Prompt: A writer famous for horror stories is writing a story that grows so terrifying that he/she becomes to afraid to complete it.
Thanks for the great submissions everyone!
Chris Musgrave-Writer in Traning
Hi, I Make Stuff
“David Beckham and The Vicrog”
The Excessive Gardener
Thain in Vain
A loud thud woke Morley Craik with a start. The glass of scotch resting on his crotch tumbled to the floor. He watched as the golden fluid absorbed into the sun-faded rug. He shook the nap from his head and reached for his laptop. The words on the screen were chilling. He didn’t recall writing them, but after a couple of belts of scotch a man can forget things. He grabbed the glass from the floor and scotch bottle from the table.
Another thud caused him to tighten his grip on the bottle. He supposed it could be roaches. The little buggers inhabited the building like they were paying tenets, he thought. Morley, also known as famed horror writer, Joe Slate liked to slum it when he wrote. A little tidbit his fans did not know about him. With ten bestselling novels under his belt, he could be writing in some fancy office or hotel in New York or Paris or London. But nothing stirred the creative juices for Morley like a hovel in a strange city.
Another thud. He couldn’t remember how long he had been here. Weeks? Months? Certainly not years, he said and felt comforted. Plenty of sounds bounced around the walls of this apartment; scream-fights from the couple next door; a wailing baby down the hall; backfiring cars; bottles smashing; screams and moans; a constant cacophony of depressing sounds. For a long time, Morley needed these sounds to nourish his words, to grow them into disturbing novels.
Lately, those sounds have grown strange to Morley. Not roaches, he thought. He suspected a mouse or worse a rat scratching around in the tub. He’d heard stories about pests climbing into the plumbing of old apartment buildings and coming up through the drains of people’s bathtubs and sinks. He’d even heard a story about a guy who was sitting on the crapper and heard a sploosh below him. When he looked between his legs he saw a rat clinging to his log of shit. But that’s probably one of those urban myths, he thought.
He drained his glass as he read the words on the screen. A shutter took hold of him. He couldn’t stop shaking. The words were horrifying. Thud. He deleted the words and felt relieved. Thud. He looked down the hallway toward the sound. His laptop made a bing sound. He turned towards it. The words were back.
“What is that,” he cried into the dim room. He stumbled down the hallway towards the noise.
He stood outside the bathroom door. He pushed it open and stepped inside. The door hit the tub with a clang. He nearly leapt out of his skin and let out a surprised scream. “Jesus Christ, get it together, Morley,” he told himself. He stepped into the small room and gasped. The words. Those words were there. Scrawled in blood on the wall. He screamed. The door slammed shut behind him and his scream grew to a terrified pitch before being silenced.