Writer's lot

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic


A writer rents a house for the summer to write a new book, but suddenly his imagination starts to flesh and blood.

Submitted: January 05, 2018

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Submitted: January 05, 2018

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His new study was on the second floor of the wooden house, overlooking the long valley and the lake beyond. He was glad to see this place quiet and still, where nothing could irritate him and screen his outlook.

The first thing he did was choosing a place for his new desk. The desk which was here stood in the corner, in the shade that not liked him. It was moved to the wide window – his typewriter was put on it – and he began to type.

His bag was closed yet, laying on the bed, but there were only clothes so that he put this point aside for a while. He sat down on the chair, in spite of it was too rough to sit long time and typed two words on a blank paper: New overlook.

He looked at them and thought for a moment, then typed on the next line: He was only one man in the house.

He thought for a moment and added: and nobody knew where he was.

It was the first line of his first story of his new book. The first line is the very serious, important thing, the thing very hard too.

He sipped the coffee and typed again: The house was old and… He stopped and then retyped: The house was in the woods, old and wide. It was built by some old man who went out of his head two years ago.

He settled back and reread that he typed.

Then he typed following lines: He slaughtered his wife and buried her body in the woods. It has not found. It is telling she returns sometime in August and makes afraid anybody who enters in the woods this time.

He finished his coffee and put empty cup on the desk. It made a sound like knock – he thought – but then, a knock break off the woods’ silence. He turned his head and listened.

The knock repeated again.

He stood up and came up to the window on the other side of the room, facing the backyard, where the gate was.

There was nobody.

He stood here for a while, looking out into the backyard, and then was back behind his desk.

But only he has time to type one letter, the knock sounded anew. He froze with his finger over the keyboard, in position to press O and N, in strange obscure figure. He was all in listening. The knock repeated once more. It came in from the other window.

He stood up again and came up. There still was nobody in the backyard.

He began to needle and shut both windows except one in front of his desk. He sat and typed: He didn’t know that when he and his friend decided to make a picnic in the woods on Friday evening.

It was still and quiet yet.

They took their bags and some food. One of them said, that was just a walk in the dark forest. It was the mot juste, but he didn’t know that.

It seemed to his heard the knock again but when he stopped it not repeated. He went on, to ignore this: They drove to a lonely hill by the fallen tree and sat here to rest.

A scrape sounded somewhere down. His heart jumped up and fell down the same moment. His hands became cool.

Did I shut the front door?

But his dread was so strong that he kept on: One of them wanted to tell a scare story he told more when once as kid.

Steps of stairs creaked one by one as he typed following line: He told the story of the old man and his wife.

Something dropped and he jumped at once. Listening he approached the door and peered out into the passage where was… nobody.

Still and quiet.

Maybe, he thought, I’ve work too much.

As he was back, he typed: The others gays were listening him so closely that nobody noticed a crack of a branch near them.

The dark crept to them.

Again the knock break off the duty silence of house, but it was inside the house in this time. He glanced at the door. It was ajar so he could see part of the passage with the stairs. He felt his heart was heavy and skin cold so he could felt the cloth of his shirt against his back. Then he turned to the typewriter and pressed the key T: he sound repeated when he who told the story finished by word: “Nobody has found her.”

Some of them said: “It is a crazy story! Where have you heard this?

He didn’t answer. He stared over them shoulders at the dark woods.

What’s matter? Man!”asked one of them.

Then was a pause for a while and they could hear nothing but sound of the wind and cries of birds overhead. It seemed to them a breath…

A breath of someone was behind him. He froze with horror; his eyes saw everything before him as if the air was transept like in the mountains. He felt somebody was aback. He thought he saw white hands in the moment, white hands of the dead woman with ground under her fingernails… and with the blood.

Rooks took a wing outside and the noise which they made didn’t let his hear what was behind him. He thought it would be the end. It seemed to him he felt her icy palm on his throat.

But nothing happened.

He sat up edged of his chair and looked back jerky.

There was nobody.

“What the hell!” he said loudly.

He turned back to his story.

They looked around but saw nothing. Whoever was here, it was in the dark, in the dream…

What happened then?” asked one of them.

The Narrator didn’t say anything, still looking at the dark.

They wanted to turn it and began to tell others story but then a sound was. The sound of footsteps somewhere in the bushes near them…

He heard a rasp from outside.

He stood up and looked through the closing window at his car which stood by a shad. The passenger’s door was open.

He took a hammer from the box which stood in the room because the owner of the house had done a new stack and entered the passage.

It was creeping dark, and shadows were clotting in the corners.

There was still nobody but him. He peered down over the banister at the hall, sunk in the dark. Then he heard a knock again.

It came from his study. He turned back and looked in through the doorway. He could see his desk and typewriter on it and nothing more but those.

He went in slowly and looked around. The dim light of sunset pointed the rood in red and gold. He turned on the light.

“It seemed to me,” he thought, putting the hammer on the desk and sitting down.

The Narrator shifted his look at the fair and said: “Nothing, I thought…”

But then they heard a voice from behind them. They iced at once, but they couldn’t know who and what had said.

What the hell!”

The dead woman returned always in the dark.

He settled back and reread all. Was it the end? He lit his cigarette and looked at the sunset. It was red, and water in the lake was red with gold.

Only one of them could flee but others were dead as he thought. He heard their screams behind him as he ran in nowhere through the woods, stumbling over root of trees on his way. At last he got at the house. All windows were in the dark. He knocked at walls and then at the door… it was unlocked and smash opened before him. He was afraid to enter but this moment he heard a noise behind him – or it seemed to him he heard – and he entered.

He went slowly in the dark along the passage to the living room. There he saw a dim light of candles.

What the hell?”

But then he turned back and saw an old man standing in the hall with a hammer in his hands. He smiled.

Who are you?” but he knew. He knew he recognized him, the old man from his story. The story he heard more than once as a kid and now told it himself.

Then he felt a breath behind him. Somebody was aback. He now knew who it was.

He slowly turned back…

He typed a full sheet, stopped and stood up. He had heard footsteps on the porch during two minutes. He took the hammer and went downstairs to the hall. There was light of the fireplace, but sounds were still kept on.

He opened the front door and looked in the dark. Somebody was climbing on the porch to his right. His eyes ran on the surface as he stood unmoved gripping the hammer. He knew it could be only woods’ animal or… he stepped forward in the dark.

He noticed a black figure at once, but when he turned to look at it the figure vanished. The cold sweat covered his face and back.

The porch was empty.

A phrase sounded in his head: The police found only his watch on the porch of abandoned house, but he has never found.

It's finally finished, he thought and turned to the doorway when froze…

He clearly saw before him in the hall a woman lying on the floor in position like a dog.

  He stepped back but there was stoop and he fell. He lost sight of her for a moment but when he stood up he saw her again. She was in the doorway, standing like a ghost, looking at him. Her white skin was in the mud and her hands were in… the blood.

 


© Copyright 2018 John Morris. All rights reserved.