The Runaway

So here’s the intro to a story I’m writing. It started out as a narrative paper for Composition, but it ended up turning into… this. Of course, I’m still turning it in as my narrative paper! She said it was okay if we wanted the paper to be part of a larger story. Anyway, I’d appreciate it if you could read it and let me know what you think! A-and also let me know if you notice any errors @u@
 

You were meant only to observe; never to interact. It was the only rule they gave you. They allowed you free reign so long as you followed that one simple rule. And yet here you are, hiding for your life in an abandoned lakeside cabin, hoping to God that they don’t find you. You had grown too curious, too confident. You thought they would never notice. As it turned out, though, you thought wrong.

You let out a heavy sigh and lean against the wood-paneled wall. None of this was supposed to happen. You pushed your luck too far this time, and they caught on. You’ll just have to keep running. It’s funny – you always wanted to travel the world. This wasn’t quite what you had in mind.

You look around the room. The walls are dark wood; the floor, light. The room is covered in dust. Cobwebs drape like silk from the ceiling. Simple light fixtures and empty shelves adorn the walls. On the wall across from you is a four-pane window, its thick ochre curtains pulled shut; and a plain door with a brass knob, worn and tarnished from use – though you’re not sure by whom. A bookshelf spans the entire wall to your right. A few old books litter the shelves, most damaged and unreadable. Against the left wall is a large brick fireplace. A warm flame billows inside, casting a dim, flickering golden light on the room. In the center of the floor is a large, dark green rug. On top of it is a short wooden table, a matching set of three chairs surrounding it. The finish is stripped from parts of the table and chairs, but they are otherwise in good condition. Atop the table is a large candle on a brass stand. Hardened wax trails down the sides of the candle and the holder, pooling at its base. A light brown leather recliner sits in the corner to your far left. The seat is very worn. Next to the recliner is a tall brass lamp which, much to your surprise, still works. The dull orange lampshade is covered in holes. In the left corner adjacent to you is an antique phonograph. Although it seems well cared for, it does not work.

You inhale. The air is thick and musty, and you can smell the wood burning in the fireplace. A storm rages outside. The wind roars and howls. You can hear the raindrops splash onto the roof – loud, muffled, off-beat thumps. Every so often you see a bright flash of lightning, accompanied by a deafening crash of thunder. You make your way over to the window, the floorboards creaking as you walk. You wipe the dust off of the glass and look out. Tall, strong trees bend in the gale, as if they could snap or uproot at any second. The wind ripples through the grass. The rain is pouring nearly sideways from the force of the harsh wind.

Something moves in a distance. Your heart skips a beat and for a moment you are frozen in terror. Could they have possibly found you already? You shake your head and dismiss the thought. It was probably just a wolf. But it runs past again, and you can’t help but think that it definitely looks human. You crouch below the window. Better safe than sorry. You turn to face the wall you were leaning against earlier. There are two doors – the one on your right leads to the hallway, and the one on your left leads outside. You head toward the left, making sure to stay low. You turn the knob. The door swings open violently and a strong gust of wind blows in, nearly knocking you over. Rain pools in the doorway. The storm is much louder now that it is not muffled by the walls. You grimace and brace yourself. It’s time to run.