The Pen Is Mightier Than...

by Vanessa Horn

Halloween.... Halloween.... I wrote the word down twice, but it didn’t help. Sighing, I wrote it again, this time in capitals. HALLOWEEN. Nope, nothing. I frowned and then lay my pen back down on the table. If I was going to enter this competition, it would have to be with a unique piece of writing – something that no one else would even think of, let alone write about. Something that would immediately grip the reader. So...

I gazed out the window for inspiration. I’d left writing my story until it had grown dark, gloomy, and foreboding. I thought it would be the ideal setting in which to write a Halloween story – a ghost story. And, yes, my large back garden was shrouded in a cobwebby veil of vapour; it should have been perfect! However, my imagination thought otherwise. All that was coming to mind were terrible clichéd plots: being drawn into a haunted house whilst trick-or-treating... discovering that the roasted marshmallows happily cooking on a crackling bonfire were actually dead men’s thumbs... witches cackling around a cauldron... done, done, DONE!

Ok, well, this wasn’t going anywhere fast. Maybe I should just write something down – anything – and it might spark off an idea. Picking up my pen, I wrote: It was 31^st October. James looked anxiously behind him as he set off down the lonely country road. Was that gripping enough? I sighed, deciding that it wasn’t. Crossing it out, I then wrote: It was a good idea – a Halloween party in the old graveyard. At least, it had seemed like a good idea until... I stared at the words for some time until they blurred together like tangled black thread. Why did everything I write sound as if it had been written before? Could it be that, in the year 2012, every single idea had already been thought of, written about and done to death? Pfff! Not much hope for budding new writers then! Angrily, I threw my pen down on the table and stomped off up the stairs to bed. There was obviously no point in wasting any more time on this.

The next day, after college, I was slightly more optimistic. I had a seed of an idea – a tiny, tiny seed...

Settling myself back into position by the back window, I allowed myself a couple of moments to watch the garden robin, who, in the half-light of the approaching evening, was pecking vigorously for worms in the hard soil. I smiled at him in recognition – he looked so determined, so single-minded.

Right – back to work! Picking up my pathetic attempt from yesterday, I suddenly did a double-take! What?! My two sentences were still scrawled on the page, but there was more writing added after the second sentence – words that certainly hadn’t been written by me! I looked around, suspiciously; I’m not really sure who I was looking for because I live by myself, but even so! I looked again at the rather elaborate writing next to my words, this time actually reading it: It was a good idea – a Halloween party in the old graveyard. At least, it had seemed like a good idea until... I realised that there was something wrong with Frankie. He had been quiet all evening, not saying a word beneath his skeleton costume. It was only when everyone had left; when he lifted his mask that...

Hmmm... I rather liked this continuation of my introduction, even if I wasn’t too sure how it had come about! And I even had a friend called Frankie – how much of a coincidence was that? Almost forgetting the peculiarity of the situation, I picked up my pen, keen to continue with the story:

...I noticed the strangeness of his eyes. They were hollowed and empty, with none of the animation that I usually associate with Frankie. I gasped and began to speak to him, to ask what was wrong but was silenced by his raised hand.

I paused from my writing and looked up. What was wrong with Frankie? Where was this story going? Ah, ok, I think I knew. I continued: He motioned for me to come with him – to follow him further back into the darkness of the cemetery, back into the shadows and the gloom. I hesitated, torn between either leaving with him into the unknown, or staying by myself with the graves...

Ok, so far, so good! Nodding to myself, I realised I really needed a drink, so quickly rose and hurried into the kitchen, anxious to get back and continue the story. But on returning, I saw – once again – that more had been added to the text! How... on... earth? This was... unnerving. With shaking hands, I picked up the sheet of paper: But there wasn’t really a decision to make; there was no way I wanted to be left on my own, so following Frankie was the only choice...

How could this have been written during the short time I was in the kitchen? Who could have written it? Was it possible that...? I shook my head. No, no – I didn’t believe in ghosts; I think that was partly the reason why I was finding it hard to write a ghost story – my lack of imagination. But then... how else...? Despite my uneasiness, I picked up my pen once more, my fingers still trembling; I felt compelled to write – something was urging me to persist with the story.

...even though I didn’t feel comfortable about it. As we retreated into the depths of the night, I noticed, for the first time, the remains of our party debris: squashed cans, empty cigarette packets... I started to feel bad about the mess we had made – maybe having a party here had not been a good idea, after all. Disrespectful, even. And now, all I wanted was to go home – home to a nice warm bed. I wished I hadn’t refused Nick’s offer of a lift home; at the time, I had thought that maybe Frankie and I would go clubbing after the party, even though he’d been so subdued the whole evening, but that didn’t look as it was going to happen now.

I was cold and even a little afraid now. I couldn’t even take comfort from my best friend – he still hadn’t said a word to me. Suddenly, I made my mind up – I was going home! Turning away from Frankie, I ran...

I stopped, placing the pen down firmly on the table. It was getting late and I didn’t want to write any more; I didn’t want to think about what was going to happen to this character or what had turned her friend into a hollow-eyed stranger. After carefully checking every window and every door, I started to make my way to bed. As I walked slowly up the stairs, I looked back at the unfinished story on the table, feeling a shiver of foreboding swathe me, like a shroud of misgiving.

Needless to say, I didn’t sleep well that night. My dreams were filled with inexplicable dilemmas and doubts; skeletons and ghosts tried to entice me into dark caverns of death as I desperately fought against them, feeling my strength dissipate as I grew weaker and weaker... I woke up with a jolt around 1 a.m, sweaty and exhausted, as I realised that my most prevailing fear was not in my dreams but... what I was going to find downstairs on the table.

I obviously wasn’t going to get any quality sleep that night so I wearily dragged myself out of bed. I put off going downstairs for a long time, possibly an hour. Running myself a warm bath, I tried to relax, luxuriating in the bubbles. But it was impossible; my thoughts kept returning to the story, the characters, the outcome... Eventually, I got dressed, braced myself and cautiously tiptoed down the stairs.

At first I thought it was ok, that everything was as I’d left it, and I started to breathe more easily. But then I turned the sheet over, almost blasé, and saw...

She had thought it would be alright now she was back at home. Leaving the manuscript on the table, she checked every door and every window before finally allowing herself to go to bed, but she still couldn’t shake off the feeling of apprehension...

My hand flew to my mouth, stifling a gasp as I dropped the paper back onto the table. It was me! I... I was in the story now! Frantically, my eyes scanned the room, looking for both explanations and solutions – what could I do?

Desperate to talk to someone and to seek reassurance, I snatched up my mobile, even starting to scroll down the list of names to find someone that would understand. But... it was 2 a.m. and everyone would be asleep; although I was frantic, I could see that my call wouldn’t be well received. I might even be accused of having dreamt the whole episode! It would be better to wait until daylight; after all, it was only a few hours away. Calmer now, I had made a decision, I slowly placed the phone down, noticing, as I did so, that the battery was practically flat anyway.

Trying to ignore my irregular heartbeat, I tried to think rationally, my eyes flickering once more to the unfinished story. Maybe... maybe I should continue it? I could complete it, perhaps, with a happy ending, which might bring it all to a finish. It might resolve the uneasiness that was underlying this eerie situation. Yes – I would do that. And anyway, it would also help pass the time before I could talk to someone about all of this.

Warily, I picked up my pen and began to write... But, whilst lying in bed, she began to realise that she had let her imagination get the better of her; it was Halloween, after all – she was bound to be a bit jittery: anyone would be. And she definitely shouldn’t have gone to a party in a graveyard – that was just asking for trouble! Eventually, making herself think about people and things that she loved, she fell into a peaceful sleep and dreamt of lambs skipping over little hillocks in a field. THE END!

There! Ok, it wasn’t the most inspired of endings but to be honest, the expertise of my literary techniques were the last thing on my mind – I just wanted to be rid of this unknown co-author! I sat back in my seat, waiting... After a few minutes, it occurred to me that as I had finished the story then there wouldn’t be any further contribution from the unidentified writer. Tutting under my breath at my stupidity, I made my way into the kitchen in order to make a soothing mug of hot chocolate. Already I felt a bit better... lighter even.

I carefully carried my drink back into the living room, glancing at the story for affirmation that I had resolved the problem. But in horror, I realised that my last paragraph had been scribbled out – scribbled out in thick black ink! Disregarding the droplets of hot chocolate that were spilling from my mug, I snatched up the sheet and stared at the firm menacing lines that covered the writing. Even worse, two more sentences had been added, right at the bottom of the page:

Lying in bed, she realised that she was powerless to stop whatever it was that wanted her. She could only wait... wait for the tapping on the door that signified it was time.

Now I was seriously spooked! I picked up my mobile, not caring what time it was but, of course, this was the time when the battery had finally decided to come to an end. Frustrated, I flung it to the floor and stood there, shaking, frantically wondering what I could do. Then my inner voice screamed at me: Get out! Get out! Forcing my body into movement, I ran to the front door and began fumbling with the locks and bolts I had previously secured myself in with. As I unfastened the last one, cursing my trembling fingers, I heard it: the tapping on the door. It was time...

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