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 31st 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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