We were supposed to write a story about an old woman, using a twist in it.
Here is what I thought up
Sitting on the park bench, that cold December day in New York, she was hardly noticeable. Many people passed her, but nobody stopped to look. In the movies, you always notice that old woman sitting on a bench in a park, smiling and throwing birdseed around, which was exactly what she was doing. That was her mistake; there were no pigeons around in the middle of the winter. I noticed this, walking around with no purpose, and stopped to look at her, confused. She somehow noticed me, and looked at me for about 2 seconds. Then a person passed in front of me, and she was gone. Nobody noticed, they just kept walking along as if nothing happened. I stood there for a moment, wondering what just happened. That old woman did not look nearly young enough to move that quickly, with nobody staring at her. I shrugged it off and kept meandering around. Then I saw her again, standing in front of me, about 10 feet away. She looked… different, but I couldn’t put my finger on how she looked different. She smiled evilly at me, and then disappeared. That’s right; she vanished in the middle of the walkway. I doubt anyone even saw her. Thoroughly scared now, and unsure of my sanity, I ran home. I kept seeing her, flashing by me as I ran faster and faster. Each time I saw her she seemed to distort, and he smile just kept getting bigger and eviler. I got home at dark, grabbed a kitchen knife from the drawer, and ran to my room. I sat in my bed, breathing heavily for about a half an hour. By then, complete darkness had fallen. I started to think that it was my imagination, and then made the mistake of glancing out my window. She was there, looking worse than ever, her wicked smile nearly splitting her face. I did the only thing I could think of; hiding under my blanket. I have been typing this on my iPod, and I can hear her outside. I’m right: She IS just a part of my imagination. Somehow, though, I know she can hurt me. The front door is opening. It’s not my parents, I know. I hear footsteps in the hallway, getting closer with every footfall. I grip my knife closer, though I know it will do no good.
You can’t kill what doesn’t exi
