Wrinkled skin. Image by cocoparisienne from Pixabay

I dig and dig. The sweat falling down my face instantly freezes in the icy breeze. My face is pink from the cold but I just carry on digging. The priceless gloves that my grandma knitted for me before she died were itching my hand. I couldn’t bear it any longer. I stop digging the grave. The man watching over me and my brother stares at me. He paid us both good money to dig the graves.

He calls to me. “Why did you stop digging?” I can hardly hear him because the wind carried his voice away from me.

I answer: “I need to take my gloves off.”

He doesn’t bother answering back.

I was about to put my gloves in my pocket but then thought to myself they might blow out because I didn’t have a zip so I slip them under a rock nearby. I check that they’re secure, then carry on digging.

After an hour, I finish digging and go home. My brother follows. We wash up and have showers when I remember. I left my gloves in the graveyard. A feeling of dread wells up in me. I have to go back and get them. They’re priceless. The night is still as cold as ever. The sun has gone down, and the sky is pitch black. There are few stars in the sky.

I beg my brother to help me find them, and he reluctantly agrees. I feel nervous. The only light we have is the dim torchlights.

We ran as fast as we can in the strong winds. My heart is through the roof.

We go straight to the spot where my gloves are.

As we get closer, all I see is a girl with dirty black hair and very boney features. She almost looks like she’s glowing, but this must be my imagination.

As I creep closer. She gets up. I freeze, a rush of fear hits me. My heart almost feels like it’s trying to escape, hitting my chest so hard.

The girl walks towards me. I hear my brother going strange, making noises which sounded like he is struggling with something.

The girl is just a foot away and now I can see her properly. She wears my mittens. She was almost transparent, with glowing turquoise skin.

She looked like she had no flesh at all. You could see her ribs poking out. She only wore a thin cloth around her body. Then the thing that frightened me the most, her face. It was covered by her dirty hair, except for her eyes, if you could even call them that. They were just holes with dark, rotting skin covering them. I take a step back.

“A-a.” I stutter.

“I’m so cold.” Her voice is cracked, and she sounds upset.

She takes a step closer.

“Need your jacket.”

I start stepping backwards. She advances.

“I need your jacket. I’m so cold.”

“Please, I need your jumper, give them to me!” she screams at me, crying.

Before I can do anything, she grabbed my arm, her bony fingers puncture my coat.

She takes a step closer. So we are face to face. My throat is dry. A small tear roles down my left cheek.

“I need your skin!”



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Owais Shariff

Owais Shariff


My name is Owais, I love writing. I am 11 years old and am currently homeschooling. I love writing fiction and hope to pursue writing as a career.