Write a short story using gothic tropes you have met in your study of the gothic genre.
‘Tis the crying of Tregeagle’
In the moors, a wrong turn can be the biggest mistake of your life- thick, shrouds of fog smother any
visible road markings, darting wildlife so unpredictable as if undisturbed by human destruction, winding
hedgerows forming an inescapable labyrinth of seething brambles. This barren wasteland home only to
the cries of history’s sinners, which whistle through skies of grey and black, weaving through megaliths
and half-sunken monuments. My maiden voyage into the moors was a respite break from the perils of
city society, although what I faced was much worse than any hellscape London held. Now retelling my
tale, I should’ve taken heed to the locals' warnings- of the hauntings, of the sinner sentenced to a life of
torture and the hellhounds that prowl the mossy knolls of Cornwall.
Drawn in by my morbid curiosity, Roche rock chapel was some kind of twisted contrast between
magnificence and the macabre, a perfect hiking spot with omnipresent supervision.
A hike seemed the perfect plan, but now, approaching the twisting, bramble guarded lane, I begin to
rethink my choice. Strengthened by the mortar of conspiracy and stacked with bricks of secrets, the
sight of it constricts my lungs and halts biological function, feeling the prick of goosebumps along my
skin and the eyes of history’s sinners boring into me, I take a timid step onto the spongy roots of the
moor. The towering granite brickwork dominates the terrain, looming over me as a bleak reminder of its
haunting history. Craning my neck to see the summit, feeling my soul grow cold, a ghostly guttural growl
seeps from the fog and a sharp howl, that strikes me like a hymn, seems to echo from the hollowed
window frames.
Tis the crying of Tregeagle.
The folktale rings in my ears, the locals’ warnings flash through my mind, the wind caterwauls like a
wounded animal, forcing me closer to that godforsaken ruin, despite my pushback. My accomplice, Enid,
seems unphased- turning the corner to explore and leaving me rooted in the ground, standing so firm
the moss could grow over me and I'd be unnoticed. Affected by all sorts of morbid fantasies, Enid
beckons me to follow her, to ascend to the chapel, to put my trust in a frail, decaying ladder- a gamble I
was unsure of risking. Without conscious autonomy, I've reached the ladder, bright red streams of rust
flow alongside the roots beneath my feet, the dilapidated rungs seem like a trap, but I step anyway. The
crunch of corroded metal is drowned out by that echoing and impossibly loud shriek, twisting around
the hill, weaving in between crevasses and seeping into my bones like the chill of frostbite. His crying
grows stronger, he grows desperate for freedom, calling to us wanderers for sympathy or in warning.
Shrouded with uncertainty and regret, I find myself on the threshold of Tregeagle’s prison.
A heavy oppressive air settles on my shoulders, like a cloak weaved from burden, and I become less
myself and more an amalgamation of tortured souls. The hatred and fear seems to seep into my pores,
corrupting me from the inside out, dousing my form in hypothermic waves of anxiety and hysteria. In my
frozen state, the gap between earth and air seems to have shrunk, trapping me in a dense turbulent
pocket, stuck between the mottled clouds and unstable mire. My senses are overcome by internal panic
as it spills over in damp rolling down my cheeks, the pulsing beat of my exceedingly loud heart dizzies
‘Tis the crying of Tregeagle’
In the moors, a wrong turn can be the biggest mistake of your life- thick, shrouds of fog smother any
visible road markings, darting wildlife so unpredictable as if undisturbed by human destruction, winding
hedgerows forming an inescapable labyrinth of seething brambles. This barren wasteland home only to
the cries of history’s sinners, which whistle through skies of grey and black, weaving through megaliths
and half-sunken monuments. My maiden voyage into the moors was a respite break from the perils of
city society, although what I faced was much worse than any hellscape London held. Now retelling my
tale, I should’ve taken heed to the locals' warnings- of the hauntings, of the sinner sentenced to a life of
torture and the hellhounds that prowl the mossy knolls of Cornwall.
Drawn in by my morbid curiosity, Roche rock chapel was some kind of twisted contrast between
magnificence and the macabre, a perfect hiking spot with omnipresent supervision.
A hike seemed the perfect plan, but now, approaching the twisting, bramble guarded lane, I begin to
rethink my choice. Strengthened by the mortar of conspiracy and stacked with bricks of secrets, the
sight of it constricts my lungs and halts biological function, feeling the prick of goosebumps along my
skin and the eyes of history’s sinners boring into me, I take a timid step onto the spongy roots of the
moor. The towering granite brickwork dominates the terrain, looming over me as a bleak reminder of its
haunting history. Craning my neck to see the summit, feeling my soul grow cold, a ghostly guttural growl
seeps from the fog and a sharp howl, that strikes me like a hymn, seems to echo from the hollowed
window frames.
Tis the crying of Tregeagle.
The folktale rings in my ears, the locals’ warnings flash through my mind, the wind caterwauls like a
wounded animal, forcing me closer to that godforsaken ruin, despite my pushback. My accomplice, Enid,
seems unphased- turning the corner to explore and leaving me rooted in the ground, standing so firm
the moss could grow over me and I'd be unnoticed. Affected by all sorts of morbid fantasies, Enid
beckons me to follow her, to ascend to the chapel, to put my trust in a frail, decaying ladder- a gamble I
was unsure of risking. Without conscious autonomy, I've reached the ladder, bright red streams of rust
flow alongside the roots beneath my feet, the dilapidated rungs seem like a trap, but I step anyway. The
crunch of corroded metal is drowned out by that echoing and impossibly loud shriek, twisting around
the hill, weaving in between crevasses and seeping into my bones like the chill of frostbite. His crying
grows stronger, he grows desperate for freedom, calling to us wanderers for sympathy or in warning.
Shrouded with uncertainty and regret, I find myself on the threshold of Tregeagle’s prison.
A heavy oppressive air settles on my shoulders, like a cloak weaved from burden, and I become less
myself and more an amalgamation of tortured souls. The hatred and fear seems to seep into my pores,
corrupting me from the inside out, dousing my form in hypothermic waves of anxiety and hysteria. In my
frozen state, the gap between earth and air seems to have shrunk, trapping me in a dense turbulent
pocket, stuck between the mottled clouds and unstable mire. My senses are overcome by internal panic
as it spills over in damp rolling down my cheeks, the pulsing beat of my exceedingly loud heart dizzies
