In the 13 colonies of the United States, in the northern region lies a state called New York.
Up in the northern hills you can find the city of Manhattan. Thus, from living in the north, somewhat close to the mountains, the winter is cold and harsh.
Buried in the woods there sat a mansion.
The darkness crept over the lonesome mansion that sat in a clear area that was surrounded by woods as the thick fog covered the celestial moon on this wintry, almost eerie winter night in
Manhattan, New York of 1884.
"The moon is very bright and pretty tonight, papa."
I smiled.
"Yes, Aisha. The moon does indeed appear to be very pretty tonight. But now, Aisha, it seems to be time to go to bed." Papa whispered.
Papa's big cold hand held mine as we walked through our castle-like home.
His hand grip wasn't tight, it was loose. Almost as if he didn't want to hold hands with me. As he walked hand in hand with mine to the shelf in the living room of our house, he pulled open the drawer on the shelf, of which to my surprise, there laid a few perfectly aligned candle sticks along with metal stands for the candle sticks in the drawer.
He grabbed one candle along with a metal candle stand, placed it and carefully lit it.
Papa's big cold hand faintly held mine as we walked through our castle-like home, through the hallway, up two flights of stairs and through one final hallway to reach my room.
Papa's hands were always cold and I never understood why but I never felt the need to question him as it may upset him and it may just be a silly question in the first place.
Papa opened my door and it made a creaking sound as it opened.
He continued to walk with me until we reached my bed and he finally let go of my hand. I slipped into my bed and got myself comfortable. He then placed the candle on the stand next to my bed and tucked me in. He turned his focus to my oil lamp, but within seconds his focus quickly left my oil lamp as he shifted his gaze to another direction in my room.
My own eyes followed his own eyes as I watched him shift his gaze as I watched his eyes venture over to my huge vanity that clearly stuck out in my room.
Upon my vanity sat many essentials that I needed.
Those essentials included scented skin oils for my skin, bows and straps for my hair, and a bottle of perfume.
"Good night Aisha." Papa said.
"Good night Papa." I replied with a big but modest smile.
I watched as he walked and edge closer and closer to my door, without looking back he opened the door, walked out and closed it.
I fell asleep quickly and my sleep was peaceful.
My peaceful sleep had ended when I had woken up to whispers that I could hardly make out.
"Aisha....
Mama...
Watch out.... For papa...."
"No... No... No... Not again!" I panicked.
THUMP....
THUMP...
BANG!
WHOOSH....
The wind howled as it knocked against the window.
"All of these voices that I hear,
is it a gift or a curse that I can hear the voices?
Why do I hear these voices?!
Oh, Dear God please! Please, stop! I don't want to hear them anymore! So please, make it stop!" I cried as I panicked.
"Aisha.... Aisha....
RUN!"
Said the voice.
"PLEASE STOP! PLEASE, MAKE IT STOP! LEAVE ME ALONE, PLEASE!" I screamed.
.
.
.
.
.
Third Person's Point Of View
The voices stopped abruptly, and silence filled the room. Finally, the girl was finally able to sleep peacefully.
While the mansion itself was unable to rest.
While the moon later settled down and the sun began to rise, accompanied by the birds singing their same songs, and the sun's rays shining through the windows while dancing throughout the room, Aisha had woken up that morning.
"Young mistress. It's time to wake up." Aisha's nanny, Nina, had woken her up.
"Nina!" Aisha jumped into Nina's warm, loving arms.
The scent of vanilla that came from her nanny's perfume always calmed her down.
Her nanny had been with her for as long as she could remember.
"Young mistress, why are you crying?" Nina asked.
"I keep hearing the voice of a girl at night. She called Papa 'papa' and Momma 'momma'!" The young girl cried.
The girl's nanny's pupils widened as she gasped.
"What? Is there something that you know about it or is there something extremely wrong?" Aisha's eyes sparkled with curiosity as she asked her nanny.
"Oh... Um... It's nothing. It's absolutely nothing young miss! So please don't worry your pretty little head, young miss!" Nina quickly claimed as she quickly changed the subject.
"Let me help you bathe and get dressed." Nina smiled.
Aisha's Point Of View
My hair is platinum blonde, just like my mother's. Although I don't have many memories of my mother, my father has a couple portraits of my mother around the open part of the mansion and one placed in the attic from when I went into the attic once.
From the painting I can see that my mother had long beach waved, white almost silver hair that went past her chest and eyes as blue as glistening sapphires.
The Upper West Wing part of the castle is forbidden to go to.
I questioned my father why one time and he told me not to worry about it but I kept on and on, asking him the same question, and he lashed out at me in anger.
So now, I have learned to not ask anymore.
I usually catch him looking at the biggest portrait of my mother in the main hall and he just talks to it. As if he is actually talking to my mother, saying things such as
"Ashley. I'm sorry."
"Ashley, forgive me."
"I am sorry."
"I am so sorry."
"I love you, Ashley."
"Ashley.... Our babies... I am so sorry."
I don't understand what my father means by these statements, but I can see the pain in his eyes with every statement that he repeats to her portrait.
It's almost as if he is repenting.
I feel sorry for him, but my mind still cannot stop thinking about one thing...
I am his only child after all, so,
what does he mean "Our babies"?
What secrets does my father have buried so deep in his heart?
What happened with my parents that made my father have to carry such guilt within his heart?
.
.
.
.
.
End of Chapter 1.
أنت تقرأ
Aisha: The Secret Of The Diary
غموض / الإثارة(ONGOING) I have no memories of my mother. When I was little, I'd have dreams about her. But, unfortunately, I cannot remember much of those dreams anymore. My father doesn't talk about her, it's as if, even after all this time, the grief is still...
