The Wind Over The Border

The metallic blue of a late October afternoon was hardening to twilight over the Northumbrian moor. Only the crumbling stone of an old pele tower stood against the bleak skyline. A raw northern wind, a Scottish wind, bit fiercely through the sere brown grasses, despising the thin yellow light that came to life in an upper window. For an hour the light shone in defiance of the oncoming night before the hills were left to darkness and wind.

"Help me! Please help me!" It was a womans voice, faint but fervid, making Claires heart thump. Shed thought herself quite alone in the only habitable room in the ruin but now a low unnatural candlelight illuminated everything.

"Help me!" the cry came again

Her feet were icy on the bare flagstones as she responded without waking. She stumbled over a chair that didnt match the pattern of her dream and a shock of adrenalin brought full consciousness.

The tower was dark and the only sound was the wind. It was more than just cold making her tremble as she returned to her duvet.

"But Ive never been sleepwalking before!" Claire protested to Lucy.

"Its stress", her friend pronounced. "Youve split with Mark, and that tower is creepy. Why you took that temporary wardens job Ill never know! The place isnt exactly a tourist trap is it?"

"Its shut in winter. Another week and Ill be in America."

"That holiday will do you good", Lucy said.

Old Thomas Mason from the village had a set of keys. The tourist board paid him a small sum to assist her.

"Is the tower haunted?" Claire asked.

"Theres a story about an old reiver - a cattle raider; lived and died violently. They say he took an English mistress and threw his Scottish wife in the dungeons where she starved to death. Your bedroom was his."

He seemed uncomfortable.

"Its just the wind over the border. It can make strange noises. Best to ignore them."

"Todays the 31st. Ill be gone tomorrow", Claire said. "Halloween", she remembered.

The cry was anguished, impossible to ignore. In the dream light of ghost candles the fifteenth century was visible again. Behind a rough stone Claires sleepwalking fingers sprang the catch for a concealed entrance to dungeon depths of which her conscious mind was ignorant. She only saw the ghost for an instant. The reivers wife smiled.

"Whore! Share my husbands bed and share my fate!"

The Scottish wind slammed the secret door and Claire woke naked in damp underground darkness. Her frantic fingertips were bleeding on the unyielding granite long before she began to scream.

Thomas returned to his car. The young student was gone. On a plane already, most likely. Hed cleaned her room and now the old pele tower would be deserted until April. He almost heard a womans voice.

"Help me!"

"The wind over the border", he thought with a superstitious shudder. "Best to ignore it". He started the engine.

P.S. I'd like to have formatted this a bit better and I had a theory that the HTML option might let me do something along those lines but sadly my efforts at HTML posts just didn't seem to be treated as HTML despite ticking the box (or have I got hold of the wrong idea of what this box is supposed to do?) Oh well...

I like this! I'm up for a challenge.

That was a nice story, DMFW. Confusing at first. I had to reread portions again. I guess that's what one is faced with when trying to cram it inside 500 words. (Title and all...grin) BTW, I'm afraid my imagination has been running amuck trying to think what your name stands for. If I curb the vulgar side of my brain, all I'm left with is something that sounds like the acronyms used in personal adds...hehe.

I am sure you've all read what must be one of the world's shortest horror stories. I don't remember who wrote it and I am quoting it from memory...the original was better: She was the last person on earth. There was a knock on the door.

Chuck, just to put you out of your misery there's nothing all that interesting in my ID I'm afraid! The DMFW is just my initials, which are usually a unique ID when I sign on to a web site. If I used my first name I'd be David500042 or some such :-) Glad you liked the story. 500 words makes you strip every sentence down to the bone. On reflection, I think even the little amount of plot in there was too much for the story to carry without making the reader work pretty hard. If I did another one of these I think I'd concentrate more on atmosphere and have even less narrative.

Well, DM, I would have to be a bit tipsy to try. I'm not a writer, anyway. 500 words to contrive a plot and make the reader a bit giddy? I think not!

That Halloween, people mistook Transom, only five feet tall, with delicate bones and quick movements, as much younger than his sixty years. Which is what he intended. Sixty he was, and he had learned how to manage. His found treasures included an abandoned television with a dim, fuzzy picture, and a discarded mattress smelling just a little from urine and mold. Tossed foods made his meals. He wore no clothes new, not even the shoes that flopped loosely on his feet. Every day, he took his oversized baby buggy on a tour through the neighborhood. He scoured for cans that he squashed down to flat circles with a small sledgehammer he carried. The hammer served a second purpose. Other scavengers, larger than he, thought nothing of stealing from him. They made a mistake to think the slight figure was weak, when in fact he had strength of purpose and had left more than one predator bleeding on the sidewalk. Last year Transom had found a childs costume that fit him well enough and even included a mask that hid his worn face. He put it to use now as he joined the youngsters roaming the streets on this Halloween. He simply hid the buggy, went from door to door to fill his sack, returned to the buggy, emptied the sack, moved to a new location, and started again. It was a good Halloween night. At least it was until he returned to find a tall figure examining his buggy. Thats mine. He stood as tall as he could. Do you know who I am? The voice was low, deep, and cold. I dont care who you are. I am Samhain, and this my night of nights. The being towered above Transom. Sam, that means nothing to me. Leave mine alone and Ill leave you alone. They are my children going door to door tonight. But you are none of mine. You dont belong among them. True enough. Transom sensed he needed a change of strategy. Youre desecrating my night. No, Im honoring you, Sam. Look into my bag. See what I have for you. The being feared nothing from this insignificant man. Samhains giant head slowly bent down to better examine the sacks contents. Who could blame Transom for taking out his hammer? He struck as hard as he could, which was very hard indeed. He expected blood, but not an explosion of pumpkin seeds and stringy membrane. The creature withered inside its clothes, now reeking from the saturation of wet, decaying pulp. Transom retrieved the shoes before they were tainted for he noticed that this large being had rather small feet. Transom removed his old shoes and found Samhains fit better, which seemed a good exchange to him. Transom pushed his buggy forward but hadnt gone far when he heard the voice. He quickly discarded the costume. Samhains final words were a promise and a curse: I will be back for you next Halloween.

Yeah, I don't like the way it played out either, but I got tired of working on it. Have I mentioned how much I hate editing?

That was a very intriguing little piece, dialyn. I enjoyed those 496 words! I particularly liked your idea for Transom's cunning Halloween scavenging scheme. And you managed to set up Samhain's demise plausibly as well. Very clever. I know what you mean about editing. There comes a time when you lose patience with it! I remember that when I wrote the first draft of my story it came in at something like 700 words and I then spent ages pruning it down. But in retrospect I think this was a good discipline. I found it surprising how much I could cut without losing anything important and I suspect it actually improved the prose in many places by making it shorter and punchier.

Well, it originally was 640 words and I nearly posted it at that length and admitted defeat, but I'm stubborn. As many times as I rewrote that last paragraph, I couldn't get it to read smoothly. Halloween has always been a favorite day of mine, though I couldn't tell you why exactly. I was too scared to go out trick or treating, but I've had an ongoing affection for ghost stores and horror movies. Thank you for this fun challenge! I hope some other efforts go up soon. I really enjoyed your story...it is hard to get a complex set of characters into 500 words but I think there is some usefulness from the exercise. Teaches us to cut, cut, cut if nothing else. :) Anyway, I had fun with it. Hope some other do too.

Here's my attempt at a Halloween story. Never tried being haunting before.... The Rockin' Chair They say that the war unsettled many folks. Fer sure, Annie McNaughton weren't the same when the news came about her Andrew. It was a hot, still ev'nin' in mid July; she was settin' on the porch in her rocker kittin' and pushin' the baby's cradle with her foot. The rider came slowly up the drive-never spoke a word, just handed her the letter. Tears ran silent down her pale cheeks but thet was all. The baby started cryin' at the stillness but she seemed not to hear. Went back to her knittin' and rockin' as though the babe weren't ther. Night after night she'd set ther rockin', her eyes vacant and still. Neighbors came to care fer the babe and hush its hungered cryin'. Annie took no help from no one-jest sat ther rockin'. They found her one mornin' cold as the dawn in her chair, eyes starin' at some distant horizon. In time, folks went back to normal life, pickin' up the pieces the war left behind. Laughter came agin along with weddins, birthin and all. Pain and loss drifted inter the past. They say, though, thet on hot summer eve'nins when the air is heavy and still, one ken see the rocker rockin' and hear the thin wail of a starvin' babe.

That is desperately sad. I don't usually care for attempts to translate regional dialect to the page (often comes off unreadable) but yours is very clear. Nicely done. Very haunting....in more than one way.

I like the dialect in that story too. It conjures up a sense of place without wasting any words. I can picture that empty chair still rocking on a hot summer evening. Very effective (and only just over 200 words!)

Cool idea for a challenge! I can't wait to see what other people come up with.

Hope you don't mind me submitting more than one....I really hated my other other story (have come close to deleting the darn thing since I can't edit on the forum). I don't know that this is an improvement. I started writing it on the bus last night and didn't realize until this morning what it was about. I think it fits the Halloween theme. 9/12/02 The Scavengers 453 words The alleyway was slightly lit by lights from the windows and the one unbroken bulb above a doorway. Kat flicked on her flashlight and startled a rat into jumping off the body and scampering behind a trashcan. Nathan walked over to man and knelt down. He pressed his fingers against the exposed throat. Dead. Kat moved the beam of her flashlight to the mans face and flicked her cigarette over the body. Ashes to ashes. She yawned. Check the pockets. Nathan rifled through the jacket and pockets. No wallet. Figures. Kat dropped the cigarette and smashed it with her booted foot. She bent over and pulled the mans hands free from underneath his body and pushed up the sleeves of his jacket. No watch. No rings. Pretty selfish to take whats due us. She straightened, stretching back You think he knew?" Knew what? That he was going to die. I think his mind was on unzipping his pants. Twenty cents in his pockets. Something is better than nothing. Time to strip him down. We dont have all night. Chloe Rose is going to be making her next stop soon. We dont want to get there late again. Maybe she took the money. When did you ever know Chloe Rose to be interested in money? Its Pauley or one of his kind thats picked up on her game. Wait till I catch up with them. They wont make that mistake again. She sure empties them out. No blood in this guy at all. I guess she gets real thirsty. Come on, lets get going. Nathan removed the clothing which Kat pushed roughly into a plastic bag. Something fell from his shoe. Whats that? Kat examined the bill. Twenty dollars. Mad money. Maybe we should cover him up. I dont think it matters to him. Nathan pulled some newspapers over the mans body. Modest, arent you? He just looks kind of cold. Kat laughed. He is cold. Hes dead. She focused her flashlights beam into Nathans eyes. Quit that. I know hes dead. Nathans face darkened with color. Doesnt hurt to have some respect. Kat shrugged. I dont think it matters to him anymore. Anything else? She moved the light back and forth. Nathan looked around and shook his head. I dont think so. Kat handed him the bag, which he pulled closed and tied. Lets get out of here. I hate the smell of garbage." As they left, the rat came out slowly from its hiding place. It perched back on its hind legs. Whiskers moved back and forth as it sniffed the air and assured itself that it was alone again. Then it dove beneath the newspapers to finish its nights work.

Oh shit! That's one COLD story. Well, except for the slight display of humaninty Nathan displayed. Nice finish with the rat...I had forgotten about it. Only one clarification need popped up for me: "flicked her cigarette over the body" When first read, I assumed she flicked her cigarette over and past the body...like you see in movies. Then later when she dropped it and put it out, I realized I had read that part wrong. I am guessing here, but I suspect you didn't want to spoil the "ashes to ashes" remark that followed by using the word "ash" in the words leading to it. Maybe... "...irreverently tapped her cigarette" (the use of the word "irrecerently" might go well with the "ashes to ashes" remark used at funerals. But even this might not be very good. As usual, your writing is easy to read.

Yeah, you're right about the ashes. I couldn't figure out how to get the cigarrette ash on the body without stepping on her line. You think the "irreverently" is necessary? Wouldn't that be clear by what she does? I don't like to interpret things for the reader if I can show them instead. I'll think about what to do about those ashes. Of course it's cold...it's supposed to spook you just a little. Just a little. :)

Yeah, your intuition is probably better. For the very reason you sighted. As a smoker, you'd think I would know exactly how to rid the tip of an ash without saying it. "Ducked her ash" comes to mind. But I think that dates it back to the days of calling them fags (the fifties). Also, the word, "ash" appears in the sentence. And I thought of "tapped her cigaratte over him", too.

That's a very sinister story dialyn and I reckon your 2nd piece is even better than the 1st one. It's a good example of how what isn't said can be as effective as the elements of a story that are made explicit. I like the implications of a whole fractured society of vampire followers which the reader can pick up from the title and those few well chosen words without any need for a labouring clarification. It feels like a good introduction to a novel about a whole mysterious horror "underculture". On the "ashes" sentence, I have a suggestion. How about something like:- Kat moved the beam of her flashlight to the mans face and flicked the dead dust from her cigarette over the body. Ashes to ashes. "dead dust" is an unusual description of the cigarette ash maybe but it chimes in quite nicely with the unspoken "dust to dust". I've just got back from a walking holiday in Scotland which is how come I haven't kept up with the postings but now I think I'll have a go at a 2nd piece myself...

Hmmm...dead dust is not bad at all. If you consider one name cigarettes are referred to by is "coffin nails," it becomes even more reinforcement for what is going on in the story. A walking hoiday in Scotland sounds wonderful....a rest for the spirit and inspiration too. Not a bad combination. Looking forward to another haunted tale from you. :)

Very cool Caledonia.. you handled the dialect quite well.

Well, Here's my attempt. 491 words. Dead Deal 1974 Chevy Pickup, 30K miles. Needs muffler. labinnac@rellik.com The ad was perfect. Muffler? No problem, thought Neil Buckler. He was looking for a used pickup since he and Josie bought their first home in Buckhall, Virginia last month. A bit rural for the newlyweds, but it was a nice change from their city apartment. Neil e-mailed labinnac@rellik.com and got an immediate reply. Yes, truck in good shape. Needs muffler work. Im getting old. Phone is out e-mailing from library. Want to see truck? The e-mail was odd, but Neil was more interested in the truck. He replied and immediately received directions: Take 234 to Bristow weeping willow on left. Right onto gravel road. 3.5 miles turn left at hole in woods. Neil smiled at the simple directions and put them in his shirt pocket. Neil stopped his Saab at the weeping willow, and to the right was a gravel road. I love this place, he said to himself as he turned onto the gravel road. At precisely 3.5 miles, Neil stopped the car and looked around. He could see no road, but like the directions stated, there was a hole in the woods. Neil Laughed and thought to himself, You wont find this in the city. After four miles, Neil was beginning to feel apprehensive about driving so deep into the woods, then THUD! The Saab halted violently. The front wheels sunk into a small ditch. Neil wished he could back out and go home, but the front wheels could get no traction. He proceeded on foot. Neil walked for what felt like another four miles when he saw the house. It was an old yellow colonial with a large unkept lawn. It had seen better days to say the least. An old man, wiping his greasy hands with a rag, laughed and said, You get stuck in the ditch? Should a warned ya bout that. Yes, my cars stuck about a mile back. Didnt think Id find you. Dont worry the old man said, Well take car of it. He reached into a cooler on the front porch and tossed Neil an ice cold Evian. Thanks! Neil caught the bottle and drank half of it down. So wheres the truck? The old man pointed and said, Come 'round back. Neil followed. As they came around the house Neil could see what looked like a parking lot of BMWs, Audis, Saabs, and more. Then Neil saw a black 74 Chevy pickup, with his Saab on a trailer behind it. Whats going on? Neil asked confused and angry. The old man looked Neil in the eyes, Meat tastes much better when its been arenalized. What the hell does that mean? It means you get a fifteen minute head start. Now RUUUN boy! Neil ran like an Olympic athlete. He glanced back to see two men walk out of the house with scoped rifles and he thought, I hate this place!

Good one. But, dare I say it, I'm dying to know what the email address stands for: labinnac@rellik.com I don't catch the reference (won't be the first time...I never figure out clever personalized license plates either). Have to admit I'd have been as confused as Neil as to what arenalized means...but the poor guy is definitely in trouble. I think I'd have had the old guy look Neil up and down...sizing him up, as it were. Kind of wonder where Neil's wife is ...wouldn't he have told her where he was going?...wouldn't an address given in an email be too easy to track and mess up the game of these guys? I know it's hard to cover all bases when you're going for under 500 words. Small quibbles. I adore the fact that they emailed from the library...not enough people know about free Internet access at public libraries and what a service that is to a needy population. :) Love these Halloween stories. Tricks and treats in one. Nicely done. Thank you for posting!

Damn, that gives me the creeps! Great set-up, great pay-off, perfectly economical writing. I can just hear the 'Now RUUUN boy!'. I love the way it has a flavour (pardon the pun) of urban legend about it too - I can imagine a story like that taking on a life of its own and spreading by word of mouth.

OK, here goes. I've never tried to write a creepy story before but this challenge caught my imagination. Grateful for all and any feedback. This one came in at 500 words, on the nose.

Goodnight

His blue eyes had paled over the years. From the flash of sapphire theyd been in our shared youth, I watched them dim, saw a milky ring soak in through the irises to leech away their strength. Now, gently, I closed them.
No-one spoke. That ghastly rattle of breath, his last, echoed faintly behind the silence. I heard again that low wheeze hed made as the last of the air escaped him. Looking round, I realised that it was just the evening breeze, billowing the pale curtain like the sail of some ancient ship, heading in to dock beside the great oak bed. As I turned, I saw too that we were all here, the last of his family. The last of my family. Elizabeth on the chaise, flanked by the two children, her arms around them as they nestled into her warmth. Stephen leaning against the dark armoire with his hands in his pockets. And me, sitting beside Jonah on the bed. His hand, cool and unmoving, in mine. Death the great event had held no spectacle, and the simple cessation has weaved a silence around us all.
Has Unca Jonah gone to Heaven now? Daniel blinked up at his mother, childish curiosity awakened again, now that the moment had passed.
Yes, love. Uncle Jonah has gone. Now were going to kiss him goodnight and well all go to bed.
Elizabeth rose, took both the childrens hands, and led them over to the bed. Cassie, solemn as only a nine-year-old can be, touched her lips to Jonahs cheek. Elizabeth lifted Daniel and lowered him down over the still figure. The boy kissed the pale cheek, whispered, Night Unca Jonah. Elizabeth handed the boy to her husband, bent, and pressed her lips to Jonahs forehead. Straightening, she turned to me and laid her right hand over my heart. Are you OK, Dad?
Im fine. Ill wash him now.
Stephen, arms full of Daniel, handed me a pitying smile. Well find you a smaller place, closer to us. Now youre alone.
As they left the room, I heard Elizabeth hiss, Christ, Stephen. You couldnt wait, could you?
The next hour, as darkness drained the blue evening sky, I prepared Jonahs body. With a bowl of warm water, I bathed him, remembering. Two children, sitting high in the tree outside, when this had been our parents room, listening to their soft talk through the open window. Wed romped across the endless hills, splashed in the stream, vowed we would never be apart. We had grown up in this house, as Elizabeth had later, as my grandchildren should be doing now.
With my fingertips, I spread sweet oils across his brow, his dry lips, his eyelids. His skin had relaxed; the wrinkles and furrows had smoothed. I fetched our mothers great leather-bound book, placed it on his chest, crossed his hands over it, and kissed his forehead. His eyes sprang open, rich and blue as sapphires.
I said just one word. Stephen.

To dialyn and cambert: glad you liked the story. I had to cut a lot out to get it under 500. Look at the e-mail address in reverse and you'll figure it out. Anyone can create an e-mail account with bogus info. For example, my mail2world account lets me choose from hundreds of domains like gambler.com or alien.com. In the original Neil shouts to his wife who's in the shower, "I'm going to buy a truck, I'll be home before lunch!" She replies, "Okay, but it better not be a pile of shit!" "Love you, honey!"

LOL! I am a dim light. Oh, yes, I've made up email addresses myself...none quite that nasty in tone. That 500 word limit is a real challenge. I'm impressed at how good the stories are that are being posted. I love being spooked. :)

cambert...beautifully written. And I had two distinctively different ideas about what happened next. This Halloween challenge is turning out to be a spooktacular idea. :)

Cambert.. that's a great story, richly written, and I had no idea what was going to happen until practially the last word. Now THAT's cool. :)

jagill: Good story. I think the scariest part is when he rounds the corner and sees his Saab towed in. That's gotta give you one of those chills that "flood" you. The kind like you get when you reach into your pocket for your wallet that contained $100 and your pocket is empty! I must confess, I pause over email names so caught on to that one easily. I guess it helps that I took driver's education in school. You see, we had to watch a film one day in class about a guy who showed up at restaurants, stores, outside on the sidewalk, etc. His mission was to convince people they were going to be late for an appointment or something. He would urge them to get in their car and hurry somewhere. The hurrying always resulted in a car wreck. The message was obvious. But we didn't understand about Mr. Rellik until he dropped his business card on a diner table beside a chrome napkin holder and could read the name (sort of) in reverse in the reflection. Thanks for posting. Cambert: As said above, your story was rich. I have no good measure of it but it's possible it had too many adjectives, if there is such a thing. On the other hand, you "painted" a good image of how the room looked that evening and captured the "feel" as well. Since it's confession time, I must admit I seem to have missed the point of the story. Did someone get re-incarnated? Brought back to life? I thought someone was going to get eaten but that may be due to the earlier story...grin. Someone help me! Thanks for sharing, Cambert!

Thanks everyone for the kind words. There's a high standard to measure up to around here. It's great to have my first attempt in this genre well received. Chuck: too many adjectives? It's certainly possible - quite easy, in fact - to have too many. Generally, the fewer adjectives the better. Strong nouns and verbs do a better job: adjectives and adverbs often feel weak. I'm not sure there are that many in there, but there's certainly a lot of description so that may give the same impression. Most of the adjectives are concerned with colour and tied to the dead man, because the story opens and closes (or rather, closes then opens) with his eyes. And, yes - someone got brought back to life :-)

Another very short story for Halloween. I don't know who the original author is (I'm sure the original was better written...this is from my memory of it). A man lays alone in a pitch-dark, silent room. The power is out. He is frightened and cannot sleep. He needs the comfort of a lighted candle. He reaches for a match, and a match is put into his hand.

Don't know if everyone checks out the Poser Forum but there is a free graveyard set for those of you who want to illustrate your spooky tales: http://www.sams3d.com Looks very nice indeed.

I'v been out for a while (problems with the connection)... But I'm very glad to see that I missed a lot: this means that this forum is growing and that I have a lot to read... Maybe not a good idea to read this thread at midnight, just before going to bed... But I like your stories... Being Italian I've some problems with some pieces, it's not so easy to figure out what is unsaid... and some hints may escapes me, but on the whole I'm enjoyng the reading very much! Thank you for sharing... (This post is mainly because I want to be e-mailed if someone adds another piece...)

Note to self... never write something late at night while tired and edit it 30 seconds later. Here's my story reposted again, with a total word count of 452. Hopefully it's not as bad as it was when I read it again. Enjoy. **** Butte Des Morts Theres a legend Northeastern Wisconsin about Le Butte Des Morts, the Hill of the Dead. Long ago, when the French traded with the local Indians Tribes along the Fox River. In time, a war came between the Tribes who lived on the river. One tribe, the Fox, tried to control all the trade on the river and stole from all those who traveled it. Try as they might, the other tribes couldnt overcome the Fox without French help. Chiefs from the Tribes warring against the Fox went to petition the French Governor to help them win the war. The French agreed to help the allied tribes fight against the Fox. An expedition of French and Indians was sent to find the Fox and destroy them. After traveling secretly down the river, they came across a Fox village. The French and their allies caught them by surprise and slaughtered the Fox. Every man, woman, child and animal. They took the corpses and piled them into a large hill on the shore of the river and covered it with dirt. Out of the mound rose an evil smell. The putrid stench of their rotting bodies could be for miles downwind! Over time, the war was won, trade began again, and the smell faded away. People soon forgot what had happened there. Hundreds of years have passed since that terrible day. Cities have grown around the long lost hill. Fewer and fewer know what happened let alone know where it happened. It became an obscure local myth. But the slaughtered Fox in the Butte Des Morts did not forget, nor forgive. Occasionally, a person would go missing. Sometimes a family would vanish without a trace. Tongues would wag for a time, but not many would suspect the Revenants of Butte Des Morts. Some know and try to warn others. The vengeful dead from that frightful day come back to exact their revenge on those who stole their land and murdered them! At night, when the wind sighs and clouds play hide and seek with the moon, they come. You may catch a glimpse of their gaunt and rotting corpses as they come for you. They come creeping through the woods, cornfields, yards, alleys, and homes. They are as quiet in death as they were in life. Coming to drag you back to their grave. So if you are ever out late at night in Northeastern Wisconsin, near the shores of the Fox River, beware! For you may be next. And your only warning may be, before you see their rotting smile and gleaming knife is a shadow on the wall and that cloying scent of dirt and decay, floating on the wind.

Happens to all of us (I can't tell you how often I've been tempted to delete my first story....and I may just yet). This has that story around the campfire feel to it...guaranteed to keep the youngsters spooked after everyone should have long been asleep. Nice change of pace and approach. :)

Oh yes, I like better this reposting... What I like of your piece is that it doesn't seem to be written, it seems to be told... It hasn't a literary aspect, as if it is meant to be listen at and not to be read...

Well, the challenge has certainly been taken up with a vengence! I've enjoyed all the pieces on this thread. cambert's story sent a genuine shiver down my spine. I knew something was going to happen but for the punch to come so close to the end was very effective. I can visualise the suddenly opening eyes as one of those scenes in a horror film that catch you unawares and make you jump out of your skin. And I loved the subtle ambiguous threat of the last word "Stephen". Makes you wonder what's going to happen next... I would probably have been caught out by jagill's cannibals. There are so many apparently meaningless email addresses in the world that I'd never have thought to try reversing the letters. If I'm feeling paranoid I will now! (Mind you, I can't believe no one ever thought Count Alucard wasn't a strange name in one of those hoary old vampire movies!) mboncher's zombie tale was most effective. I wonder why zombies always seem more plausible with a French flavour? Must be something to do with the associations of voodoo and Haiti, I guess (even though this story isn't set there). Butte Des Morts conjoured up an unheathy fear of the dark that I think is a useful ingredient in any Halloween story.

I promised I'd have a 2nd go at this challenge myself. My opening piece at the start of the thread was reusing some old work and that was staring to feel like cheating :-) So here is something written just for this forum, finished about five minutes ago and coming in at exactly 500 words. ------------------------------------------------------------ Coalford Junction I wasnt the last person to see Kelsey Miller alive. But when I heard the sound of the 7:27 derail with a scream of tortured metal I thought I had been. I turned the pickup truck round in a cloud of dust. Five minutes earlier Id been crossing the junction just below the wooden signal box. Id waved at Kelsey, standing in front of the levers. The old signalman had a fat cigar behind one ear and thick black rim spectacles. He was so much a part of my landscape that I never gave him a second thought. But I ought to have done because hed retired last week. It coincided with the introduction of an electronic system to govern the whole railway from the sea to the state boundary. By rights Kelsey had no part in that. Wed had some beers, me and the lads and Kelsey. He was always trying to strike a deal with you over something. That was just how he was. That and his beloved railway. He didnt really fit in with us. Different generation, I guess but he tried his best and we tried to give him a good send off. What will you do now? I asked. He shrugged. Ive got some deals. Ill get by I didnt think he would. Now I had other things to think about. A freight train had taken out the last three express passenger carriages. The signal box was crushed. There were bodies all over the banking. Some were moving but most werent. I did the best I could but I was second on the scene. The first survivors claimed an old man helped them. An old man with thick black spectacles and a fat cigar behind his ear. When Doc Martin arrived Kelsey was nowhere to be seen. For an hour we saved our words to comfort the injured. Mercifully only three travellers died in that crash but it was bad enough. And all on the morning Kelsey Miller had himself a fatal heart attack, Doc Martin sighed as heavy lifting gear arrived. But Kelsey Died at 6:45 this morning. Not that it made much difference. Hed have been killed in that signal box for sure. I said nothing. A software failure caused the accident. The system routed a freight train onto the main line just after the 7:27. An error in timetable records, they said at the inquiry. The engineers reckoned it might have been worse. Levers had been pulled in the signal box, averting a head on collision. Just as well the maintenance people hadnt got round to disconnecting them. I thought about it later: the way Kelseys last trade might have worked. A trade of deaths. The useless heart attack for the useful accident. And there was one last days work to be done after he retired After he died. I realised that I wasnt the last person to see Kelsey Miller alive. I was the first to see his ghost.

mboncher: Yep, that is a tale to be told around a campfire. NOW, if I were telling it, I'd make sure I turned it into something local to add believability. AND, if I had been out earlier in the day, say with my daughter and her girl scout troop, I'm make mention of a small mound (doesn't matter if they remembered seeing one or not, I'd always just say I had seen several here and there and decided not to tell them). Then I'd modify the story a bit to say that some people thought those small mounds held the remains of the people who had disappeared but no one had the nerve to dig through them. Well, I think that would scare the shit out of any 8-year-old! Nice story. DMFW: Another nice story. Easy reading. It flows well. Only thing I have to say is the mixture of the railroad, an accident, and an old man telegraphed, to me, what was likely to be the outcome of the story. Of course, in the back of my mind, I wondered if you were "baiting" me...grin. I think that story had just the right amount of descriptive text. Not too much and just the right flavor for a piece like that. Nice work guys!

DMFW...I thought it had a nice Twilight Zone kind of quality about it. Well written. It had that, "Have I got a story to tell you..." around the bar kind of feel to it. I could see a guy gathering his friends around and saying, "You won't believe what happened to me tonight." And you held on to the tone throughout. Very nice. And thank you for this challenge. I've loved seeing these stories bringing the goose bumps out on me. :)

I had so much fun with the first story, I thought I'd post another. I'm a big Neil Finn fan and this story was inspired by a line from Edible Flowers, which is why I used Finn in my characters name. 494 Words Mirror Reilly Finn drank, but he hid it quite well. The tax examiner never called in sick, he was prompt, and his work was flawless. Everything else in his life, however, was a mess. He had no friends, no girl, and no social life. After work, Reillys nightly routine would take him to Capitol Crab House or Washington Wok for dinner to go, and when needed, he swung by Arties Liquors for a refill of Dimple Pinch, before walking to his barely furnished downtown efficiency to drink the night away. Washington, D.C. 7:00 A.M. October 31, 2002 The alarm made his brain feel like it was buzzing out of its skull. Reilly smacked the alarm off and made his morning foray into the kitchen. He grabbed a glass from the cupboard, took three headache powders, which he swallowed with three full glasses of water, and then dropped a bagel in the toaster before hitting the shower. The headache powders began to kick-in as Reilly brushed his teeth. He glanced in the mirror realizing how badly he needed to shave. He lathered his shaving brush and rinsed the straight razor with hot water. It was old fashioned, but worked so well Reilly only had to shave every other day. He brought the razor up to his neck and froze. Reilly could sense that his hand was still, but in the mirror, his hand was lifting the razor to his forehead. His reflection drew the razor across his forehead drawing a slow flow of dark red across his face. The face smiled with red stained teeth. Reilly dropped the razor into the sink and covered his face with a towel. He wiped the shaving soap from his face and looked at the towel. It was clean. Then he looked in the mirror at his bloody reflection smiling back. Reilly turned his head right then left... The bloody reflection turned right then left... Reilly turned right again and the reflection stopped, faced Reilly, and said, Boo! He got dressed thinking this was his first hallucination. He considered a shrink before, but knew his abusive father and neglectful foster parents were the ones to blame. Reilly took the same walk to work he had done many times before. He saw the same faces and passed by the same store windows. To see if he was still hallucinating, Reilly stopped and gazed at his reflection in a coffee shop window. The blood had now stained the upper half of his suit. The smiling reflection pointed at Reilly then dragged the finger across its throat. Reilly threw his briefcase at the window startling the customers inside and ran. Twenty feet above, a crane cable broke loose releasing an I-beam. It met Reilly head on, crushing his upper torso. The coffee shop patrons rushed the window and screamed. Someone shouted, Oh my god! He never saw it coming! The reflection looked at Reilly and shook its head as he died.

jagill : Now that is a nasty idea! Haunted by your own reflection - not something you can ever get away from and maybe some allegory in there (after all I'm sure everyone has looked at their reflection at least once after a hangover and thought "yuk", even if it didn't work out quite as badly as it did for Reilly!). Good story.

Thanks! The idea gave me the creeps so I thought it would make a good Halloween story.

jaqill...you are so right. Gives me the creeps too. Nice twist on the haunts.

Wow. All these stories. They are fantastic. I have enjoyed them all. Thank you all for sharing :)

DMFW, Let me start by saying that I have no credentials in the field of writing, unless you include the several papers I was forced to 'assemble' in college. I like what I see on the page but not necessarily in the order that they are written. For example the opening two lines could be combined and reordered as below. "Only the crumbling stone of an old pele tower stood against the bleak skyline, the metallic blue of a late October afternoon hardening to twilight over the Northumbrian moor . . ." only my opinion, -TJ

Attached Link: http://www.randyellefson.com

This is a edited down version of a ghost story from the novel, "For Once & Ever More", I'm currently writing. "The Beheaded Witch", 497 words, 2002 Randy Ellefson Feeling watched in the woods that were rumored to be haunted, the hunter finally lost his nerve and went home. He was a religious man by all accounts, but superstitious and distrustful of the supernatural like many in those parts, and having just escaped what was in his mind a fate of supernatural horror, he was quite upset upon discovering his wifes apparent activities at home. None know for sure what she was really doing with the pot over the fire, the various herbs spread about on the table, the candles, the chalk marks upon the floor, or the open book from which she was reading aloud, but her husband took one look at her long disheveled hair, the loose gown she wore, and a holy medallion he forbade her to wear on the grounds that all talismans are evil, and flew into a rage. He pulled his sword and stormed in. She must have been terrified by the sight of him coming for her, his sword beheading her with one blow. Everyone believed this the way to stop a witch from rising again. He threw her head into the fire as he dragged her headless corpse out to dig a shallow, unmarked grave, where he left her before returning. Asleep hours later, he woke to the sound of shuffling feet moving in the cabin. A figure covered in dirt was moving to the table where the book his wife had been reading still lay open. This it ran one finger over as if tracing a passage before closing the book, tucking it under one arm, and turning towards the fireplace. It knelt to seize the skull with its remaining bits of charred, black flesh. It then placed its decapitated head back on its bloody neck before turning to the door. It was all of two paces from the doorway when he sat up more in bed. Thats when the figure saw him and slowly picked up his sword. He was too horrified to do more than stare as she decapitated him. None know for sure what happened afterwards, as the seers who investigated sensed from the walls that this much had transpired, but once the two corpses had left and disappeared into the woods, the trail of information vanished. There was no sign of either body or the book. The bloody sword, the first clue that something had happened, lay upon the floor. Friends would later say that his wife was no witch, just a cook who preferred plants to the meat her husband brought home, and so had them when he was away hunting. She somewhat secretly worshiped the goddess of agriculture and wore her medallion. The chalk marks were just indications of what plants she had already added to her soup. While these friends didnt dispute her murder, they could never believe the story of her returning from the afterlife, despite the empty grave near the cabin and that neither was ever seen again.

Here is my effort to this challenge. Hope you like it. I think it has 490 words, but not sure as I don't have a word processor on this machine and notpad & wordpad do not have spell checkers or word count funtions, so sorry for any errors. * * * * * * * * * * Can't be Real It is a dark, warm, cloudy, blustery night,... [OK, OK. So it's a cliche of an opening sentence, but I am not in control of the weather here. OK?! Now let me continue.] ...on Thursday 31st of October 2002. Standing in front of me was this ghost. Now, bing in Australia, the majority of us don't celebrate Halloween. Over the past few years though, the celebrating it with the "knock knock... TRICK or TREAT" has been creeping into our neighbourhoods. You should see their little faces when I open the door and have to tell them that this household doesn't celebrate Halloween. Sad to say the least. Back to the blustery night... My husband is at work. He left after midday but won't be back until just before midnight. It is almost 10 pm and has been dark for just over four hours. I am lying on the lounge, watching old time horror movies (so much better than some of the ones made today) in the light of three candles. The only other light on in the house is the kitchen light but it was mostly obscured that I could still enjoy the candles. My cat suddenly jumped up onto the coffee table. I ruffled his head. Thankfully, he is not exactly a quiet cat, so his sudden presence didn't scare me. Suddenly, this kid, a young boy of about 14, walks into my lounge room from my kitchen. With a sqeaky kitchen door, I didn't hear it open and close. I was about to go mad at him for coming into my home uninvited, but I just laid there staring at him with my mouth open when he came towards me through the coffee table. I just stared at him standing there, on the floor, in the middle of my coffee table. I didn't scream. I'm not the screaming type. Now, I don't know if I believe in ghosts or not, but here was one standing right in front of me. He didn't look all that menacing. "Why are you here?" I softly asked. Not so much that I didn't want to scare him away, but because I could't speak any louder if I wanted to. "Looking for you." He said with a sweet smile. My eyes widen in fear "Me?" I croaked out. I don't know this boy. I couldn't think properly. "Of course you, silly. I have been searching for you for a while now." He replied, still smiling. "Me? Why?" I asked in a sqeaky voice, my eyes almost popping out of my head in fear. "To take you back home." He responded as he held out his hand. I just stared at it. He was a ghost. I couldn't take hold of it. "Home? But I am home." My head was starting to hurt. I was becoming confused. "He doesn't come here any more." The boy responded softly as his smile started to fade to a look of sadness. "Who doesn't?!" I demanded. "Your Husband." He responded sadly. "That's it! I have had enough. Get out of my house!" I stood up, then bent over to grab the book that fell off my lap when I stood. Only, I lost balance due to a dizzy spell, like the one I had a few months ago, and went right through the coffee table. The same way the young boy did earlier. "NOOOOOOOOO!! This can't be real!"

Amazing stuff guys...Im thoroughly creeped out now :) hehe

I agree with Cimerone. Really well done, eerie writing going on here. Who needs a haunted house when we have a haunting message board?

Now everyone is writing two pieces! This forum is so demanding ;) Again, 500 on the nose. ------------------------------------------------------------ An Aerial Photograph of Home The wine tasted of oak and the autumn sun. Twin bubbles swayed and conjoined under the rim of my glass. I rolled a mouthful over my tongue. He still kept an excellent cellar. How was the journey? he asked. Long but comfortable. A blur mostly, I sighed. Im glad Im finally here. The familiarity of his face added to my feeling of belonging, more so because he hadnt aged a day in all the years that wed been apart. Lets leave the dishes and get comfortable, he said, leading the way. As I expected, pictures crowded the drawing room walls. I havent seen most of these, I said. Its been a long time, he replied. Then his eyes sparkled, I want to show you something. The latest one. He took my arm, led me into the darker part of the room. A lamp clicked on. Isnt it magnificent? On the wall was a triangular sprawl, like a cobweb across a corner, its filaments an accretion of macadam, the spaces stuck with block and tile. There was our hometown mapped out and framed but not, I saw, a map. This had all the dimensions of summer, the jewels and shadows of saturating sunlight. Home, as photographed from the sky. The detail is astonishing. The resolution its like being suspended in air. Its beautiful. My eyes flitted about the photograph, sprinted through the places I knew, a street a second. A strip of sky - the reflecting river - wandered across. Shadows of clouds, sailing higher yet than this vantage point, daubed the green geometry of the parks. And here, to the east, was the great grey circuit of the traffic interchange. Intersecting beneath it were the walkways wed skateboarded, wreathed in traffic fumes, following our echoed shouts through the tunnels. Look, he said, Mill Road. The railway bridge. I traced down from the splayed railway lines. There was the first place I ever lived. All those terraced houses, each with its portion of homes warmth, indistinguishable under long communal roofs. A few streets away, a small patch of tree-freckled green was crossed by two paths, connecting at a pale circle in the centre. There wasnt a park there, I wondered. The cemetery, he said, and with that word I fell, spiralling into the photograph. Here were the avenues I knew, the pavements and the crossings, caf, and grid mapped roads, spinning up through the tearing air toward me. My body falling, limbs raging against uprushing wind. Suddenly standing, one of a silent group inside a memory. Bare sky over headstones. All of us black draped, turning from where we had lowered him down. His girlfriend, unwed and widowed; my cold touch on her thin fingers. How are you? Terrible. Terrible. Id never left him behind before and was uncertain how to walk away. He touched my shoulder. Its where they laid you too, he said. You didnt see because you were on your way here.

Nicely done...thought I am disappointed to find there are dishes to wash in the herafter. For myself, I would like to know the relationship between the two people (parent and child? I'm assuming not girlfriend-boyfriend since he had a girlfriend at his grave.) And to make room for it, I'd probably (this is just me), take out the redundancy of the phrase "its filaments an accretion of macadam," which is just repeating the cobweb image very familiar to most most people and gives you six whole words to spare. ;) You worked in a lot of detail in thos 500 words...mood and setting well set. I'm glad we don't have to vote on which story we liked best....I wouldn't want to have to make a choice.

Beautifully written Cambert. I think I'm inspired to write another...

Thanks for the kind words, folks. Dailyn, you're right about the redundancy of the 'filaments' phrase. I'd envisaged the two characters as friends but I tried to leave the characterisation as open as possible; a hint that these people were insubstantial in some way. The narrator character isn't even specified as male or female. I'm interested in how we project ideas and characters onto 'unreal' people - the dead, celebritites, politicians and the like. The original of this was nearly 800 words and it's been a lot of fun hacking it down to size. It makes me feel totally ruthless, without any messy clearing-up to do afterwards :)

I find keeping to a word limit very difficult indeed. In school, when we were told to write three pages, I was the student who typed single space, elite (no computers in those days when dinosaurs roamed the earth), with 1/2 inch margins and three pages of footnotes in addition to my three page paper! I made the suggestion because sometimes once the question occurs to the reader, it distracts from the story...and that would be a shame. If the two people are friends, there's nothing wrong (I don't think) with indicating that without damaging the growing sense of something happening in the scene beyond simply two people meeting over drinks.

I can definitely see your point about the question being distracting once it comes up. I think if I was reading that piece for the first time, I'd want to know what the relationship was between them too - it would stick in my mind if I never found out. Thanks for that insight.

Well, actually, it's Chuck's insight and someone else's about one of my stories where I left out the same piece of information. It was clear to me but not so clear to someone else. ;) At least I learn from experience. Well, some experiences. Really like the richness of your style. I envy that. I'm no good at communciating settings and I admire other people who do that without holding the story back.

It was clear to me but not so clear to someone else. ;) One of my bad habits - I need to remind myself that what's in my head isn't always what's on the page. It seems I still haven't learnt the lesson properly. It's the same with all habits: good ones disappear in moments, bad ones stay forever :) Can't agree with you about not being good at communicating settings though. I saw the alley in The Scavengers very clearly.

bikermouse : Thanks for reading and commenting. I agree with your suggestion. On balance I prefer your rephrasing of the opening two sentences of "The Wind Over The Border". It reads better combined into a single sentence. Personally, the general flow of the text is an aspect of that piece that I'm dissatisfied with. It's not so bad at the beginning but later where I had to squeeze the word count hard the sentences get choppy and the rhythm is disrupted. I'm sure that one of the secrets of writing well is to strike a good balance between long and short sentences. In this excercise, cutting an original back to 500 words sometimes results in an ugly structure for the resultant text but I don't think it needs to stay ugly. I think it just means that you have to try harder to restore the flow again. Another editing pass is what's called for. If you've got the patience ! There are certainly some good examples in this thread where it's been managed very well. I like cambert's 2nd story a lot. The idea of a perfect aerial photograph ties in quite neatly with a literal interpretation of heaven as a place "up there", and that fantasy of the afterlife as the ability to be all seeing and all knowing. It's an original idea (but I also agree with dialyn that I got a bit hung up on trying to work out the relationship of the protaganists) Geminirand : I can see how this one would make a good set up for some later writing where the headless corpses make a reappearance. Is that what you have planned in your novel? I was a bit confused by her "religious" husband also becoming a headless corpse when he wasn't involved in the original ceremony and so I presume he isn't supposed to have any supernatural powers. But perhaps I'm meant to be confused. Obviously there is a mystery behind the (normal!?) supernatural events here as you're hinting in the final paragraph... Still, just goes to show that beheading isn't the way to stop a witch from rising again. I'll bear that in mind next time I see one... BellaMorte : Like in cambert's story the most frightening ideas can be the ones that reveal supressed information about ourselves. This is a major spoiler for anyone who hasn't seen it but the recent file "The Others" with Nicole Kidman explored this sort of territory and very chilling it was too. I'd thoroughly recommend it. I like the way you handle the dialog in this story. It builds up the tension very nicely. My only criticism would be that the start of the piece is in quite a jokey style, with the various asides e.g. "I'm not the screaming type" and then it all gets more "serious". I actually enjoyed the jokey style and the more "straight" horror but I'm not sure they blend well together. Pretty hard to do in 500 words!

Wouldn't you agree, DMFW, this exercise has been a success?

dialyn : I can't believe how many people have taken up the challenge and how good the results are! There are some interesting writers in this forum. I keep meaning to try and contribute to some of the other threads but just keeping up with this one is hard work!

DMFW: Thank you for your comments. Actually, the writing style for that piece is based around the type of person I am. I have this tendency to laugh in a serious situation and at times I'll try to be funny to lighten the situation only to have it fail. These only come out when I am so scared. Being an emotional person who doesn't scream, these become my form of release My piece was rewriten because I based her death on the accident that my husband and I were in last year but when I read it, it felt too close for comfort so I based it on the dizziness instead. I actually found that sort of hard to write. Not my normal writing there. Any tips for improving?

BellaMorte: Ah, I understand your story a little better now! I hadn't picked up on that nuance of using humour to deflect fear but it does ring true (maybe 500 words is just too short to bring that out or perhaps I was just too dense to see it). Actually, the more I think about it, the more it seems like a profound idea which could work very well if it was developed more fully in a longer piece. I can see it as an effective way of building character into the "victim" and deepening the final horror. There is a fine line between innocent laughter and hysterical laugher, after all and taking the reader from one to the other could make for a very disturbing tale. It sounds like you scared yourself a bit in writing this! I like your writing style and I can't think of any particular "tips". I'm too embarassed to offer tips when all my own weaknesses are on show in this thread :-) Perhaps one observation though. Your comment about finding this hard to write, probably means that it's been a worthwhile thing to attempt. I reckon the hard things are the ones that make you think more critically about your own writing and that's a good way to improve...

DMFW: I see what you are saying. Yes, I guess 500 words are not enough to protray that sort of emotion. Being a very emotional person myself (and, believe it or not, very shy), I do tend to get hysterical if I am involved. I hate confrontations. I get the shakes LOL. The internet is the first place I have found where I can be daring because I am not actually in front of people. Maybe not scared myself. I don't know really. Thank you for that :). I have a tendancy not to give tips because I feel my style is so basic. However, I have been surprising myself during the past 4 days since I discovered the writing comp :). Yes it was hard because I was using me as the model for the person telling the story. You see, I too suffer dizziness. I have never really used me as a character before and doing it in this halloween story was interesting, strange and a bit difficult.

Second time I posted this. The first one seems to have been lost in the ether. Kind of spooky, eh? My first posting here. 497 words by the way. jon ============================================================= The House Across the Street J. M. Strother There is a house across the street that is reputed to be haunted. It certainly looks the part; it is old, with huge windows, a recessed entryway, and an enormous front door at the top of a long series of steps. It's white facade stands out like a beacon on top of the hill when the sky is dark and the sun peeks in low under the clouds. It commands your attention. It is fabled to have been part of the Underground Railroad. Rumor has it that there are tunnels in the basement, tunnels used to hide escaped slaves, and later, contraband for the Union. If such tunnels exist, we never found them. God knows, we looked. I spent hours in the basement with my friend George, tapping walls and floor, listening for a tell tale sounds. George lived there with his mother and two sibs, Mary and Elaine. His father lived there too, when he was home, which was seldom. I never met the man. Seems the tunnels were the root of the haunting. A young Confederate officer by the name of Jeremy Pike heard tales of this house, and took it upon himself to go investigate in hopes of earning glory. So on October the 20th 1861, he rode out to the house alone. He was never seen again. Stories say he was graciously welcomed by Mrs. Stowe. After they exchanged pleasantries over tea and cake he asked if he could have a look around. She protested but ultimately relented, following him from room to room. Finally he entered the basement, and with the aid of a poker found what sounded like a hollow spot behind the staircase. He turned to ask Mrs. Stowe about it. He was met square in the face with a shovel, killing him instantly. So we banged and prodded around that stupid staircase for weeks. Even took a pick to the wall one time, much to George's regret. We never found anything. Still, the old place gave me the creeps, epically around Halloween. I'll never forget that one Halloween when I went over to collect George for a night of Hell raising. I rang the bell and waited. Finally I heard steps in the hall. The door flew open. George's old man stood there glaring out at me dressed in a Confederate uniform that was dead on, his Southern percussion six-shot Griswold & Gunnison replica revolver aimed at my chest. After recovering my wits I asked for George. No one's home. his dad snapped back. The door slammed in my face. I stood there for awhile before going on to collect my other friends for a pumpkin smashing night. We had a great time, but I kind of missed George. When I saw George I told him his dad had a killer costume for Halloween. My dad's in Colorado. George informed me, looking confused. Like I said, I never met the man.

~jon
My Blog - Mad Utopia Writing in a new era.

Cool story Jon. Thanks for sharing :)

Attached Link: Halloween (continued)

Just for the sake of continuity, Chuck has started a new thread and there's a story posted there too.

Well, you can tell I was up too late. I thought I had posted it to the new thread! :-p jon

~jon
My Blog - Mad Utopia Writing in a new era.

You did post to the new thread (you wrote the clever story about the ghost, right?). In fact it was your story that made me think that we should have a link hre to the new thread in case anyone missed that there were stories yet to enjoy. Sorry if I confused things. I meant to do the opposite.

No problem. jon

~jon
My Blog - Mad Utopia Writing in a new era.

okay, to make an entry in this I'm going to just fly with an idea. it will not make 500 words. I doubt it will make 100. though that is possible. ~g~

She peers around the corner..looking along the darkened corridor..her heart pounding in her breast. She almost faints with releif when she sees the corridor is empty. Slipping around the corner and along the corridor, she pauses when she notices that one door is ajar. Sending her gaze flying to the ends of the corridor she relaxes minutely at seeing it unoccupied, then sidles up to the door and listens carefully to check if anyone is within. Hearing nothing from the chamber beyond the door she cautiously peers through the crack of the door. Her heart jumps into her throat, stifling her scream when she sees the blood encrusted racks filling the chamber.

that's it. no title, no more. just two quick paragraphs right off the top of my head.

I know I'm not a regular here, but the challenge intrigued me. This is based on something that happened to me when I was kid. Jack Going Home The three boys raced gleefully away from the machine gun rattle of exploding fire-crackers that echoed against the concrete sides of the empty silt pond. Even in the dark, sure-footed familiarity led them quickly to where the high dividing wall separated the empty half of the pond from the side filled with overflow from the river. With hardly a pause Graham stepped onto the top of the wall, followed by Woody. Peter hesitated; watching the other two, their arms outstretched like aircrafts wings as they wobbled towards the other side. He stepped onto the inches wide concrete and stood there, swaying. Its easy, he told himself. Its just like in the daytime, you wont fall off. He took a few steps. The Halloween moon glinted eerily on the black water. The others had almost reached the other side. Once across, they would turn around and laugh at his faltering, unsteady progress. He went faster, trusting to his ability to put one foot in front of the other the same way he had done for most of his eleven years. It didnt work. He felt himself tottering and just had time to decide to fall into the water, rather than onto the bone breaking concrete ten feet below. The freezing water closed over his head and, with sudden anguish, he remembered that his pockets were full of fireworks, now wasted. Gasping, Peter broke the surface and clung to the wall. He looked desperately around for his friends to come and help him but they werent there. They had run off and left him! For a while Peters tight-lipped anger at being deserted overcame his discomfort and he scrabbled his way to the bank. He hauled himself out and hugged his sodden parka around him. Almost crying now from fright, anger and the cold, he squelched off in the direction of home. Fortunately it wasnt far, but it was only when Peter opened the door to his yard that the thought of parental displeasure occurred to him. He sighed as he entered the dark kitchen, but it would be worth whatever punishment he would get to just to be warm again. He was just about to open the living room door and face his parents when he heard the voice of a strange man in the living room. People say, said the voice in a mysterious whisper. That on Halloween you can still see the ghost of little Peter Dewey coming home from the pond. Then Peter heard the tremulous voice of a child. And this used to be his house, didnt it? Peter opened the door and took a step into the light. Sitting on the sofa were a strange man and woman. On the mans knee sat a little boy of about seven, wearing striped pyjamas. They looked at him, startled, and then they started screaming at the sight of the thing in the parka, bloated and rotting, that stood in the kitchen doorway.

Forum: Writers

Subject: Halloween Challenge