The spooky story (667 words)

"Tharpa, I’ve been putting off telling you this, but the weekly isn’t doing well. With the advent of the internet, our circulation has plummeted,” the editor of 'Your Weekly' paused. I stayed quiet, worried about where this was going.

“If the circulation doesn’t pick up, we might have to shut down. Nothing is happening in this town, and readers are bored. We need to shake things up. I’m adding a spooky section. Find real, terrifying stories. Your first one is due in three days for the Sunday edition. If we don’t do something dramatic, we’ll all be looking for new jobs,” he concluded, returning to his manuscript. I wasn’t overly worried—young and single as I was—but I wanted to rise to the occasion.

I drove to a nearly abandoned village, recalling an old, dilapidated mansion on its outskirts. It seemed perfect for a spine-chilling story. As I got out of the car, an old farmer passing by said, “Why are you going there? It’s haunted. Stay away if you know what’s good for you.”

“Thanks, but I’m just taking some pictures for my magazine,” I replied, walking through the broken gate. The pathway was littered with dry leaves and broken twigs. Some windows hung loosely from their frames. I knocked on the door, half-expecting no response. To my surprise, it opened, revealing a small man with deep, sunken eyes.

“Is the master here?” I asked.

“Sure. Come in and be seated. Does he know you?” he asked in a squeaky voice.

“I doubt it. Just tell him Tharpa from Your Weekly for an interview,” I replied as he led me into a large, musty hall filled with cobwebs and scattered leaves. “We have no servants, and times are hard,” he said. “Please wait. He’ll be down soon.”

I noticed a huge portrait of a man with a sword and spear, his gaze seemingly fixed on me. Suddenly, the portrait’s lips parted, and its mouth opened. Fear gripped me, and I called out, “Hey, I can’t wait any longer. Let me out!”

The figure in the portrait descended, blocking the exit, looking menacing with one hand on his sword. Sweat drenched my clothes as I shouted, “Hey, come quick!” My voice barely worked. The servant’s voice echoed, saying the master had already come to meet me.

Desperate, I looked for an escape. The figure advanced, and I heard a squeaky crackle. Turning, I saw the servant as a skeleton, arms dangling and laughing loudly. The figure closed in, and I fainted.

The Sunday edition of 'Your Weekly' carried the headline and detailed report:

"Reporter Found Dead in Mysterious Circumstances"

We regret to announce the unexpected death of our reporter Tharpa in a supposedly haunted mansion. He went there to gather material for our new spooky stories' column. A villager, who saw him enter, waited for him to come out. When he didn’t, he gathered others and found Tharpa lying on the floor of the hall. No other person was present. The local doctor declared it a cardiac arrest, though villagers blame ghosts.

Tharpa was one of our best and fearless…

---

On Monday morning, the editor prepared to visit the coroner's office for the inquest. A gentle knock preceded Tharpa’s entry. A chill ran down the editor's spine, and he nearly fainted.

The figure spoke in a squeaky voice, "Do not be scared. I am not your reporter but the servant of the Master of the mansion in the reporter's frame. When the reporter passed away, I couldn’t resist entering his lifeless body from my skeleton after everyone left the mansion. I don’t know where to go or what to do."

Summoning courage, the editor asked, "What proof do you have that you’re not Tharpa but a ghost masquerading as him?"

"None, except his phone with the pictures he was taking. You can see my skeleton there," said the squeaky voice.

When the editor clicked open the phone, he fainted, leaving the figure in Tharpa's frame bewildered.

 

Behind the facade of ugliness (395 words)

I was in the supermarket with my seven-year-old daughter, having just bought groceries and treats from the bakery. The evening breeze was gentle, and my daughter wished to sit by the fountain outside the store and watch the falling water. I moved towards a bench where a young boy was already sitting. As we got closer, I noticed his dirty, torn knickers and oversized T-shirt. His unkempt hair looked like it hadn’t been washed for days, and his bare legs were covered in grime.

As my daughter rushed to the bench, I called her back. “Let’s sit on the other bench,” I said.

“Why, Mom? I like this one. There’s a boy there,” she asked innocently.

“It’s not clean here. Let’s go to the other bench,” I replied, avoiding a detailed explanation.

She followed reluctantly, frequently glancing back at the boy. He smiled at her, his eyes sparkling with joy.

“What’s wrong with sitting next to him? Is it because he’s poor?” she asked, her tone tinged with sadness and anger.

“He’s dirty. I don’t want you near him,” I said.

She sat grumpily beside me; her eyes still drawn to the boy. Suddenly, he stood up and pulled out a friendship band from his pocket, smiling invitingly. My daughter looked at me, eyes pleading.

It was then in a blinding flash of realization, I became aware of how peevish I had been failing to see the beauty in his spirit past that grubby outfit. I could no longer see the filth in his hair or dress. “Why not? Go to him and get the wristband,” I told my daughter.

She jumped in joy and ran to him. The boy tied the band carefully without touching her hand with both watching me. I called them both over and handed my daughter a packet of chocolates to share. I told my daughter, “Give him your hand for a warm shake and run around the fountain”.

As they ran with their hands held together, I could see the happiness writ large on their faces. The boy no longer seemed ugly and his smile looked angelic to me as his warmth and joy were evident.

Reflecting on my childhood, I realized how superficial my initial judgment had been. True beauty lies within and we must look deeper to find it. Life’s circumstances vary, but kindness and warmth transcend appearances.