I love challenges, and this 200 word challenge has been fun. Here’s my offer. In fact, I got so carried away, I posted two, and even though I’m too late to compete for the PRIZE, I’d love it if you’d tell me which one of my entries you like best.
I’ve gone to several blogs and read their posts. None are alike and all of them are great. Kudos to all the #writecampaign people.
The door swings in and I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready for this. Who would be?
There he perches high above me just as I’d imagined, but smiling, not as I imagined at all.
His grin unsettles me more than I am already.
“Shall we begin?”
Like I have a choice? I’d say this, but I know better.
“How do see all of this playing out?”
Again, he’s put me off balance. I wasn’t ready to answer questions.
“Surely you’ve thought about it.”
When I don’t answer, he says, “Hmm. Too bad. I usually give choices. In your case, I guess it will be a surprise.”
“Can I ask when . . . to expect the . . . surprise?”
He doesn’t answer.
My leg jiggles, an old tick from childhood.
“That’s part of the surprise. You know that.”
“Do I get a warning?”
“You don’t want a warning. Warnings only make humans edgy.” He strokes his bony chin and the sleeve of the cloak slips back so his whiteness glows under the light.
I clench my fists, and a thin drizzle of cold sweat slides down my spine.
“Bye. Bye,” he says. “See you soon.”
Death’s door swings closed behind me.
AND #2 Just because #1 was so coated in drear.
The door swings in and the chill fingers of this October night curl over her skin.
When the thud, thud, thud of knuckles against the wood summoned her, when she grasped the knob, when she twisted it and the latch clicked free, the cautioning voice in her head said, “Don’t open that door.” Still she ignored the warning, and now she must deal with the consequences.
This is her own fault. She knew this was coming and still she hadn’t prepared, hadn’t thought what she’d do once confronted with these ghosts coming at her through the dark, their eyes unblinking, their demands unwavering.
There are three this time, but more hovering just out of that cone of yellow that thwarts the insects, but fails to protect her against these spirits. What does she have in her storehouse that might appease them and send them away?
“Nothing.” That inner voice is talking to her again.
If she quickly slams the door, locks it and turns off all the lights, will they vanish? Will she be able to climb between her sheets, knowing she’s escaped their vengeance?
“Not on your life.”
Damn that voice.
“Trick or treat,” the first ghost sing songs.