kent – Sincerely, Jennifer x

Deadman’s Island

Posted on January 9, 2023 by MissJSquared

Hi Mum, it’s me, Michelle. I’ve done something really stupid. If you’re hearing this, then I want you to know that I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Mum. I love you, and I’m sorry. I don’t know if this voice note will send, the signal isn’t great over here, but I hope it does.

I really fucked up. It was so stupid. I’m sorry.

We did something bad to Hannah.

It’s all out of control Mum. I don’t know what to do. It was just supposed to be a joke, I guess. A prank. We didn’t even think she would go through with it but now we’re in such a mess and I don’t know what to do. It was just a joke, you know? We just wanted to show her… well, I don’t know. She was just annoying and… Oh God. Mum, I’m so sorry.

Lorraine and I were just messing with her and now something awful has happened. Oh God. What have we done? There’s something here, and it did something bad to Hannah…

Hannah, you know the new girl? She just moved here with her parents, and she was… weird. I know that isn’t a reason for what we did, but…

I’ve learned my lesson, okay? I get it now. Yes, she was weird and kind of annoying but we shouldn’t have done this. There was never a reason to do this. I get it. I get it! I could say that I’m sorry, but nothing will change. I just want to come home, but what did this to her is still here, somewhere, and now, the boat is gone.

Hannah didn’t deserve this.

She was weird. She’d cling to us all the time, always wanting to hang out with us, and following us everywhere. We just wanted to freak her out a little, scare her maybe, but it wasn’t supposed to be like this. We could have just said that we didn’t want to be friends, I guess, but we thought we’d teach her a lesson, and now…

Will you tell Hannah’s parents that we’re sorry? It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Neither of us could have predicted it. Nobody could, but now… Look, the reasons don’t matter. If you hear this, you have to come to Deadman’s Island.

Mum, We took Hannah to Deadman’s Island.

I know. I know. You told me never to go there, and Dad will be furious when he finds out I took the boat, especially as I’ve also lost it, but I just got caught up in the moment. I know it’s stupid. I’m so fucking stupid.

Everyone knows you shouldn’t go there, but we all go to the beach to look at it from across the water, some of us even swim out, daring each other to go closer and closer, but nobody ever goes onto the island. I know that you know we do that, because you and Dad probably did, and everyone who grew up in this boring old town did before us too. That’s the problem with growing up here, there’s nothing to do.

We tried to explain that to Hannah. Lorraine and I weren’t doing anything exciting. Just getting milkshakes at the cafe or hanging out at the beach. There was nothing exciting going on, so there was no need to be so insistent on being our friend… I suppose she was lonely. She hasn’t exactly made friends since she got here, but then again, she IS weird, so who is really at fault for that?

It doesn’t matter at all anyway. I suppose I’m just thinking, remembering everything from before, because it’s all I will have now. You’re not going to get here on time. I know that, and you might not ever hear this, and even if you do, it really was my fault. Hannah was weird and annoying, but she didn’t deserve this.

We took her to Deadman’s Island. Lorraine and I picked her up, telling her that she could come and hang out with us for the day, and she looked overjoyed. As we left her garden, her mum mouthed a quick “Thank you” with a smile as Hannah linked arms with us and we ran down towards the beach.

She was stunned when I showed her Dad’s boat, so excited, and when I told her that we would be going to explore Deadman’s Island, she started to look a little anxious.

We told her all about it. An abandoned island out in the sea, with no people, barely any animals, and a ton of dead bodies. Our own little spooky urban legend, ready to be explored, the resting place of the damned. She bit her lip, swallowing nervously, but she agreed to go. I think she wanted to seem cool.

The plan was to convince her to stay the night there by herself, to prove herself cool enough to be friends with us. We knew she couldn’t stay the whole night, but we kept encouraging her as if she could, and she seemed to believe in herself too.

We swapped numbers, so she could call us if she wanted to quit, but she promised that she wouldn’t. Lorraine and I both smiled sweetly as we left the island, waving at Hannah as she began setting the tent we’d left her, and as soon as we got out of sight, we collapsed into laughter, wondering how long it would be before she called to quit.

I know it was cruel, dangerous even, but we couldn’t have known what would have happened. Deadman’s Island is creepy, sure, but nobody is there. No dangerous animals live there, the air is safe, there are no people to run afoul of, and she had a pretty sturdy tent. We thought that she’d be fine…

Hannah didn’t call all night. Lorraine and I stayed over at her house, watching movies and waiting, but we heard nothing from Hannah. We were impressed, I suppose. She was tougher than we thought. We set off early in the morning, sneaking back into the boat down at the shore and across to the island.

As we stepped off the boat, I noticed how quiet it was, which isn’t unusual for an uninhabited island, but even with that in mind, there was an eerie silence, and Hannah’s tent wasn’t where it had been the night before.

The island isn’t big, but it’s hard to navigate, with all the bones and uneven ground, so Hannah couldn’t have gone far… except, she was nowhere to be found.

Mum, she’s missing. We’ve looked everywhere, and she isn’t here. We found her tent, floating by the shore of the island. It was torn up, ripped at the door, and inside… Oh God… Inside, there was blood sloshing around in the lining with the seawater. There was no other sign of Hannah. She’s gone, and whatever took her, or did this to her… It could still be out there. We dropped the tent when we saw the blood and ran back across the island, tripping and falling on the bones that jutted from the ground, until we reached the side where we’d left the boat, except… it wasn’t there.

We’re trapped on this island Mum. Hannah has vanished. Something really bad has happened to her, I just know it, and it’s all my fault. Please, if you hear this, please help us. We have to find her, and you have to find us. Please!

I keep hearing these weird noises, but whenever we turn around, there’s nobody there. It’s so dark, and we can hardly see a thing.

We’re on Deadman’s Island. I know that you’ll be angry, and you can ground me for life when I get back, but please just get here!

-x-

Hi Michelle’s Mum, it’s me, Hannah. Michelle’s done something really stupid.

I just wanted to be her friend. I’ve been so lonely, you know? Moving from town to town, never settling long enough to really connect with anyone. That’s all I ever wanted, but no, Michelle and Lorraine couldn’t let me have that.

I knew that they wouldn’t have been my friends, even if I stayed on this island all night. I’m not stupid. I’d seen the way they rolled their eyes when I sat next to them at school, how they’d cross the street to avoid me, like I was diseased, some kind of pariah.

They’re all diseased here, Mrs Harrison. All the boys that died on this island were terribly ill, battling the blue death until the end, their skin, a sickly shade of sapphire as they sank into the waiting arms of death. They used to take them off of the ships and dump them here, right where I stand. They told me, last night, all the boys, they gathered around the fire and told me all about what they’d been through, and my heart went out to them.

I suppose you think I must have been frightened, but I wasn’t. I knew how they’d felt, because I’d been dumped on the island too, and they weren’t my first friends from beyond the grave.

Mummy and Daddy don’t like it. They always move me away when they find out about a new friend I’ve made. At first, they thought it was a game, a phase I was going through, something I’d made up, but then, they saw her, little Mary-Ann, seven hundred and four years old, but not a day over twelve, if you ignored the cobwebs and earthworms.

After that, they just kept moving me round and round. They’d look for towns without graveyards, but it didn’t make a difference, because I always have a way of finding new friends. It’s not hard, I just give them a little incentive to come back, and… they do, but like I said, Mummy and Daddy don’t like it.

I promised I’d try and quit when we moved here, and I would have, if Michelle and Lorraine had been my friends. It’s their fault, Mrs Harrison, because of them, I had to go looking elsewhere, and now, after being dumped, by strange coincidence on a whole island full of potential friends, I’m back to my old habits. Mummy and Daddy will be furious.

I had to hide from Michelle and Lorraine, because my friends needed a little something to keep them going. I give them a little of my blood when they arise, but they needed a proper meal. You don’t mind, do you? I wouldn’t worry, because I can bring your girls back home to you. They’ll be hungry, though. I’ve sent my boys to fetch the boat, and we’ll be over right away.

Just don’t tell my parents anything about this, alright? Or tell them, I suppose, it doesn’t matter. They could drag me away when I only had one friend to protect me, but now, I’ve got a whole island full, so we’ll see who’s really in charge now…

See you soon!

Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Deadman’s Island – Part Two

Posted on January 9, 2023 by MissJSquared

Hi Michelle’s Mum, it’s me, Hannah. Michelle’s done something really stupid.

I suppose you think I must have been frightened, but I wasn’t. I knew how they’d felt, because I’d been dumped on the island too, and they weren’t my first friends from beyond the grave.

See you soon!

Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Deadman’s Island – Part One

Posted on January 8, 2023 by MissJSquared

I really fucked up. It was so stupid. I’m sorry.

We did something bad to Hannah.

Lorraine and I were just messing with her and now something awful has happened. Oh God. What have we done? There’s something here, and it did something bad to Hannah…

Hannah, you know the new girl? She just moved here with her parents, and she was… weird. I know that isn’t a reason for what we did, but…

Hannah didn’t deserve this.

Mum, We took Hannah to Deadman’s Island.

She was stunned when I showed her Dad’s boat, so excited, and when I told her that we would be going to explore Deadman’s Island, she started to look a little anxious.

The island isn’t big, but it’s hard to navigate, with all the bones and uneven ground, so Hannah couldn’t have gone far… except, she was nowhere to be found.

I keep hearing these weird noises, but whenever we turn around, there’s nobody there. It’s so dark, and we can hardly see a thing.

We’re on Deadman’s Island. I know that you’ll be angry, and you can ground me for life when I get back, but please just get here!

Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Mr Bell

Posted on December 5, 2022 by MissJSquared

As a child, all that Beauregard had was his books. He’d run away from the orphanage several times a week, and the police would always find the boy in the town’s library, huddled over huge volumes, because he simply loved to read.

His name had come from a book. His mother could not read, but his father would read to her during pregnancy, and after coming across the name in a book, it was decided that the little child who kicked against his mother’s stomach every time it was read aloud would have the name.

He hadn’t much of anything, losing his mother before he’d even met her, and his father to grief and alcohol, but he had always had his books.

They weren’t his books, of course, for they belonged to the library, but he adored them like they were his own, and when he turned fourteen and was sent out into the world to fend for himself, the first place that he turned was the library.

Dartford had a beautiful library, right in the centre of town. It had been built by Charles Linden in the last days of the 1700’s, before the man went mad.

Once the most celebrated writers of his generation, Linden had become reclusive in his later years and all that was left of him was his words, and the walls that contained them. The people of the town would still talk in hushed tones about the old man being dragged from his library and carted off to the lunatic asylum. That was the last that Dartford ever saw of Charles Linden, but his library remained, towering over the town, filled with knowledge and wisdom. One last gift to the people that had turned their back on him.

Linden had always been an author that Beauregard admired, even after many had decided that his writing had crossed into the bizarre, so Linden’s library had always been his favourite place to be.

He would sleep in it’s shadow, staying warm inside during the day with the friends and familiar places that lived in the pages, and after a while, the kind eyed librarian, Mrs Waterson took pity on the boy, and allowed him to board in the attic of the library, in exchange for working there.

Beauregard didn’t have much at the library, beyond his books, a sink and a camp bed, but he felt like his life was finally changing for the better. He took such joy in recommending books to the visitors, reading fairy tales to the children and keeping all of his favourite books in the best condition.

He would return to the attic every evening with a bowl of soup from the kitchen, and page after page of entertainment. It was, to the boy who had nothing, the perfect life.

Beauregard never felt any less satisfaction from his simple existence. He never longed for money, fame or fortune, but sometimes, as he fell into a soft slumber in his small sanctuary, Beauregard longed for a friend to share his stories with.

He had begun writing stories after working at the library for a while. Mrs Waterson had decided to pay him a small wage, and he would spend almost all of it on paper and ink, forgoing food every few days, so that he could keep himself in writing supplies.

He couldn’t really say when he met Charles Linden, but after a while, it seemed that he couldn’t remember his life before him. Linden had been dead for decades, and yet, he appeared in the attic to the boy, every night as he took out his paper to write.

At first, the man did not speak. He would stand in the corner of the attic, barely visible in the weak candle light, and watch Beauregard writing. Beauregard couldn’t remember the first time he had been watched, and had never felt any shock or surprise at the intrusion, which made very little sense to him. Sometimes, he thought he was imagining it, but sometimes, as the man watched, he was certain that their time together was real.

As strange as it was, Beauregard had never feared the visits from the long dead man. He had often envied Ebenezar Scrooge for his ghostly company, rather than his money as he had read A Christmas Carol, and now, as quiet as he was, Beauregard had a ghost of his own.

Winter had wrapped its icy arms around the attic, and as Beauregard wrote late into the night, watched over by his spectre, Charles finally spoke.

“Would you like to borrow his quill Beauregard?” Beauregard looked up with curious eyes at the shadowy figure in the corner. The candle light crept across the man’s face, shining on every line and crevice as it passed, before the darkness swallowed up the man’s face again. “It’s how I wrote all my best stories.” Beauregard looked down at his fountain pen, wondering how a quill could be any better, but not sure that he could pass up the opportunity to hold the instrument of his idol, even if it was just a dream.

The boy nodded, watching the man lean down to meet him, placing a delicate, white quill into his shaking hands. Beauregard kept the man’s gaze a little longer, his eyes wandering across the red, wrinkled outline of the older man’s stare. He had only ever seen Linden in paintings, but up close, he was in awe of the man, and as he slowly moved the quill down towards the ink, he couldn’t take his eyes from his ghostly friend.

The spirit motioned to the paper without another word and Beauregard swallowed nervously, dipping the quill into his ink pot and holding it above the paper. The room was awash with winter’s chill as Beauregard began to write. He kept his eyes on the pale face of the old man, his hand moving across the page as he wrote.

That night, Beauregard wrote the most beautiful prose. His mind raced with ideas, and he was up all night, Linden watching quietly as the boy wrote. Somewhere close to sunrise, he fell asleep, the quill still clutched in his hands. Beauregard was tormented during a short and shallow sleep. Chased by shadows and spectres as the night dragged on.

The morning came, and the many pages Beauregard had written were scattered around him, the words crossed through and scribbled upon. Beauregard scratched his head, looking through the papers in confusion. The stories had changed. Once so beautiful, they were now chilling. Macabre, melancholy pages of madness. Page after page of insanity and incomprehensible violence. Beauregard turned away, not wanting to see the words that seemed to have come from his quill.

“It’s your madness now.” Came a whisper behind the boy. He jumped, turning to see the cold stare of Linden looming over him again. “You can’t escape Mr Bell, you know.” The man seemed to fade from view as he sighed. “Even now I’ve given him to you, he’ll still be with me.” The man’s voice vanished along with him, and Beauregard was alone in the attic, with nothing but his pages, his quill, and his madness.

He didn’t know the full extent of it, of course. None of Mr Bell’s favourite writers ever did. You see, it begins with a visit from the last, the handing over of the quill to the new, and then, the first piece of prose. It is always beautiful. It is always something that stuns them, shows them their true potential, makes them hungry for more, and then, they will dream as Mr Bell reads their stories.

Mr Bell will want more and more as the days go by. He has so many ideas, so inspired by the world around him, and all the things that his favourite writers can do with them.

They never get the chance to tell him “no”, of course. Who could? He is always their most generous patron. He provides the quill that brings out their best. He knows all sorts of people in publishing. He can take a poor boy from the attic of a library and make him a star.

You’ll always have ink, if Mr Bell enjoys your work. The ink may be red, rather than black, but it’s just as good. The library might be a little quieter, but that’s only because the visitors are experiencing stories in a whole new way. You see, Mr Bell likes to see things come to life from the pages. He was never the best at visualising, but the visitors of the library are only too happy to oblige.

Beauregard thought he’d be the last. He tasted success as a writer for Mr Bell, and he didn’t much like it. He fought, quite valiantly against the madness, but the madness just fought back. If Mr Bell was perhaps just a wealthy, pushy man, Beauregard might have succeeded, but as I’m sure you are coming to understand, Mr Bell was something far greater than that.

The library doesn’t get many visitors these days. Books have fallen out of favour, and this once beautiful building has fallen into disrepair, but every now and again, someone finds their way to our little library, and Beauregard is always waiting at the door.

He’ll read them a story, to try and scare them away, but he’s never quite quick enough to keep them away from me.

You see, I’m looking for a new writer that I might enjoy, and you never know who might pop into our rather unearthly little library. Take you, for example. I’ve got a lovely quill that is looking for a new home. I’ve grown tired of Beauregard and his stories… I think it might be time for him to be put out to pasture, but, you. I see so many stories in you…

Blog, Personal, Pride Month 2022