Francis Brandywine by Matt

Francis. B Quetico Park. My favourite time of year is when we travel to the park in the middle of summer. The birds sing all year round, the crickets chirp in the trees and we always go canoeing on the crystal clear lake. Fun times. I always look forward to going each year. But this year Tom Johnson wasn’t going, Max Lillie from next door wasn’t going, and even my family wasn’t going. I never want to back there, at least not any time soon, not after what happened to a girl named Francis Brandywine. Francis Brandywine was a bit of a rebel. One of those people who likes to be left alone, and always ventures away from the well trodden path. Francis was 17 year old with jet black hair. Her family was staying in Quetico Park, in the remote part of the park, not far from the lake. The lake was clear and almost had a blue ting to it. The lake had a deepest point of arounf 300 feet. One dark night, on a full moon, Francis went out and did yet another of her rebel tricks. Once she was sure that her parents and little sister were sound asleep, see crept down to the waters edge. The waters edge rose and fell on the sandy shore shore. Francis wanted to be alone. She put her journal into a row boat along with a pack of cigarettes. She then jumped into the boat herself and rowed out across the large lake and once she was sure she was over the deepest point she stopped. She lit her cigarette, lay down and looked up at the star soaked sky and the aurora lights looked like a colourful lasso. The rainbow of colours danced across the sky and all was peaceful in the park. All was peaceful until a strange noise came from beneath the boat. KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK. Three knocks came from the boat in which Francis lay in. She sat up and looked over the side of the boat. She was expecting to have seen the shore but she was still in the middle of the lake. What if it was a stick or an animal? There’s nothing to worry about, is there? Francis was sure that there was nothing to be worried about and lay her down on the wooden planks and closed her eyes. Francis was now close to sleep and was slowly relaxing again but then KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK. The three knocks came again but even louder and crisper. Francis was now sure that there was an animal in the water. “Only an animal could make a sound like that, can’t it”? said Francis, thinking out loud. She sat in the boat, smoking, thinking in scared silence. The quiet atmosphere continued for ten minutes then then twenty. Francis was now thinking that she was dreaming and none of the knocking was true. But just as she had lead her to thinking it was all a dream. KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK. Francis then panicked, her mouth went dry. The knocks sounded like a knock on the door. Something or someone was below her. She lunged for the oars, she had to get of the lake ASAP. All she wanted now was to be in her own bed, on dry land. She threw the oars into place and started rowing hard out. Once she’d stopped rowing feverishly to catch here breath, she realized that she was still in the exact same place. The lake was calm and she should’ve made it near the shore by now, but the something or someone was holding her in place. She took the oars in and sat in the boat, gripping each side with white knuckles. She sat for what felt like forever then, BANG, BANG, BANG. The three knocks returned but were more like a bang. The floor boards rattled and the boat swayed from side to side. She breathed heavily and cried and cried. She then realized that she might be able to fish the creature out with one of the oars. She picked up one of the oars that lay beside her and dipped the handle end into the black water. There was a silent tug on the other end and it was pulled from her grasp and into the depths of the lake. All she could do now was wait, wait for what was going to happen to happen. She realized that if she was to die she would have to try and tell her story. The only way to tell the story was to write down the night’s events in her journal. She wrote it all down hastily and listened intently. Sadly, Francis had to rely on her journal to tell her story. She was never seen again. All the page in her journal were full of her distinctive hand writing. All but the last two pages which were damp when the journal was found the next morning. On these pages there were four words written down. These words were written quickly and in a muddy finger. they read “I DID KNOCK FIRST”.