Story 18 - Click!...with added anadiplosis
*Warning: slightly scary content!!
Peter sat on a chair in the middle of this massive museum and held his torch tight. He stayed in the dark despite his deep fear of it. He wanted to do this job right. He’d had many jobs before, but each one had ended in disaster. Aged forty-two, this was his final chance. His dad had called in a favour from one of his well-to-do friends, Mr Davenport, who gave him the role as night guard at the Museum of Natural History. Tonight was Peter’s first shift. Mr Davenport had insisted that this was an easy job but that he must be alert at all times. Peter was determined to take it seriously, and despite being distracted by Mr Davenport’s wobbling chins and overtly posh accent, he had listened to every command—especially the one about not entering Room 42.
So here he sat, on a hard wooden chair, conserving the battery in his torch and keeping a close ear out for anything suspicious. The cold made the job infinitely harder, but at least it kept him awake. Frost adorned the bottom of the window panes like painted mountains, and with each breath, a cool plume of steam rose before him, hovering briefly before dissipating in the frigid air. He stamped his feet a few times to get the blood flowing—it was an old army trick taught to him by his Major-General Grandpa, a man who would never be caught trembling like this.
Then he heard it: a click. Another. Or was it just an echo of the first? But still, a click. From where? It was a small sound, barely more than a whisper, yet it filled the silence like a shrill scream. Peter flicked the torch on and scared the darkness back into the shadowy corners. He swept the light across the room, the glistening displays of knightly armor catching the glow and shooting it back at Peter, who squinted and winced in defense. “Who’s there?” he called, his voice wavering but firm.
But nothing replied—until the click came again. That click.
“Who’s there?” he said again, his voice more insistent, as if the click had some duty to respond. The cold grew worse, and Peter felt the chill seep into his bones.
Click!
Peter wanted nothing more than to be home right now, wrapped in a warm blanket, but this was his chance to prove to his father that he was up to the job. So he stayed focused and moved toward the source of the sound, one step at a time. As the noise grew louder, he looked around, acutely aware of how alone he was. Eventually, he arrived at a door from behind which the sound seemed to be coming. Room 42. This was the room Mr Davenport had warned him about. He must not enter. But then, what if something was wrong? What if something needed fixing, or worse still, was being stolen? Peter was caught in two minds. He wanted to obey, but he also didn’t want to fail his father. There was a sound. And it was coming from in there.
He fumbled with the keys he’d been given, his fingers trembling as he searched for the one that read “42.” He found it. He stabbed it into the lock and the door opened.
Peter held his torch out like a weapon in front of him as dust swirled turbulently in the air, filling the room like tiny flares. This room felt charged, almost alive, with every particle suspended in the beam of his torch. Surrounding him were many artifacts, Egyptian artifacts - gold lined and exquisite.
Click, crack.
The sound. It was coming from an old crate, an old crate made of splintered wood hammered shut with rusty nails, rusty nails that were now failing to keep it shut. It lay on the floor, pressed up into the corner of the room, room 42.
Crack.
Peter just stared, rooted to the spot.
Crack, bang!
The lid fell off.
The dust shot away from Peter and settled swiftly on the floor. Every nerve in his body was alert as he strained his ears for the next sound, waiting, wondering what might emerge from inside that crate.
Nothing. Yet something. Something had forced that lid open. From where Peter stood, he could not see. So he edged forward. Nervously. Curiously. As he drew closer, he saw yellow bandages wrapped tightly around the shriveled corpse of a body: a mummy. It was covered head to toe in bandages, except for the gnarled digits on its left hand, and the right side of its face where the leathery skin clung to the cheekbones and a glassy eye stared out at Peter. A rich smell of spice stung at Peter’s nose and a weight of terror hung heavy in the air; it held Peter firm, and struck him with awe. He couldn’t look away. This thing must have been over a thousand years old. And yet, its eye, its eye seemed impossibly alive. Was that possible? Why had it not decayed? Peter leaned in close, to get a better look. A glass eye maybe? A fake? But it looked so real. Then, it blinked.
Before Peter could fathom what was happening, the mummy’s bony hand snatched his wrist and clung on tight. The force was great, and Peter let out an almighty scream - but no one was around to hear. He wrenched himself back, he flung himself to the side, he dropped to the ground. Pulling, pulling, pulling, desperate to free himself of this vice like grip. But the mummy sat up and stared at him with that one glassy eye. Peter felt his life force draining from his body as each muscle, nerve and sinew turned numb. It was like he was floating outside his own flesh. His body became a distant memory. Something left behind. Something forgotten. For a moment he was free, just floating, like a bubble. Free. But then he found himself caught in a tide, being dragged towards something deadly: towards the mummy. Peter’s bubble was drifting towards that one glassy eye. He was being sucked inside. He fought. But there was nothing to fight with. No strength. No power. He was free. But that freedom came at a cost. And then it hit, like a dull thud, a drop, like a sunken ship reaching the depths of the ocean, a pressure all around him, a drowning pressure. Crushing. He could see. But he could not speak. He could hear. But he could not move. He could feel. But only pain. And he looked, he looked up at his former flesh and bones, his own face staring down at him with a sly smile and a wink. Then, he dropped down into the crate, and the lid was nailed shut. Darkness. Just darkness. A click. A crack. Another click. The door to Room 42 closed and locked. Peter was still here, but his life, his body, belonged to another now.
Anadiplosis
Anadiplosis. It sounds like a dinosaur. But a nice dinosaur. The sort that eats leaves but wouldn’t be scared of a T-Rex because they’re so big. However, that’s not what anadiplosis means. Anadiplosis is the repetition of phrases or words which end one clause and start the next. It’s a technique that gives writing a sense of flow and rhythm, creating a kind of echo effect that sticks with the reader. It also helps guide the reader's focus, linking ideas in a way that feels almost like following stepping stones down a path. Here are some examples from my own writing:
‘The sound. It was coming from an old crate, an old crate made of splintered wood hammered shut with rusty nails, rusty nails that were now failing to keep it shut. It lay on the floor, pressed up into the corner of the room, room 42.’
‘and he looked, he looked up at his former flesh and bones’
It’s a powerful way to draw attention to an idea, almost like letting words ripple out, one after another. We actually use it a lot in speech without even realizing it. Picture a speech to soldiers before battle: ‘Fight for each other, for each other is what matters most.’ Or think of Mr Braindrain’s geography class, where time crawls endlessly: ‘Seconds turning to minutes, minutes turning to hours, hours turning to days…’
Anadiplosis can also emphasize a principle of mutual respect: ‘Respect others, and others will respect you.’ Or in a moment of comfort: ‘You are strong. Strong enough to handle this.’
This technique isn’t just a stylistic trick; it’s also musical. Writing began as spoken word, stories told around the campfire, meant to capture attention as much as they were meant to inform. Stories had to be memorable, which meant they had to have rhythm. Poetry, songs, psalms—all had musicality. When we write, we’re reaching back to that origin, letting the words sing from the ink and echo off the page.
Discussion Points:
Fear and Bravery: What does Peter’s fear of the dark say about his character, and how does he try to overcome it? Why is this job so important to him, and how does his bravery show even when he’s scared?
Character Relationships: What might the relationship between Peter and his father be like? Why might Peter feel the need to prove himself, and how does this affect the choices he makes in the story?
Building Suspense: How does the author create suspense throughout the story? What words or phrases make the story feel tense or exciting? How do the sounds, like the "click" and "crack," contribute to the sense of mystery?
The Mystery of Room 42: Why might Peter be tempted to enter Room 42, even though he was warned not to? What might he have been expecting to find, and why might he ignore the warning?
Descriptive Language: How do descriptions like “frost adorned the bottom of the window panes like painted mountains” or “the leathery skin clung to the cheekbones” add to the story? What do these images make you picture, and how do they make the story feel more real?
Anadiplosis in the Story: What effect do the repeated phrases in the story have, like “he looked, he looked up at his former flesh and bones”? Why might the author choose to use repetition in this scene, and how does it make the moment feel more memorable or eerie?
Curiosity vs. Caution: If you were in Peter’s position, would you have entered Room 42 or stayed away as instructed? What are the benefits and risks of each choice?
Interpreting the Ending: What do you think happened to Peter at the end? Is he truly “gone,” or could there be another way to interpret his fate? Why do you think the story ends with darkness?