Annabelle

I am here to tell you a story, a story that will torture your thoughts by day and poison your dreams by night and though I will do my best, there are no words that can be written nor brush strokes laid on canvas that can describe the stark and utter horror of the night Annabelle died. This nightmare isn't one that will ever disappear, every night as I fall asleep I see her in my dreams. The life of my love is lost and will never be replaced. Annabelle died in her nineteenth year with my ring on her left hand. We never thought her killer would go this far to prove his point. What may have been the point he wanted to prove? You may soon find out.

Elder Lowell held the title of the longest living family here in London. His family has owned that house for over one hundred years. Mr. Lowell was well respected but not for his family but for his personality. He was always very generous: he donated thousands to London schools and multiple orphanages, he was a smart man, and he gave lectures to students at colleges all around the country. He was an overall nice man, he was always smiling and happy; when my friends and I would play ball in the summer he would ask to join or just have his maid bring us a cold drink.

Every few months my mother would invite him over for dinner when she made her feast of traditional British cuisine; roast chicken, mother’s gravy, peas and carrots. He would sit across from me and tell stories of his life and when he was a boy. How he traveled all around Europe and all of his amazing adventures he had when he was a “young lad” as he used to say. He rarely talked about his children in their older years but he shared many stories of them when they were children, he had a son Walter, and a Daughter Josephine. About five years ago Mr. Lowell received a telegram from the army telling him his son died in battle at the age of twenty five. When we heard of his sickness we were all so worried he would have to die in that big house by himself.