At the end of December 38 stories were submitted to the 2024 Write the Hook 4th annual story writing contest. 12 stories were from high school age writers and 26 were from middle school age writers. The contest was open to teens in grades 6 to 12, who are residents of
Essex County in Massachusetts. Participants were required
to write the beginning of a story, "the hook." Our three judges this year were Angelina (Assistant Director), Jessica (Adult Services Librarian), and Sarah (Head of Reference). They used a rubric to score each story. Thank you judges!
Here are the 2024 Write the Hook Winning Stories:
First Place Story Entry Grades 6-8
Miwa Teng (Miles River Middle School student)
for "Carmine Night"
I was admiring the night’s blood moon, reflecting a deep red onto the land of black. The color was almost as pretty as Kayena’s eyes, though in the end, it was incomparable to her.
Suddenly I heard an explosion in the southeast of the estate. The annex had burst into flames. The annex was where the worthless members of the House of Nox were held subject to certain perilous torture. The House of Nox was one of the two leading houses in Aevum, the shadow and night of the kingdom. My father, Duke Caesar, was Head of the House and had thirteen children from five wives, and then there was the vexatious number of bastard children. The annex was full of traumatizing events. I had been in the annex only once; the time I lost my left eye. I was locked up in a cellar and blindfolded, my eye was slashed and my body was beaten with a whip. I still have the scars etched into my body, I never try to hide them, it was an experience I needed and must remember. In Nox, you can’t be forgiving, kind, or in any way weak, the cunning, skillful, and strong rule the house.
Reminiscing, I sat on the railing of the balcony of my room in the main estate, facing south. The annex was far enough that the fire should be extinguished before it reached the mansion. I heard horses and shouts of men coming from the direction of the annex. Galloping towards the courtyard in front of me and the estate were the knights of the House of Lux, the Duke of Day. Rivals of our Duke of Night in no amiable way. In astonishment, I scoffed. They decided to commit arson then parade into the House of Nox, were they trying to deride us? Inconceivable, they’ll pay for this insult. I smirked, quickly grabbing my blade at the corner of my balcony and jumped down to meet the knights.
After finishing my portion of the battle, I raced to the hall where I assumed Older Sister Kayena was. Sprinting through the dark hallways of the Nox household, I found her quickly enough. Relieved, I stopped in my tracks, holding my sword dripping with what was left of my enemies, staining the conveniently red carpet. She stood by the enormous window, watching the red moon in the black sky, just like I was, moments ago. The window faced south, overlooking the courtyard I was just fighting in. I didn’t know what she was thinking or what she was doing, I could only see her back. She was wearing a crimson dress, a luxurious garment accentuating every element of perfection in her figure. Her black hair was tied to a bun and adorned with matching red accessories.
“My dear Younger Brother, how was it? Did you have fun?”
I looked at her, internally stunned, what in Aevum did she mean by that? I moved closer to her, up the steps to the window, my boots weighed heavy on the floor and echoed in the hall. I was only a few feet behind her when I stopped. She tilted her head towards me, just enough to see both of her crimson eyes. They were similar to the light of the blood colored moon, only much more intoxicating. The backlight from the red moon outlined her silhouette but her sleek eyes shined in the low lighting. Her eyes thinned as she faced me. She then smiled, subtly, just enough to make me exhilarated.
“Sister Yena,” I whined, ignoring her question. I wrapped my arms around her thin torso, clenching at her red dress. She smelled of poison, I couldn’t pinpoint what ones. Kayena was an alchemist and a master of poison. Her skills made her Father’s favorite daughter. She was the ideal Nox child, just after the vexing Eldest Brother. She was the epitome of what was expected in the House of Shadow, cunning, devising, toxic, confident, and merciless. Ever since I left the annex, I always performed well, though I loathed Father. I was the only son of his third wife, his least favorite of the five, likely due to their marriage being contractual. Not my concern, but it was aggravating. I scowled at the thought.
“What is it, Rexon?” She asked, breaking my train of thought. Her voice was delicate and her words, careful. She gingerly lifted my face with her soft, gentle fingers.
“Let’s leave now, I’m worried about you.”
She smiled, but it faded as she faced the red moon again. The shouts and screams of the battle in the courtyard, visible through the massive window, took over the slow silence. Her smile returned, a twisted grin, her cold lips tight.
“Why would you be worried about me? Especially if I am the deviser of this?”
And the Eldest Brother of Nox entered the hall.
Second Place Story Entry Grades 6-8
Martha Jane Culot (Glen Urquhart School)
for "The Ghost in the Attic"
It was early November. A few shriveled leaves still hung from trees as if clinging to life. The rest lay in piles on the ground. The air was cold and a gentle breeze blew the fallen leaves around. It was the witching hour in Hemlock Valley, Massachusetts. The only person awake was a young girl sitting in the attic of a Victorian style house at the end of Raven Road.
The girl pushed aside cardboard boxes and storage bins. She carefully arranged seven candles in a circle, lighting them as she laid them out so that the room was no longer dark. She placed moonstone and amethyst crystals in between the candles. She positioned a circular rug in the center. Then she sat down and lit the incense. She brushed her blonde hair out of her face, closed her eyes and breathed in.
“Sylvia Oleander!” she called into the silence. “Show yourself!”
At first, nothing happened. You could see the confidence slowly draining from the girl’s face. But then, a whisper filled the room. “Edith, is that you?”
“Yes! Yes, it is!” Tears streamed down her cheeks. She wiped her gray eyes with the sleeve of her sweater.
“Show yourself!” the girl, Edith, said.
The sound of a door creaking open echoed through the room. It was as if someone was stepping through an invisible door. First the left foot appeared, then the right, one arm, and then the other. Finally, the head came into view. It was the head of a girl, maybe nine or ten. With curly blonde hair and gray eyes. She had an upturned nose and round face. Her features greatly resembled those of the girl that had summoned her. She wore a pink knee-length dress and black flats. She was extremely pale. much paler than she must have been in life. Her skin was translucent. “You, you, you are not my grandmother, ” Edith stammered.
First Place Story Entry Grades 9-12
Ella Wanstall (Waring School)
for "The Worst Kind of Witch"
It was supposed to be a normal day. That’s what I say even now. I wasn’t supposed to wake up to my coven shouting at each other downstairs. I wasn’t supposed to wake up at all.
I mean, let’s be honest. I have barely any magic, no spellbook, and I’ve never successfully made an antidote to anything. So, when I ate that hemlock flower, I was supposed to die. I guess I didn’t expect Death to reject me too. Before I had to walk out of my room and down our winding staircase, I took a moment to observe my half-dead appearance. It was interesting—my normally gold skin was pale and my cheeks hollow. My dark hair was flat, my blue eyes fractured.
Regardless of how I looked, I had to face my friends now.
I did, however, delay this fate further by looking around my room an absurd amount of times. Two beds—mine and Ethan’s, on either side of the room, a desk, two dressers, and a bookshelf, jam-packed with books, ranging from Jane Austen to Stephen King. Some of them were much more beat up than others. The walls were dark blue with stars on the ceiling and everything from photos to origami hanging from the walls and ceiling.
My post-near-death-experience observation concluded, I made my way out of the dark wood door, into the hallway with tall arching ceilings with more constellations and gold splattered all around. I breathed in the smell of fresh herbs. My mind cleared and I refocused on my task. I turned the corner, rather than go into the living room, and headed down the spiral staircase. As I walked down the hall on the ground floor (the stairs continuing down into the basement housing typical necromancy supplies and our potions station—likely where Peter and Kate, my overprotective covenmates, saved my life), bypassing the several doors leading to the library, sitting room, drawing room, indoor gardens, and other rooms I couldn’t be bothered to remember, I could hear Peter and Kate, engaged and two very different sights to behold, arguing over me and Ethan.
Heaving a sigh, I turned into the kitchen at the end of the hall. I dodged a stool by the door and continued on until I was between the dining room and the kitchen and was spotted by Kate.
“Maris,” she said. The relief in her voice was palpable. “You look like death warmed over.”
I tried not to take offense, especially since I had previously noted how horrible I looked and since she always looked like death warmed over with her bone-pale skin and silver hair.
“That’s because she is,” Peter snapped.
Peter was rather harsh at times, but he was a good person, especially since he was in the process of planning the ritual to initiate me, an absolute failure, into the coven and the ball that would celebrate it. He also had raised Ethan, my best friend, roommate, and also a very good person, who looked incredibly like his black haired, dark skinned, freckly, blind-as-a-bat, purple-eyed uncle. Although, Ethan was quite a bit warmer—in every sense—and golder than his uncle.
“Why would you eat a hemlock flower? Especially now!”
I flinched slightly. “What’s now?”
“Ethan is missing!”
“Ethan is missing?” I asked, startled. Ethan was never missing.
“Ethan is missing,” Kate repeated. “Okay? Like the cases we were asked to solve. Note on the dining room table. Not a single trace of who took him. This just got personal.”
“Very personal,” I mumbled. Very personal indeed. “Let me see the note.”
Peter took it off the counter between his index and middle fingers and passed it to me. “Nothing except that.”
Come find your precious friend, witch. Or perhaps he will die.
“Witch,” I said. “Singular. This is directed at one of us.”
“We know,” Peter snapped. “Be helpful, Maris.”
“I’m trying,” I mumbled, wounded.
I knew even then that Peter was just worried. But even still, it was upsetting to have almost died and still not quite be appreciated. I looked over at Kate. This note was not for Peter. Nobody in their right mind would direct this at Peter, what with his sharp temper and protective instincts—especially over Ethan. And anyway, most rejected that he was even a witch. No, definitely not Peter. And it couldn’t be about me, because nobody even knew I was part of the coven, yet.
“I think it’s about Kate,” I said.
Peter raised his brows at me. “Kate specializes in necromancy. Why would this be about Kate? She’s literally watched at every turn.”
Oh, Peter. No matter the reality of necromancy, it was still a largely contested part of magic. You had to be vetted, trained, licensed, and watched at all times. I would know—my father had been a necromancer and he’d died in a definitely-on-purpose accident. Everyone seemed to think that necromancers were backwards, what with the reanimating corpses, talking to ghosts, using grave dirt in spells, and the bones. Most witches much preferred the living side of things and I was hardly any different. Peter, engaged to a necromancer, and Ethan, raised by one, were the strange ones. Supposedly, I was too, having chosen to join a coven co-run by one. People had a lot of biases for some very bad reasons.
“Necromancy,” Kate said. “It could make sense, but I can’t go looking for him. The heads of the department would penalize me for leaving without a supervising officer. And Peter can’t go, he’s horrible at subterfuge.”
It took me a moment to understand what she was trying to say, but when I did—“You want me to go?” I blurted.
“You want Maris to go?” Peter demanded at the same time.
Peter and I stared at Kate. Then, slowly, we looked at each other.
“Kate,” I said slowly, “that is the worst idea you’ve ever had. I can’t do magic!”
“You’re a witch,” Peter said thoughtfully. “You have at least some untapped potential. You specialize in protection. You might be the best one for this job. You’re unassuming, you blend in everywhere, and you know your plants. People like you on principle. As long as there aren’t anymore suicide attempts, you should be able to find him.”
Kate slapped Peter’s shoulder. “Peter. What he means, Maris, is that you’re the only and best person to rescue Ethan. I’ll help you pack.”
“The note is for me,” I said softly.
Peter frowned. “Is it?”
“It’s because I’m the worst witch in the world. It’s a taunt.”
“Then you prove whoever left it wrong,” Kate said firmly. “Understand?” Her silvery eyes burned as she gripped my shoulders.
I would prove them wrong, alright. Nobody could get away with kidnapping my friend and taunting me.
Second Place Story Entry Grades 9-12
Yash Bolishetti (Pingree School)
for "Lighthouse"
The rumble of thunder didn’t bother him. Neither did the crashing of the waves. Or the blaring of the ships’ horns. But he couldn’t wrap his mind around that glow. He just stared at it, watching as it cut through the clouds.
As the wind ripped into his coat, he walked closer, going to the edge of the shore. To his left was a wide expanse of black sea, sea that could lead to distant countries, new lands with colorful cultures and life. To his right were the scattered lights of the town, interspersed with tall spruce trees and separated by patches of lawn.
Right in front of him, cutting down the middle was a rickety old bridge that led to the tall, spiraling structure he had been fixated on. Nobody had known when the lighthouse had been built. It seemed older than any building in the town. Nobody knew he ran it either. The local children used to play a game, camping out in front of the lighthouse and seeing who would get the closest to it. Eventually, a boy named Randy Sparks nearly got to the door before his foot went through one of the planks of wood in the bridge.
He dropped through, plummeting into the ocean and not resurfacing. The kids stayed well away from it now.
He couldn’t. He was fascinated by it. And the lack of answers only made him more intrigued. But he didn’t have the gall to try and get closer. Not after what happened to Randy. He had known Randy. Been in his class. Now, that desk was empty and ignored.
Instead, he sat down in the mud, staring down the path. Every so often, the flash of thunder would light the world around him, revealing the door. Something so simple shouldn’t have been so special, and yet. . . he couldn’t take his eyes off of it. Behind that door were answers to his life's greatest questions. Behind it was a way up to that light, and that light could illuminate a whole new view of the world. He could see as far as he wanted to, staring over the great expanse of water to the distant shorelines.
He turned back to the right. His home was somewhere in that cluster of lights. His parents were asleep, unaware that the lock to the window in his room had broken months ago. Should he go back now? He never had a sense of time when he was out here. That’s what he liked about this place. All that existed was this pillar of light, standing alone amongst all of the darkness and noise, standing as a gateway between the known and unknown world.
He got to his feet, his boots squelching in the mud. He pulled out his own flashlight, his puny imitation of what was before him, and started to turn around.
There was a sudden, sharp noise. A horn so loud it couldn’t have possibly been from this planet. He turned back around to find a vague shadow in the distance, a hulking mass of darkness so large that it seemed to blot out the entire sea. It was slowly drifting towards shore, guided by the swiveling beam of light. The massive shape became larger and larger, more and more defined until it was seemingly on top of him. All he could do was stare as it crashed into the shore, between the lighthouse and the sea.
More booming noises came as anchors collapsed onto the ocean floor. There was yelling and cursing from those on board, followed by grunts as the ship started to expand. Several bridges were splayed from its sides, dropping onto the shore while others floated in the water.
There was another flash of lightning, illuminating sets of sailors leaping down from the upper decks, or piling out of the ship’s hull, carrying cargo boxes bigger than they were. They dragged them onto the sand, throwing them without much care for their content. They continued to heave crates, but eventually, their carelessness paid a price. A particularly heavy crate was thrown several feet in the air before crashing into another wooden box set upon the sand.
In an explosion of splinters and shards of wood, the two crates split their contents onto the sand, sending it flying like shrapnel. He watched, as chunks of debris flew towards him, sailors cursing more and yelling at each other. There was a soft thud next to him and he shined his light down next to his left boot. A small jar was sunk into where the sand met mud.
He stooped to pick it up, shining his light onto the faded label, which was now covered in mud. He couldn’t read it, but the flashlight revealed that inside was a faint, red powder. There was a metal lid, screwed on tight, but not sealed. He held the light between his teeth and gripped the metal cap, twisting with all his might before he heard a faint pop.
He removed his hand and stared into the red jar, which was quickly being filled with rainwater. He needed to be quick. He ducked down and took a deep smell of the powder.
His sinuses were filled with alien sensations. The scent was like nothing he had ever experienced before, a spice so foreign to him it seemed impossible it could have come from just across the ocean. He took another smell, drinking in the apparent warmth it was giving him.
There was muttering, startlingly close. Two figures were marching around the sand, not noticing his faint light. They had headlamps of their own and were staring at their feet, kicking up sand as they looked for their scattered wares.
Without thinking, without even considering leaving the jar, he screwed it back on and spirited away. The sailors grunted with surprise at the sudden movement, but nobody followed him as he raced down the trail he had come, scrambling back to the town.
All the way, a large smile was plastered across his face as he clutched his little sliver of another place in his hands, blessed into his possession by the ever-connecting abilities of the lighthouse.
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