mystery story

Hvad handler den om? / hvad hedder den?
Vil du have en til at rette din engelske stil. ?

ja hvis du kunne hjælpe vil det være utrolig dejligt.. jeg vil gerne have den rettet..
Den hedder Enig og er en mystery story som har en åben slutning.. (sys den er god) :)

Hvis du lægger stilen ud her, så er der garanteret nogen, der vil kigge på den for dig.

oka så gør jeg det....
Her er novellen Enig..
Der er to afsnit til sidst og er forvirret om hvad for et afsnit jeg skal vælge..hjælp mig med at vælge..


Enig

He was a young man. He came to my door, knocking hard against worn tree. I was asleep in my bed, furious that anyone would come knocking at this time of the night.
“Please” he whispered, “She’s alone.”
I put my head outside the door, looking to the lamps between each house, surprised no one had been awakened by the stranger.
“Com in,” I said. “Make no noise.”
I lead him inside, to the table. He refused food, to sit down.
“Well, if it is not food or a place to stay you have come for, what is it then?” I asked about. I poured myself a glass of water and sat at the table, staring into his blue eyes, deep-blue and bright.
“I came…I came to ask for help.” He said it simply. I noticed his clothes were old and torn. He sank down, mournfully, but more in a tired way. “She’s alone.”
“Alone?” I repeated. I decided he couldn’t be a beggar or a thief. Maybe he could be a widower? He stared blankly at the wry candlestick.
“Will you help me?” he hesitates. “She’s trapped.”
I decided he was a man come back from the war. Maybe the war, but no, that was too long ago, and this part of the country wasn’t concerned with it.
“Trapped? And where?”
“The castle, but the thorns are too thick. I should know.” He nodded sadly. “She can’t stay. She can’t sleep forever. I can’t let her sleep her curse away.”
Perhaps he was serious, sane, even. He talked so careless of this woman.
“What is her name?”
He speculated me momentarily, scanning me from top to bottom. “I…don’t know. But… But she stays in a castle, asleep.”
I’d heard of such things, were the stories of insane men, men whose dreams tortured them constantly, men who had been to the war and watched their brothers die. I gave the man a crooked smile.
“What is your name, man?” I murmured quietly, inspecting his hesitant face.
“Enig.” His eyes glowed brighter when he spoke. “Honestly, I don’t know her name, but, please, come with me. You can still help her. She’s asleep, and tonight will mark her next year, her one-hundredth. Only once every year, can you save her, so save her tonight.”

I gave Enig a worried look, a man so young, gone mad? I humored him, I put my coat on and brought my sheath knife, fearfully; it was the same my father had given me. The only reason I had brought it was to defend myself if Enig was mad.
He led me, and we traveled for three hours, I estimated. His words were true. There were the thorns. The castle seems to be a premonition of something bad. I went forward, but Enig held me back.
“No,” he said it carefully, “they’re poisonous.”
I could well see that as soon as I had let my eyes see, a few meters in the forest of thorns were a rot body of a man. Enig pointed to a sword lying on the ground before his feet, because my sheath knife was useless. I slashed through thorns, and actually still wondering if Enig was not to be my murderer. As I gave a final slash through the thorns, my sword fell from my hands, into a yard, filled with statues so lifelike. I reached out to touch one of them.
“No,” Enig muttered. “Not yet.”
I came to the stairs of the castle. I jumped clear over gaps, coming close to falling into the thorns under the stairs where they grew …..(hurtigt). The door to the tower was overgrown with roses, with thick brown vines. I took my sheath knife and cut them through.
She was there. Her eyes were closed, and I was afraid she was dead. Her cheeks were wet. She’d been crying in her dreams. I smiled at Enig and looked at him, surprised. I couldn’t tell if he was crying or melting, and I was shocked as well to think he was a man out of the myths. He was staring at the floor, where there lay a man. He was not dead, not like the others. The blood on his coat looked new. Enig stepped past the man and leaned over, kissing the woman on her lips.
Her eyes opened, and she smiled. I knew. He had come, had been cut by the thorns, could not save her. He had bled to death, and that was him. He was that man who where lying at the floor.


Early at the morning the woman was awake as well as Enig, but they were gone. I took my steath knife and traveled those three hours back home.


Morning
The woman was awake. They, Enig and the woman, were fading. A glimpse outside the window; the statues were moving, and fading. Ulyss walked forward.
”Now we can finally go where we belong.”