Please do offer hinest criticism. This story is based around a Mexican Urban Legend.

The Story:

Simon bolted into his apartment, sweat covering his entire face. He was extremely terrified and a mess. It was around midnight, his apartment was dimly lit by the moonlight shining through his windows.

In his hands, he held papers filled with scribbles and text. Each paper was used up from back to front, some of the black pen text was smugged and the many sketches of what looked to be a young girl were roughly erased from various angles.

Simon walked over to his kitchen, taking out a small knife from the drawers for protection. She was coming for him. He sat in anticipation, gripping the knife tightly in his hands as his gaze never left his front door. Everything around him was silent, it seemed as if time stopped right there and then.

However, the silence was broken by quiet shuffling coming from outside. The footsteps stopped in front of his door.

Knock.

He froze, his hands began sweating much more and his posture was shakily swaying from left to right.

Knock.

There it went again, another solid knock. Simon began slowly moving towards his living room, his back pressed up against the walls all the while.

Knock.

It was much louder and stronger. It made him jump a bit.

Knock.

The door handle started to turn. Someone was trying to come inside.

Knock.

It began rattling and shaking vigurously, seeming like it would break off at any moment.

Knock.

Simon, adrenaline coursing his body, swiftly turned around and made a bee-line for his bedroom. Alas, the coffee table had stopped him in his tracks, making him tumble to the ground. The papers in his hand sprawled all over the floor.

Knock.

It was too late, Simon couldn't escape in time. He turned onto his back and watched as his front door opened every so slowly. A bright white light shone on him and he held up his arm in front of his face to shield his eyes.

The sudden noise of soft pitpatting echoed around the room. After his eyes adjusted, Simon stared at the figure who had just entered his home. It was a little girl. She was wearing an old fashioned white dress that looked to be very valuable. Her hair was brown, her skin as white as the very paper on the floor. One distinguishing feature was her black, souless eyes which were crying crimson red.

Simon began crawling backwards, the knife now sliding across the floor under his palm. The girl slowly inched closer to him, her face showing a look of pure hatred. She raised her hands up, revealing sharp, pointed nails.

Simon's back eventually met the sofa behind him. He was trapped. With tears in his eyes, Simon looked up at the girl, who seemed to have aged to a young teenage girl, and rested his faith to her.

No one can escape The White Death. 