This week the pupils in Year 6 have been busy writing newspaper reports about 'Francis Brandywine'. She went out rowing in a small boat in Quetico Provincial Park in Canada and disappeared. Her experience was recorded in a journal which was found on the shore. Thank you to Literacy Shed for inspiring them to write this week. 

Everyone has written an interesting newspaper article. 

Read Emma's to reveal the details of the disappearance but not before bed time as it is very mysterious!

CHICAGO NEWS

Written by Emma H

Disappearance of Francis Brandywine

A young, local girl disappeared without trace.  Is she dead or alive? A huge enquiry has been set up and search parties have been sent out. Answers are wanted by family. I do not think anyone will be visiting Quetico again; there is something lurking in the deep depths of the waters…She was last thought to be seen by the pier, boarding a boat… a flaming lantern in her hand.

Quetico is a boreal, wildlife-filled nature reserve. Its pristine woodland was filled with towering trees that hovered above the serene lake. The lake was a lonely body of water, made by passing glacier. Bears pondered through the darkness of the forest, concealed in the murky shadows. Not a single ripple ever appeared in the elegant expanse of water. The tranquil atmosphere was meant to be a sign of pure solitude. Half of the park’s one million acres was deserted; the whispering of the wind the only company. Sometimes, visitors feel a sinister sensation as of the lack of people and the hushed silence travel s amongst the ethereal forest.

Francis Brandywine (girl aged 17) vanished. She had a beautifully, slim figure and an uncontrolled, reckless nature. The girl had obsidian, long hair and ivory skin. Due to the recent events, it has been discovered that her personality was very rare. Solitude was her preference and her daring actions said it all. All of her clothes were battered, skin-tight, khaki leggings with a hole in one leg, immense hiking boots that unusually were a pristine fit. Wandering out at night with bear arms was not unusual.  She loved to venture off from the beaten track. Taking this from the story, we assume that her parents no longer took much notice of their daughter’s whereabouts. Supposedly, a 17 year old could be trusted out on her own.

On the night of the unfortunate happenings, Francis peaked out of her tent and cautiously glanced around. She slipped on her huge, brown boots and tip-toed along the forest-floor and on to the wooden pier. The boats wobbled as the lake calmly swayed from side to side. Placing first her toe into the boat, trying to avoid the remains of water in the bottom of the vessel, she meticulously sat down on the bench. A lantern sat in one hand, fire blazing. She took a single cigarette out of her pocket and lit it on the lantern. Grabbing the oars she was feeling great. Everything was fine with her journey so far. Rowing peacefully, she eventually felt sure that she had reached beyond the deepest part of the water. Perfection.  The Aurora Borealis shimmered in the inky black sky like a neon lasso. She lay down and settled restfully staring up at the stars. After a few moments, she turned over; she began doodling and writing bits in her journal.

Then the problems began…

Just as she was drifting off into a lovely day-dream, a sharp knock was heard. Francis sat up abruptly. As she leaned over the side of the boat, thoughts started swimming through her head, her contemplations racing. A fish? A turtle? A stick? It could have been anything.  So she lay back down, no longer worried…

Five minutes later, it came again. Louder now. A new thought came into her frazzled head. Had she drifted ashore? No. She looked over the edge of the boat. Still where she was. Then she DID begin to panic. Eventually, she managed to relax herself and lay back down – once again – into a contented reverie…

It came again and this time, Francis was not messing around. She lunged for the oars, now on the verge of tears. She rested her hands in position. Feverishly rowing, she gasped as her mouth went as dry as a bone. Louder it came. Her pulse throbbed. Something was evidently keeping her where she was…

There was no movement. She held tight on to the boat. All Francis could possibly do now was sit, wait and worry.

As the knocks came and came again, she shoved the oar into the water, attempting to feel something underneath her rocking boat. The vents had pushed her one step too far, and she was exhausted, tears of fear and stress rolling down her rosy cheeks. The oar was pulled under. Francis froze. As she jumped to the side in surprise, the other oar drifted off; no hope ever left. The banging was now as loud as a base drum. Exasperated, she put her head in her hands and sobbed. She sobbed all night long. None stop.

The next morning her boat was found back at the pier, no girl in sight whatsoever. The only thing was left was the journal - the thing that gave us this horrific story.

She has never been seen since then. Yet…there was a specifically wet page – right at the back of the book found by the police.

 There was a message, written with mud, quickly and scruffily. It read:

I did knock first!

This is all we know. Investigations are continuing.