Second Place · Jessie Zhang
Editor’s Introduction
Penny earns second place for its immersive atmosphere, layered mystery, and a closing pattern that extends the horror beyond Alara’s disappearance. The unsettling town of Roseville, the mysterious doll, and the recurring photographs create a distinctive supernatural world.
Penny
Prologue
Roseville was the small town that people couldn’t wait to leave. It wore its silence like a shroud, burying its secrets beneath decades of fallen leaves. Yet, there was one day of the year that bonded people together—Halloween.
In October, the air grew suffocating; whispers drowned out the wind, and nebulous shadows outnumbered people. No one could escape the grasp of paranoia; they must only live on, constantly peering over their shoulders, wondering if they were next.
The townspeople spoke of shadows lingering behind curtained windows, of footsteps echoing through empty corridors, and of strange silhouettes appearing beneath the pale autumn moon.
But nobody spoke of the missing.
The townspeople buried their suspicions behind uneasy smiles and locked doors.
Though, among the countless names swallowed by Roseville’s history, one lingered with her longer than the others. Eleanor Whitmore, a young girl who had vanished decades ago, leaving behind nothing but a porcelain doll.
October 30, 2016
BEEEEEEEEEEP— Alara groaned and lifted her clock to her face. It read 9:08 pm. God, I overslept again, Alara thought, scrambling out of bed. It was the night before Halloween, and she was stuck at home. She should’ve been out shopping with her friends for a costume, but alas, she was grounded.
“Alara dear, you’re finally up”, her grandma said, pushing a plate of spaghetti towards her. “That was an unusually long nap”.
“Mmhmm”, Alara muttered while working through a meatball.
“Can you take a look in the attic and see if there’s anything you want,” her grandma said, walking out of the room.
“Sure grandma”, Alara called after her.
Alara hauled a ladder up to the attic. She was nervous; she’d never been allowed anywhere near it before. God knows what secrets were hidden up there.
She pushed through the attic door, and immediately it hit her; the air was heavy with a sour, festering odour that coated her tongue and settled deep into her lungs. The foul miasma slithered through the darkness, curling around her.
The attic was tight, so tight that it made her claustrophobic. The floorboards creaked beneath her with each step, the sound ricocheting off the decaying walls. It welcomed her with cobwebs hanging like tattered curtains and yellow dust drifting in every direction.
Alara began snooping around; disgusting as it was, she had to admit it was rather interesting to dig through decades of history. Though she couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t alone; she was being watched.
She found an old board game called “Fat Rat”. What a strange name. Maybe I can play this with Geneva, she thought, tucking it under her arm. Alara could’ve sworn she heard a whimper; she wanted more than anything to run back into her bedroom, but her body lurched forward as if she were a marionette on strings.
She followed the noise, using various dilapidated pieces of furniture to steady herself, until she tripped over a book, sending herself flying, skidding across the mouldering floor.
Alara shrieked as she collided with the floor, sending a jolt of pain up her leg. She bit back a cry of pain and hissed through clenched teeth. The rough fabric scraped against her tender skin, and a warm, sticky dampness seeped through the tear in her trousers.
Her breath was ragged, and she tried to sit up, but she couldn’t calm her shaking hands.
Then, she looked up.
Two glassy eyes bored into her, with a hand covering her mouth in what seemed like a snickering gesture. It was staring right at her. Her breath hitched, every hair on the back of her neck stood up, her skin prickled, and she reached out to touch the doll’s face, then instantly recoiled.
It tilted its head ever so slightly, and she couldn’t take it anymore.
She got up, ignored the throbbing pain coursing through her leg and bolted towards the ladder, locking the attic door behind her. Yet, even as she did so, she could feel the intense gaze of eyes pinned on her back as she ran.
She stumbled into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her, panting and out of breath, immediately throwing her covers over her head.
October 31, 2016
BEEEEEEEP— Alara sprang up in a cold sweat. Last night’s events were taunting her. It’s okay deep breaths Alara, she reassured herself, gingerly getting out of bed. Her bedroom door was ajar, had I done that, she thought to herself.
An unnatural silence had settled over the house. Alara reached for the doorknob, her fingers hesitating against the cold brass.
Through the narrow gap of the door, something cast a small, motionless shadow.
She swung the door open, and there it was.
No no no nononono, this isn’t happening, she thought.
The doll sat with her head tilted at an unnatural angle, her tangled curls spilling over one shoulder, a single hand pointing at the window behind Alara.
Alara didn’t hesitate; she snatched the doll up and shoved it in the closet, locking it shut. Her hands trembled, and her knees buckled. She slung a jacket over her shoulders and ran out the front door.
She ran faster than she ever had, with no clear direction except forward.
But then something halted her in her tracks. An odd burgundy house stood before her, one that she was sure she’d never seen before despite how small Roseville was. Maybe it’s always been here, she thought.
Alara approached the house cautiously. She looked around for any clues that might hint at who lived there. Her gaze settled on the rusty mailbox hidden behind the gate. Something was written on its splintered surface.
Five letters in black bold lettering.
Alara stepped closer, her stomach tightening.
She recognized the first letter.
Then the second.
No, it can’t be-
Scratched onto the mailbox read— ALARA.
A scream escaped her mouth and she instinctively turned around.
It was back.
A single outstretched hand pointing at the house.
No no no how did it get out of my closet? Alara panicked. She didn’t know what to do, but she had to get away from that doll, so she sprinted into the house.
A wave of pungent odour shattered her senses; a sickening sweetness lingered beneath the musty stench of the house that made her want to retch her guts out. Everything stood untouched, encased in decades of dust, leaving a fuzzy gray film; it was arranged with such peculiar precision that it couldn’t be vacant.
Littered along the walls were gold picture frames; photographs inhabited each and every one. Alara traced her finger along the pictures, numerous little girls smiled, staring into the camera. There was one for every single year, dating back decades.
But one faded portrait jumped out at her.
A little girl hugging a porcelain doll with Penny embroidered on the hem of her skirt.
It read—Eleanor Whitmore, 1946.
I–it’s her, that’s the doll, Alara realized.
She turned around, and Penny was sitting on the staircase, her eyes bright and alert, her hand outstretched, not towards Alara, but towards the door.
A deafening crack split the silence, the floorboards shuddered under her feet, the walls closed in on her and she lunged for the doorknob, but the front door was gone.
In its place was a new photograph.
A photograph of present-day Alara smiling into the camera, her eyes obsidian pools.
It was too late.
A sickening growl rippled through the room, and she struggled to pull away, but the darkness clung to her, cementing her feet into the ground, sealing with a loud CRACK.
Alara clawed at the walls, but the wallpaper simply peeled beneath her fingers, revealing hundreds of faded photographs.
Every face stared at her.
Across the room, Penny’s glassy eyes glistened with helpless sorrow, and Alara stumbled like a ragdoll towards the staircase.
Then she let out a guttural scream.
And silence.
Somewhere in the darkness was a soft sound of a picture frame clicking into place.
Epilogue
It had been a year since Geneva’s best friend went missing.
The memory still haunts her; she recalled the sheer horror she felt when she heard that Alara had gone missing on Halloween night. The memory shackled and whirled her up in a tornado of grief and bitterness. She decided to do something that always calmed her down.
Go on a walk.
She strolled through the quiet streets of Roseville, the eerie whistle of the wind drowning out her footsteps, until she stumbled upon a burgundy house that she had never seen before. How far have I gone, she thought bemusedly.
She approached the house and the closer she got, the more uneasy she felt. An icy sensation crept along her spine, settling like frost beneath her skin.
Then she saw it— a porcelain doll sat on the front steps, its tiny hand extended toward Geneva.
Her skin crawled, and a suffocating dread coiled around her chest. She was about to just turn and flee, but an old rustic mailbox caught her attention.
Her breath hitched as she read the scratched lettering on the surface.
1 word written in black bold lettering.
GENEVA.
Editor’s Comments
What works especially well: Roseville feels like a town with its own unsettling history. The attic’s sensory details create a strong sense of place. Penny is more complex than a simple threatening doll because her gestures may be warnings. The names on the mailbox, the annual portraits, and the new frame clicking into place build a coherent and disturbing pattern.
Suggestions for revision: Select the strongest sensory images rather than layering several descriptions of the same fear. Clarify why Alara chooses to enter the strange house. Make Penny’s pointing more interpretable in hindsight, and give Grandma’s surprising invitation to the attic a clearer purpose.
Editorial perspective: This entry particularly excels in world-building and atmosphere. Compared with first-place Knock Knock, its more elaborate descriptive passages occasionally slow the immediate suspense, but its imaginative design and cyclical ending are outstanding strengths.