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    Creative Writing Exercise: Build Tension

    Creative writing Exercise

    Welcome to our Creative Writing Exercises, designed to flex your creative muscles.

    We’re thrilled that so many of you are participating in our writing prompt series.

    How Scene Stealers writing prompts work:

    • We set the scene
    • You steal it, make it your own, and
    • Share your creation in the comments section of this post

    Of course, it’s perfectly fine if you don’t want to share your work, but we hope you’ll do the exercise anyway.

    The ground rules:

    • Your story must begin with the exact wording we provide.
    • Your story must be 350 words or less.
    • Your work must be original and not previously published.
    • WTD provides an encouraging and safe environment for writers to grow and learn from each other. We’d love you to comment on other people’s submissions in a friendly and supportive manner.
    • We reserve the right to delete any comments or entries we deem inappropriate and those that do not meet the specifications above.

    This month’s installment Build Tension allows you to exercise your writing muscles by writing a story in which you build tension slowly. Remember, you are heading towards a climax.

    She looked up from her writing. Was that a creak? But she’d oiled the hinges just yesterday.  

    Now make it your own.

    We can’t wait to read what you come up with, so please add your submission to the comments section of this post.

     

    About the author

      Mary Jaksch

      Mary Jaksch is best known for her exceptional training for writers at WritetoDone.com. Grab her latest all new course Blogwriter's Bootcamp 2.0 or a copy of her free report, How to Create an Irresistible Lead Magnet in Less Than 5 Hours. In her “spare” time, Mary’s also the brains behind AlistBlogging.net. and GoodlifeZEN.com, a Zen Master, a mother, and a 5th Degree Black Belt.

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    • Paul skinner says:

      He pushed the door open and went in.It was the last thing he expected. He saw his answering machine light up. It was the casting director from the film he auditioned for called way down in savana,a movie about heartbreak,love,and romance.
      This role would be a big break for him.Now he would be able to get his sag card and be in the actors union. Nick had been in a few plays so he had a background doing a little theater,but film was brand new to him,he was excited about this new challenge that was bestowed upon him. He called back the director and accepted the job. During the next 3 months nick would be working 12 hour days in the hot sun working on the film.he thought to himself if I do good work on this film,other opportunities would arise.

      To his greatest hope the film got great acclaim at the sundance film festival.this was a great boost in self esteem for nick .

      Over the next few years nick was a successful working actor in LA. He never gave up on his dream and now he was making it a reality .

      Nick had come full circle to his friends that knew him well.

    • Paul skinner says:

      It was the first day of January.He decided he wanted a new ear. The last 2 years what he heard through his circle of friends had turned him into a negative,pessimistic person. He wanted a fresh ear to collect positive words about situations and people he would come into contact with. He knew he would reap positive rewards from attaining a new ear. The next day he looked up a ear specialist in his area and he had called him.the doctor said that the procedure would be a little risky to perform but he was willing to do it.

      2 weeks later Michael had a fresh new ear to filter in positive information.the surgery was a success!! How bout that.

      From that moment on Michael knew how to live his life to the fullest with his brand new ear.
      So I’m happy to say this story has a happy ending!!!!

    • Paul skinner says:

      The skeletons hand moved towards him.He observed it
      With interest-the bones didn’t seem to be held together by anything.

      His hand moved almost automatically to shake the arrangement
      Of bones.”Hello!” Said the skeleton in a buttery baritone.
      He flinched at the unexpected warmth of the bones.

      His mind was curious about the life of the person who occupied these bones.was she a supermodel?
      Was she just an ordinary person living day to day like everyone else.What was her hobbies?

      Did she like socializing or was she an introvert.his brain was running wild with ideas of the life of the person who occupied these bones.

      The warmth of the bones was maybe a hint of the kindness of this person.
      He spent the next 2 hours just pondering the life behind the bones.

      He finally got tired and patted the skeleton on the back as a way of saying goodbye to a life that has past!

    • David Murray says:

      She looked up from her writing. Was that a creak? But she’d oiled the hinges just yesterday. She shot a startled glance across her shoulder, searching the gloom beyond the doorway with fearful anticipation. She rotated her body slowly, keeping her eyes fixed on the nothingness that lingered there. Darkness. Stillness. Silence. These were her weapons, her masks.

      And yet…

      Sightlessly she closed her book with fumbling fingers and slid it into the leather pouch that never left her shoulder. How late was it? She risked a glance through the glasses window frame before sharply returning her gaze to the hallway. A presence was building just out of sight. Physical or imagined, it was there. Usually she exited back down that passage, the way she came, but that was not to say she didn’t have other routes. Other methods of… escape.

      Another creak! The floorboards this time. That sound was unmistakable. She heard it at odd times of the day, she heard it in her sleep. But then it was her own foot that caused it. Her own weight that unmasked her secret rebellion. For that pouch that she so desperately clung to as she skulked out of the room hid a book of her own thoughts, a book that if discovered would unravel her world. There was no sense in keeping it at all, or in continuing to document her miserable existence.

      And yet… there was some power in it. Some irresistible pull, some calling from a place so deep within that she feared for her soul. She could not stop, no, she could never stop. These tiny hours before the sun rose… these precious moments of isolation and silent freedom… they were all she had. She would die for them, she knew. They would kill her. But not even this odious stalker in the night, so close on her heels as to tread the same broken floorboards a step behind her, could make her stop. No, this pursuit meant only one thing to her. Write, and write more. Never stop writing. Never relent. Never let them win.

    • Paul skinner says:

      She looked up from her writing ,was that a creak?She just oiled the hinges
      Yesterday.Her mind raced with thoughts of doom and gloom.Was it her ex boyfriend
      Wanting to patch things up and start anew ? Could it be an intruder wishing her harm?
      She crept up to the door and looked through the slit,sighing with relief,it was her girlfriend Amanda just coming over to visit. They talked girl talk,then went out to lunch.this was a much needed break!
      An hour or two from her college thesis would recharge her batteries
      Like a walk through a meadow of beautiful flowers. Her and Amanda were out and about for about 2 hours before she returned home to soak in the tub,then go to bed for the night,the next day Tiffany woke up early to do her chores and run some errands. She called a guy friend up and they went to lunch.She told him about her scare with the door.He said Tiffany you worry too much about the littlest things,she agreed to some degree.She then said you can never be too cautious in today’s world though.He nodded slightly as if to hint to her whatever.After the lunch date her guy friend took her home and gently kissed her on the cheek and gave her his phone number in case she needed to talk about anything at all.Tiffany knew Dave for quite some time and felt comfortable talking to him about stuff that was going on in her life. Well it was time for Tiffany to get back to writing her paper. She had a two week deadline and wanted to do a good job with it. She was slowly but surely getting over her fear of the squeaky sounding door.

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    • sillybean says:

      She looked up from her writing. Was that a creak? But she’d oiled the hinges just yesterday.More to the point, from what she could recall of the present situation, she wasn’t expecting anyone for at least another week; even that shouldn’t materialize if all goes well? She quickly wiped the wet cement from her fingers, got to her feet, and hurriedly pulled the carpet back over the mortared up hole in her living room.
      She had barely concealed her actions when the obtrusive guest entered from the hallway.
      “Well, well, if it isn’t the inviting Joanna…I think you have something that belongs to us?” the sarcastic tone plummeted into seriousness, and Joanna knew immediately that everything had gone wrong, but the total surprise blunted her usual shrewd discernment.
      “Why are you early?” she asked, genuinely bemused.
      The unannounced arrival just stared at Joanna’s confounded expression, glanced at the exact spot beneath the carpet where the device had been entombed, and smiled…
      “What is early to you, Joanna, is nothing more than punctuality on my part – are you forgetting who I am? You intended to remove me from your little mess by embedding the receiver in cement. However, people change, Joanna, and times change. Let’s be honest,I think we’ve changed for the better, don’t you? So, without further ado, why don’t you unearth the receiver, and take your superfluous self on trip somewhere where a hastily, finger scribed epitaph – which is very much dry by now – awaits you.”

      • Orion says:

        I found your story amazing. I love how you’ve created your characters. There is an extremely strong tension in your writing. The only thing is how you started: the prompt says that she was writing when she looked up and then a couple sentences later it seems she’s been concreting a receiver into the ground. It just seems like contradicting statements although I could be misinterperupting your text. It’s just better to end actions after you’ve started them.

        – best regards, Orion

        • sillybean says:

          Hi, Orion,

          Thank you for your flattering feedback. It’s my first attempt, so it was a little daunting.

          I can see how I have maybe made the situation a little obscure, as regards to following on with the ‘writing’ aspect in the prompt.

          I think my intention was to imply that her fingers were dirty from the cement because she was writing an epitaph in the cement with her finger, for her rogue self (whom she had planned to destroy after having created her through her time-travelling exploits.) I left who was the older Joanna and the younger one, to the readers imagination.

          I thought it would become apparent at the end of the story – but I can definitely see how it could have been more enlightening on that detail.

          I thank you for your words. I really appreciate them.

          Paul

          • Orion says:

            Thank you for your explanation, now I see that my thinking has developed into an iron bar and not quite as flexible as I believed. In my head i have set up the image of someone writing as someone at a desk with pen, paper or typewriter or computer. It is due to this image that I misunderstood your writing in general.

            the great amount of plot that you put behind it was not quite as prevalent due to the meager amount of space that was provided for writing and would work better in a longer story as then you could develop it with many twists and turns and sudden revelations. You should continue this and publish it on some web service like wattpad.

            – regards Orion

    • This has been a fun exercise. I’m looking forward to the next Scene Stealer prompt!

    • She looked up from her writing. Was that a creak? But she’d oiled the hinges just yesterday. Gina’s mind delved further by evaluating everything about her one bedroom apartment on the third floor. If it’s not my front door, and not my bathroom, or bedroom door…it must be the steps outside my front door leading to the roof.
      Oh no. What if there’s a burglar trying to escape from the police again? I hope he runs into the wire clothesline and chokes.
      She hears the same creak again. He’s right outside my front door. Gina’s mind is racing now. Where could she hide? Did she lock the door? Of course! She scolds herself. You’ve always had the good habit of using the deadbolt. Why do you doubt yourself?
      Heavens, living by yourself again, and living in this place, is making you nuts. You wanted peace and quiet and now you’ve isolated yourself and live like a hermit. Hiding in plain sight, you say? Among the Chinese in the middle of San Francisco’s Chinatown? Who are you kidding? People stare at you…snicker behind your back…and wonder how you got the penthouse apartment in the middle of this modern age slum. You aren’t all Chinese, don’t look Chinese, and can’t speak more than ten sentences in Chinese to get you by. Now, think again, why did you come back here to live?
      Gina’s mind worked on her at lightning speed as she hid behind the short sofa, staring underneath the front door for the shadow of someone moving around outside. A strange odor seeped in. That smells like old cheese, thought Gina.
      Seconds later, a mouse scrambles from underneath the door. When Gina saw it, she also saw the crumble of cheese pushed in ahead of it. Oh my God! Someone’s really out there!
      She raced for the telephone in the bedroom. As she ran through the kitchen, she heard the front door split open.

    • Josef Chemtob says:

      First, I apologize if the grammar is a little off. I need a refresher course again. Well. here goes:

      She looked up from her writing. Was that a creek? But she’d oiled the hinges just yesterday. Noises always made her uncomfortable. Wish I thought of that before I came out here, she whispered under her breath.

      The forest wind shifted and then another noise. The night so dark outside the cabin brought back chilling memories.

      The darkness. Memories of him, of them together and then of them apart. Him alone, screaming and begging for help. “You couldn’t help him” she thought, it was too late. He was too far gone. But she doubted herself again. Her thoughts and second guesses slowly torturing the shred of her that was left.

      This time a footstep. Then the palpitations. Another unnatural sound. And then the unmistakable sound of his voice.

      “Annie, I’m going to kill you now” .

      Then panic.

      How had he found her?

      “Leave me alone, I have a gun” she yelled in desperation hoping to scare him off. But she knew better. Michael was ruthless. She had nothing. Only hope and desperation, and nothing else.

      Surely there was fear but there was also relief. She was only a slave to her own memory for the last few years now. Jailed in her head, confined to nightmares and depression and anxiety. It would likely end here. No, she thought, it needs to end here.

      “Just make it quick, I don’t want to suffer”. A simple enough request.

      She was still upstairs and he was still downstairs but there was no questioning how this was going to unfold. It would likely be humiliating but with a little luck she would keep her dignity, in death at least. Considering everything that happened to them together this will be the last thing that they would share. Then they would be apart again.

      Slowly she made her way to the stairs. Each stair creaking as she descended. Ironic she thought.

      Then she saw him.

    • Eliha Kai Orah says:

      “Was that a creak? No I oiled the hinge just yesterday.” He held Armanda’s hand, but it didn’t seem like anything around her registered. Her body was in Mayday. The pilot was out. Soon it would crash. “Mr Edling,” said the doctor rushing in. “Why does my wife not remember me?” Steven said. He brought a thumb up to wipe dry his wet cheeks. “Mr Edling your wife has suffered,” and here he paused, “Your wife has suffered a severe stroke. One of its symptoms is something colloquially known as World Alteration. It is when the subject lends the property responsible for making a given construct appear real, a property that, most people assign only to a shared construct called reality. But two worlds cannot be equally as real. Unfortunately this also means that once a reality is chosen, no other can replace it. This is because to make the other one real, both worlds are required to pass a midpoint. The real world will pass it in moving towards the unreal whereas the unreal will pass it moving towards the real. Either way both are going to have to assign the same value of truth, which contradicts the mind premise: no two worlds can be equally as real. Now, you know her better than I did so I don’t have to explain to you which world was conflicting with our joined reality. Perhaps you can help me in one way. Who is Paul?” It took Steve some considerable time to let the answer out. Paul was her story’s protagonist. The thought of it killed him. It would have been a lot easier for him to handle if the person who took her from him was real, but he just wasn’t. To Armanda, however, he was the unreal one. She now failed to look at him the way she once used to. At that point onwards he didn’t know of a way forward. Unless… Unless he managed to generate the same intense belief in her novel’s world as to also be stolen by it. They’d together be insane, living in her mind. “Anything to get her back,” the doctor heard him say, and Steve made his way to his and Armanda’s apartment, to go read her novel. In her world, he knew God personally. He was married to God. Her name was Armanda. Satan, there called Paul was a simple man who loved her just the same, even better. A perfect man who provided her universe necessary sins. In the real world author and co-author, Armanda and Paul, Steve, but a member of an invisible audience.

    • Eliha Kai Orah says:

      In case it does cause suspicion, Paul is a character in her novel. During the process of writing it, she’d mistakenly kept referring to her husband, Steven, as Paul. So one the above sentences would read, “He… Paul had dark bags supporting the…” which will show that she’d mixed Paul up with Steve. Who knows?

    • Eliha Kai Orah says:

      She looked up from her writing. Was that a creak? But
      she’d oiled the hinges just yesterday. Her attention, however, was called more towards finishing the last part of her novel so she opted to ignore the movement completely. He…? “… had dark bags supporting the balls in his socket, yet they…” Creak!! Armanda looked up in the direction of the sound. It was a lot more different to the first, coming from higher up. It sounded like someone was unhinging the door silently, but why would anyone in their right mind do such a thing? She stood up and walked down the corridor. A pen was held in a tight fist. She was ready to stab anyone on sight, even if it was Paul. Lord knows he deserved it. She made little noise as she ambled down the passage. A light flickered at the very end but it failed to deter her movements. Her curiosity was now accompanied by a determination, a will. Whether that will was to survive an intruder or a signal from the mind to afford her rest, she will soon find out. She passed the first door to her left without paying it much attention. She knew the responsible hinge belonged to a loosely swinging door, the kind the first one never was, not even since her and her family had moved to the house. One would swear the door was blocked by a brick wall on the other side. ‘Why is it,’ she thought ‘that when you investigate something that raises your suspicion, it ceases to impress you when you’re fully committed to the act of discovering its cause? One would argue that any suspicion is best resolved by a brave and curious heart.’ She inspected the last two doors, opened then closed them. Nothing. None of them creaked. She could have sworn it was a hinge. Apparently not. She strolled back down the passage at a normal pace. My mind must be tired she said to herself. In truth, when Steven found Armanda on the passage floor that night she reported that her mind had called her to sleep, but she refused it. “That sign, that creak, it was obviously a warning sign,” she said to Steven the following week, when she’d woken up from her coma. Steven knew not what she spoke of. She knew not who Steven was. All she seemed able to say was, “The creak is a warning sign,” over and over again, convulsively, repeatedly.

    • engemi says:

      She looked up from her writing. Was that a creak? But she’d oiled the hinges just yesterday.

      Her eyes follow the patterns of shade and light the wind was sweeping through the leaves outside. She can smell the rain even though the windows are closed. She gets up, switch the kettle on and have a look through the room. She opens and closes all the doors. She feels her breath coming faster. She forces herself to calm down.

      When the coffee is poured, she sits back in her chair re-thinking the passage she just wrote. The vandalist is coming closer to the house where the victim lives by herself. She was just going to write about the creaking doors making that godawful sound she always hear in her dreams, when she actually heard the creak.

      She thinks the passages through from as far back as she started writing this evening. She hates it when he is not home. He does it on purpose to leave her alone when she gets to the scarry parts. Could it be him trying to scare her?

      She feels the pain in her neck, putting the mug down and slowly massaging her neck. She feels the tension leave her. The painpill she took earlier is making her drowsy. All is quiet now …

      There! She heard it again. The creak. She feels the tension driven back into her. She looks up. She see a face , Ah, it’s her own face reflecting in the windowpane. She sinks back into the chair. And suddenly she hears the creak again, lowdly. Inside her mouth she feels her tongue run dry, And suddenky its there again ,,,

      She bursts out laughing. Slowly she repeats the sound. She hears the rasping creak inside her own vocal chords and shakes with laughter. Ho-ho scarring herself. She throws her head backwards and laugh out lowd. She opens her eyes and stare through the window as she now definitely heard a floorboard creaking behind her. Slowly she saw him lifting his arms behind her own image in the windowpane, ready to bring down the object in his hands as she shoots the chair backwards on its wheels into him whilst grabing the pistol on the desk next to her mac and without turning pulling the trigger as he looses his balance and begins to fall over her. As she throws her body to the side she feels his blood spatter all over her. Then the sound of the lovely necklace he held in his hands ready to place round her neck shatters on the floor into a hundred shiny pieces. She feels the horror rock through her body.

      Without thinking she turns the pistol ino her mouth and pulls the trigger one last time. Without him there woud be no life …

    • Cynthia Pearson says:

      She looked up from her writing. Was that a creak? But she’d oiled the hinges just yesterday. Alone in the house at night Marsha wondered if it was her imagination. Ignoring the feelings of dread, she tried to continue the paragraph of the new novel she had started a week ago. After writing a few more lines she heard that creak again. Dear God! She thought, startled. This time it was for real. This tiny old house that she had bought could be creaking anywhere. It was definitely not the hinges because she had seen to them herself. So where was that creaking coming from?

      Was there an intruder coming up the wooden stairs? The very thought made her shudder. She got up from around the writing table and peered up and down the hall from which she could see the stairs. “Anybody there?” she panicked. Dead silence. Creeping out into the hall, she noticed that the front door was bolted. This might be her final day on earth, she fretted. Clutching a broom stick, she started to walk nervously down the stairs. Half way there she thought she heard another creak. This time upstairs! But she continued down and switched on the lights. Everything seemed fine. No windows were open either.

      Creeping back upstairs, she looked inside the only bedroom beside her study and saw no-one. Relieved she slumped on the bed… Should she call the police? Then she heard the creak louder and her heart pounded. It was in the ceiling or on the roof! Thoughts of a burglar trying to cut open her roof to get in crossed her mind. This time she did not hesitate. While she waited for the cops, the creaking got even louder. In five minutes the police arrived and she led them quickly upstairs. As soon as they entered they heard the creaks above… Walking out on the balcony to investigate, one of the officers saw a flock of pigeons perched on the roof.

      “I’m sure there is a nest up there”, he smiled at Marsha, who was still shaking.

    • Harry Kingaby says:

      She looked up from her writing. Was that a creak? But she’d oiled the hinges just yesterday. No, not a creak, she was hearing things. It had taken twenty minutes to worry the oil into the wrought iron security door and during that time she’d worked the door to the sound of a thousand creaks. Finally, there was no way that door was making noise.
      A floorboard then. They had a floating floor. Jane wasn’t even sure what a floating floor was but Karl had convinced her.
      “It’s far easier on your feet,” he’d told her.
      Easier on the feet. She let the thought pause before giving it a sarcastic shove. Karl was very quick to upsize with her money.
      Another creak. Louder this time, and there was something else. A muffled thud, like something soft falling on a floating floor. A cushion perhaps.
      Jane turned the computer off and the ensuing silence hurt her ears. She was attuned now. No sound would escape her. If it made a noise she would have heard the sweat beading on her forehead. She carefully swivelled her chair away from the desk and detected a faint mix of stale tobacco and body odour.
      “No . . . oo.” He couldn’t have found her. Not after all this time.
      She quickly walked to the light switch intending to shut it off and saw a single, greasy thumb print that hadn’t been there when she’d turned it on. She felt her insides go loose. He was in the room with her. But where?

      • Orion says:

        first of, thanks, i really appreciate it to know people want to know what i think.
        Secondly, your story is very good, I get my weird good story chills + sudden heat increase when I read it. You’ve used very clever verbs, i especially like the ‘worry oil into the wrought iron’ using uncommon phrases improve writing greatly.
        Now, time for the constructive criticism, okay, i would love to say I’ve had trouble finding anything that’s wrong, the only thing I can find is a couple unneeded words and your extended no seems a little odd.
        I really can’t find much else, maybe somebody else can do a better job, ill send it to my friend to see if she has any advice.

        – regards, Orion.

    • She looked up from her writing. Was that a creak? But she’d oiled the hinges just yesterday. She turned around and there he stood a man whose face disappeared thirteen years ago. Tears flooded her eyes as “Father” tumbled passed her lips. “Yes” he whispered. He step forward as she stepped back. “Why are you here, how are you here?” Mary asked with fright and frustration in her voice. “I’m here to finish what I should have finished thirteen years ago” Paul said as he calmly walked toward her. Mary slides the letter opener off the desk and places it behind her right thigh. Paul two feet away from her kneels down and begins to bawl his eyes out. Mary calmly place the letter opener in her back pocket and walked toward her estrange father. He jumps up and charges at her, he grabs her, slams her to the ground and begins to choke her. She struggling for air but grabs the letter opener out of her pocket and swings upward. She manages to cut the side of his neck. He releases and she brashly grasps for air. He charges at her again and without even thinking she charges back full throttle. He tries to pin her down but she fights back; kicking, punching, and stabbing. Determined to live being the only survivor in her small town from when her father decided to massacre everyone in the name of the Lord. Witness to it all she was bent on not letting this be the end of what her life was meant to be. With a life of always looking over her shoulders and feeling caged in this was her only chance of true freedom. “You bastard, you couldn’t let it go. You couldn’t just let me live?” Mary shouted out, beaten almost as badly as her father. “Never, it is not the Lords will for you to live, let’s just end it here, you and me, we can go together” Paul ejected immediately. They both hold each other close, pausing the fight to catch there breathe. “This is that cult’s doing, you’re not even the same man you use to be” Mary said as she releases her father, she runs to a birch wood chest in the room and grabs her gun. Turns to face him with her gun erected but to her surprise he has a gun pointed right back at her. “So this is the end result?” Mary said with a smirk. Shots fired.

      • Orion says:

        I love the story, very clever. Using the change in a person who would be trustworthy and background information inferred in this is brilliant. Your mistake is a small grammatical detail. You switched tenses numerous times throughout the story. Although this can be correct it just wasn’t used quite right and thus infers you did it accidentally .

        P.s, if you guys want me to stop critiquing peoples work i will, i just find that its nice to know what you’ve done well and how to fix your mistakes. Yet again, I apologize if my advice is incorrect, I work through experience and impression.

        • Harry Kingaby says:

          I would love to have you critique mine 🙂

          • Orion thank you so much for your comment. Please continue with your critiques, I vote that they are very helpful. I actually have a serious problem with my grammar and knowing exactly what I need to work on is great. I plan on taking a class for improvement soon. Thank you again.

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    • Déo Cosme says:

      She looked up from her writing. Was that a creak? But she’d oiled the hinges just yesterday.
      Steve was already sleeping and knew he has never got up during the night.
      Curious, not afraid, layed the pen on the table and when she went toward the sound, realized that the creaking was coming from a loose wooden floor near the back door …
      Cat? A cold wind? However, before finish her thoughts she felt her body fall to the ground.

      • Déo Cosme says:

        (Dear orion. I keep the history alive.. What did you think about? regards)

        She looked up from her writing. Was that a creak? But she’d oiled the hinges just yesterday.
        Steve was already sleeping and knew he has never got up during the night.
        Curious, not afraid, layed the pen on the table and when she went toward the sound, realized that the creaking was coming from a loose wooden floor near the back door …
        Cat? A cold wind? However, before finish her thoughts she felt her body fall to the ground.
        She woke up slowly and felt frightened
        – Where am I? Who are these people? Where is Steve?
        At this time her husband suddenly appeared and calmed her down with a hug.
        He explained that he found her passed out in the kitchen.
        Doctors found fluoroethane in her blood that could have ingested through the orange juice that they drunk last week at a new restaurant in town.
        Despite she is not fully convinced, the story made sense although she always have taken care what eats … but now her bladder was crying out for freedom!
        She asked for help to stand up but as soon as she touched the ground, she felt a sting on his toe and remembered the loose wooden floor and realized that someone had tried to poisoning her … why?

        • Orion says:

          The initial idea of this story is good. The storyline and sinister twist works well. The only problem (or at the very least main problem, i probably missed some stuff) is that in many places your missing words e.g. Curious, not afraid, she layed the pen. This statement doesn’t work without using the word she, what your saying is: ‘Curious layed the pen down’ with the method of comma’s. If i turn out to be incorrect in my knowledge of grammatical rules then I apologize.

          p.s, i don’t understand what you mean about keeping the history alive, although I could be a different Orion.

    • Norah Deay says:

      She looked up from her writing. Was that a creak? But she’d oiled the hinges just yesterday. She heard it again, louder, and her shoulders tensed. There was no way that Chris was home yet and trying to prank her. He’d only left the airport ten minutes ago. She waited, her breath held in her chest, but there was no further sound. Old house equals creaky things. Her friends tried to tell her that she’d be scared living out here in the wilds. It took thirty minutes to get to the dairy for God’s sake. They didn’t understand and Jill didn’t enlighten them.
      A crash made her jump and she swung around on the chair, the metal legs scraping the wooden floor.
      There was nothing there, and the air held the stillness of nothing having ever been there. What was going on? Jill rose slowly as if a sudden movement would startle someone, or something, and made her way to the door. She poked a toe out experimentally and followed on when there was no repercussion.
      The noise came again, from farther away in the house and Jill raced towards it. The noise was still reverberating when she reached the front door but there still was no sign of what it was.
      Heaving a sigh of exasperation Jill went back up the stairs to her laptop. She took a series of deep breaths until she felt calm again and then she set to her writing once more.
      Amelia paused in her headlong flight and a sound reached her through the trees; the sound of waves crashing over everything in its path. She started to run again, the noise reaching her every few minutes and……..
      Jill stopped writing and looked over her shoulder. Who’d be a writer?

    • Orion says:

      She looked up from her writing. Was that a creak? But she’d oiled the hinges just yesterday. ‘No, it couldn’t be.’ she thought pointedly to herself. The black cat smiled at her smugly, then yawned, paw pointing to the blank page. That dreaded blank page. “Yes, you’re right Shadow, I’ll continue writing.” Gently she rolled her head back and closed her eyes as a yawn crawled out. Another creak. Liz gingerly pecked at the keys. ‘Nothing to worry about Liz, nothing at all. Its just the story. Everyone gets jumpy writing a horror story. Liz took a long draught of coffee, glancing out the window into the darkness. Her shoulders clenched. Another creak. Liz shot a glance over her back. Nothing stirred other than Shadow’s lazy tail. Liz brought the fluffy corners of her blanket closer. The presence was there, she couldn’t shake it. Shadow meowed irritably as Liz rose. “Not now Shadow… not now.” Liz crept out the room, every story she’d written filling her head. Screech! The noise grated from up stairs. Urgently she scurried to the kitchen, throwing out dishes until she found a suitable weapon. ‘This may be my imagination, but I’m not facing it alone.’ The stairs groaned as she crept up them. ‘The perfect setting. Old house, only one at home. What more do you need?’ Footsteps came from a room, the balcony. No matter what, this was it. Her hand clutched the doorknob. Her fingers trembled. Slowly it turned. She held the pan up in front of her. It was open. The pan dropped. Glossy brown hair. Charming smile. Soft pale skin. Shaun shot his winning smile at her and sunk to one knee. The patio was filled with her friends and family. All was deathly silent as they waited for Shaun to speak.
      “Liz, we’ve been together for the six best years of my life. I love you. Will you make me the luckiest guy on earth. Liz… will you marry me?” Somehow it was even quieter, like the world had drawn a breath. Joy blossomed in Liz’s cheeks.
      “Yes.”

      • Orion thank you so much for your comment. Please continue with your critiques, I vote that they are very helpful. I actually have a serious problem with my grammar and knowing exactly what I need to work on is great. I plan on taking a class for improvement soon. Thank you again.

        • Orion says:

          I haven’t been here in a while, but i would love to say thanks. I don’t often see that I’m appreciated.

      • Josef Chemtob says:

        What a surprise ending. got me.

    • Dennis Goss says:

      She looked up from her writing. Was that a creak? But she’d oiled the hinges just yesterday. She chose to ignore it and kept on writing. After a few moments the creaking returned. Nervous tension began to build.

      “Maybe being out here alone in this cabin wasn’t the best choice,” she thought. It seemed like a good plan at the time. No one to bother her, no distractions like tv, just her and her writing. But no phone either. She checked her cell and still no coverage.

      Jean went to check on the bedroom door, what she thought was the source of the creaking. It turned out to be a window. “How’d that get open?” She shut the window and locked it. The cool breeze that entered gave her a slight chill.

      Back at the computer she hammered out a few more sentences when the creaking returned. “Ok, now I’m starting to get a little freaked out.” She cautiously made her way to the bedroom. The same window was again open. She shut it and cranked the lock harder. But then a creak came from the other room.

      In the other room a window was now open. “What’s happening?” Jean closed and locked the window. Creaking again came from the bedroom. She moved towards the bedroom and then the window behind her swung open again. Pretty soon all of the windows began swinging open and close.

      The sound became deafening and she put her hand over her ears. The icy air was piecing her skin so she slid to the floor and curled in a ball. But she shook more out of fear. She could barely look as the windows kept flapping back and forth, back and forth, back and forth…

      Jean raised her head from the table, startled. She looked around. All was quiet. “That’s the last time I work on a mystery story late at night. She closed her lap top and got ready for bed. Thoughts of her dream lingered until she began to drift off into a comfortable sleep.

      And then she heard a creak.

      • Anne says:

        Nice touch at the end, Dennis. After the rhythm established in the body, the last sentence is very unsettling.

      • Josef Chemtob says:

        “and then she heard a creak”.
        I did love your take on the story. I thought that the unsettling sentence in the end was great. I would’ve used something else other than a “creak” as it was mentioned many times in the story and lost some of it’s impact. But overall interesting take. thank you.
        joe

    • Dale says:

      She looked up from her writing. Was that a creak? But she’d oiled the hinges just yesterday. Will she ever get used to the creaks, rattles and moans of this old hanger. It just seems like yesterday when she inherited her father’s business, now it’s pushing a year. Little did she know the skills her dad gave her at the ripe age of 14, flying airplanes, would become her bread and butter now. It’s not quite how she wanted to put her college degree of business to task, but it is what it is and she did love to fly. She so wanted to do this with her father. To live and breathe airplanes, the sounds, smells and freedom it offered, but she wanted it with her father, not alone like this. He was too young, too healthy for a heart attach, so she thought.

      There, the creak again, ever so quiet in the distance echoing through the hollow void of the near empty hanger. She raises her head a little higher and peeks out the office window. The soft yellow light casting a weak and feeble shadow beyond the Piper Cub her dad loved so much. Oh the fun years she had growing up learning all about freedom and responsibilities in that flying chariot.

      What is that? She gets up moves cautiously to the office door. She stares into the blacken cold of the hanger, “Hello?” The corrugated sheetmetal of the walls rattle and a draft hits her like an artic breeze. She knows she would not feel so timid if her father were here. She reaches the front hanger door trembling and pushes against the screeching wheels to open it enough to slide half her body out. A loud creak penetrates her ears as a gust of wind rocks her back into the large hanging door. She turns quickly and sees the ghostly shadow of the orange windsock flipping its long arm out as to tell her to go away, let me be. It swings sideways and the creak cries like she does missing her father.

    • Elisa Kwan says:

      She looked up from her writing. Was that a creak? But she’d oiled the hinges just yesterday. Her heart pounded as she stood up and tip toed to the window. She pulled the curtain aside and peeked outside. Darkness stared back at her. All she could make out was the silhouette of the large apple tree that stood out on the lawn. Goosebumps erupted on her arms as she remembered she was alone in the house.
      Is anyone there?” she managed in a tiny voice. She cleared her throat and yelled out a little louder. “I said is anyone out there?”
      Her only response was silence. She waited a few more minutes then closed the curtains and went back to writing out her recipes. Then it creaked again and again. She clutched at the rosary around her neck in fear and closed her eyes. I should have listened to my daughter she thought to herself, this house really is haunted. She drowned out the sound of approaching footsteps and whispers by reciting hail Mary as fast as she possibly could. The footsteps and whispers stopped, so she slowly opened her eyes. A blood curdling scream escaped her lips as she stared helplessly at the skeleton and two ghosts in front of her.
      “Happy Halloween mum” they chorused
      She slowly slipped to the floor in a faint.

      • Dennis says:

        Ha, great ending

    • Nora says:

      She looked up from her writing. Was that a creak? But she’d oiled the hinges just yesterday. It didn`t matter to her after all the place is pretty old and hearing a creak or two wouldn`t surprise her ,however somehow she heard something from behind her ,she turned around to check if someone was there .

      “No one.” She sighed checking the rest of the studio with her eyes, this time though she noticed someone`s shadow behind the kitchen door. A shadow that she knew so well.

      “A creak … Then voices. ” she smiled ” Next would be a serial killer appearing behind me.” she laughed to herself ” Honestly, I wonder why all the movies have the very same pattern these days .” she laughed again speaking louder this time .

      “If it was up to me I`d have changed the script to the woman actually surprising the serial killer or something.”
      She closed her eyes listening to the footsteps behind her.

      “Grrr this story is getting nowhere.” She put her head between her hands pretending she didn`t notice the idiot, who forgot to remove his shoes when he tried to sneak on her.

      “I think surprising the culprit is the best solution.” The footsteps stopped behind her.

      She smirked “Yes, Yes, LIKE THIS.” In no time she stood up and tackled the person standing behind her.

      “Waaahhhh”

      A crash was heard and they were both on the floor

      “Hey ” the culprit said

      “You know you really suck at playing the bad guy. “She said teasingly

      “Yeah, I guess so “He smiled ” and do you know you look beautiful even as a bad girl.”

      “Of course “And they started kissing.

      • Dennis says:

        Very cute. Nice take on the prompt.

    • She looked up from her writing. Was that a creak? But she’d oiled the hinges just yesterday. She heard the sound again This time a little louder, a little closer. It’s not the hinges at all. It must be the old wooden floor in the hallway. All the older apartments in the New York City have wooden floors that creak. With a sigh of relief, it must be the neighbor getting in late.

      I must get back to my writing this paper is due in the morning.. No excuses. Professor Roberts is strict on assignments being on time. No sooner had she begun to type, she heard the creaking again. It was a little closer, a little louder. Now frustrated the noise had distracted her from her writing . The whole last paragraph was full of typos. She would have to delete it and start over.

      All quiet, she continued to write only to be interrupted with another creaking noise. This time the sound was right in front of her apartment door. This sent a chill down her back. Up on her feet she crosses the room and.reaches under the sofa grabbing the handle of a bat her boy friend had placed there for her. A girl living alone in the City can’t be too careful. He would say. Tiptoeing to the door she placed her ear to the door to be able to hear what was happening..

      The sound had stopped right in front of the door. Gripping the bat tightly she got into position to make a swing. The door nob turned and the door swung open. She started to swing the bat at the person in the door way. At that moment she realized who it was . Trying to stop her swing she managed to miss his head, but hit him in the arms, sending Chinese food flying all over the room..

      Catching his breath he said, “‘ what’s wrong with you? Did you not expect me ? You called me three hours ago asking me to come by after work and bring Chinese.”

      • Dennis says:

        Great suspense and buildup.

    • Anne says:

      She looked up from her writing. Was that a creak? But she’d oiled the hinges just yesterday.
      Yesterday. A full day of spring cleaning inside so she could write all day today. It was a good bargain. A whole day to sit outside and just write.
      Now, where was she? Ah, yes. The protagonist was opening the door of the old, forgotten shed. “The door creaked as Dirk opened it.” No, not quite. What did that creak sound like? In her mind’s ear, she heard that creak again. C-c-r-r-r-r-e-e-a-a-k-k. Ahhhh. “The rusted hinges protested as Dirk opened the door.” That’s better.
      C-c-r-r-r-r-e-e-a-a-k-k. She froze. That wasn’t in her head. What was it? Who was it? Slowly, she looked all around her. The back gate was closed. The garage door was closed. The back door was closed. Nope. No-one had crept into her back yard.
      She almost cursed her imagination, but as it was her imagination that fuelled her writing, she could hardly wish she had less. So she chalked it up to the trials and tribulations of being a writer.
      “The sunlight crept into the shed, inch by inch, as if it were exploring, too.” C-c-r-r-r-r-e-e-a-a-k-k. Ignore that. “Dirk stepped inside.” C-c-r-r-r-r-e-e-a-a-k-k. Ignore that too. “Cobwebs and dust softened the sharp edges of the shelves.” C-c-r-r-r-r-e-e-a-a-k-k. Just ignore it.
      She couldn’t ignore the shadow that descended on her laptop. Before she knew it, she was standing three feet away from her chair, heart pounding in her ears and lungs pumping in her chest. This wasn’t her imagination. Only real things cast shadows, and whatever it was was coming after her!
      “Sue, you look as if one of your murderers just attacked you! Want to come over for a cool drink and chill out?”
      As Sue turned, she saw her neighbour on the back porch hanging her bed sheets out to dry on the old clothesline. “Love to!”

      • Dennis says:

        Great ending to the suspenseful buildup.

      • Josef Chemtob says:

        I like how you thought the sound out on paper “c-rr-e-a-kk” (or your variation of course). Wish i thought of that. you taught me how to think sounds out on paper, good work

    • Stephanie Mason says:

      She looked up from her writing. Was that a creak? But she’d oiled the hinges just yesterday.
      And just like that, the perfect retort to her protagonists confrontation was gone. Her sudden inspiration swept away with the wind that blew the old front door open. Corrine shook her head, never again would she use old recycled materials for everyday functions. Aesthetically the door was a perfect insert, adding character to her small city condo but it seemed to be more trouble then its worth.

      The pen rolled off the counter and bounced onto the floor as the cold air hit her face from inside the fridge. “Maybe I should find a real job, I can’t live off of peanut butter and jelly forever.” She grabbed the last bottle of her favorite apple cider beer and pressed the cold glass against her sticky forehead. “Summers are overrated”, She said to herself. I guess it could be worse, I could be living on the top floor instead of the bottom. At the corner of her eye a small shadow disturbed the bushes outside her window. Startled, she turned her head quickly to see a small face with big eyes and dark hair peering through the glass into her living room. Corrine sighed and smiled at the sight of the little girl. She closed the refrigerator door to great her new curious little guest. But in her distraction the pen found its way under the sole of her shoe, naturally rolling to the apposing pressure causing Corrine to suddenly fall back. Her head smacked onto the granite counter top making the bottle shatter into large sharp pieces onto the kitchen floor. Bubbles fizzed from the cold liquid that now saturated the curls in her hair. The darkness came fast and hard. The corners of the little girls lips rose as she watched it all unfold.

      • Dennis says:

        Ouch, didn’t see that coming. Good job keeping me guessing.

    • DanC says:

      She looked up from her writing. Was that a creak? But she’d oiled the hinges just yesterday. She sat at the desk in the big room of the old family log cabin trying to finish the thank you cards to everyone that came to her father’s funeral. She liked being at the cabin by herself. Ever since she graduated from college it was the place she came to get away from the frantic pace of her job and life in the city. She had even brought her boy friend Tim here. Ever since Tim’s mysterious disappearance, she had avoided the weekends here when her father wanted them to spend time together. Somehow she had felt that there was some connection between her father and Tim that he wouldn’t talk about.
      It had happened so suddenly. First Tim gone and then her father in a car accident, his car flying off the road into a tree. That car was how she had first met Tim, he was a mechanic at the Lexus dealer when she took it in for the recall.
      There was another creak, this time distinguishable as the sound of wood rubbing on wood. “Who’s there?” she called. There was no answer. Probably just the wind moving the swing on the front porch against the railing, she thought as she turned back to her desk. She picked up her pen when she heard another creak, louder. She must not have latched the screen door. As she turned to get up, she saw a shadow move across the desk and felt it come across her face,
      “Surprise,” whispered Tim.
      She screamed and fell back into the chair, almost upsetting it. “What. Where have you been?”
      Tim got a odd smile, “It’s a long story, but I am back now and your father will never come between us again. I made sure of that”

      • Orion says:

        I must say i like your story and would like to see more. Tim seems to be a very odd character and I would love to see how he turns out. Well done. One small piece of advise: description, adjectives. e.g. Probably just the rusty swings nudging the battered railing.
        I hope you do more scene stealer’s.

        Regards, Orion

    • Leonardo says:

      She Looked up from her writing. Was that a creak? She’d oiled the hinges But just yesterday. She try to focus again, and continue writing, but hear the sound again, she go down the stairs and watched her basement, look at the end, and saw the body writhing in shackles.
      Indeed, the hinges were making noise. She looked into the eyes of the woman who was among those gears, took the bottle of oil and use it in the structure made of metal. She approaches the face of the woman who watches her with fire in her eyes and kisses on the cheek as she whispers: “just say the word”.
      The women in chains, without a word, see her with that intensity she loves.

      She steps away from the stairs, the basement door closes leaving her in the company of the darkness, the beautiful darkness.

      L.

    • Shimonkepha says:

      She looked up from her writing. Was that a creak? But
      she’d oiled the hinges just yesterday. She shrugged her head and got back to the letter she has been trying to compose for three days. “what will I tell them?”, “how will I put it so as not to sound like I’m disobedient like Ngozi?”. These questions have seemingly been acting as barriers to her putting the ink on the scroll. The creak got louder as if a little child is trying its ability to withstand turning. ‘But there’s no child within the vicinity’ her mind interjected her worry over the letter. Slowly and carefully she got up from the overstuffed seat. ‘who’s there?’ she asked with a voice betraying her fear. She scanned the room and picked the nearest weapon- a broom. As she crept towards the door, the hinge finally buckled and the door flew open. A tall lanky figure fell towards her and was caught before it touched the ground thanks to the quick wittedness she inherited from her dad
      ‘John, what happened?’ she gasped as she recognized the figure with blood smeared over his body.
      ‘Run, leave, go immediately, they are coming’

    • Chioma says:

      She looked up from her writing. Was that a creak? But she’d oiled the hinges just yesterday. Dropping her pen, a worried expression on her face, she listened. Nothing.

      “Its an old house, maggie. And you have been watching too many horror movies,” she chided herself and went back to her writing. She read it, narrowing her eyes to pick the flaws. This was her baby, her perfect imperfection. Not that she could pick any imperfection but it had been rejected by three agents.

      She breathed in deeply and sank into the novel, reading, rewriting, cutting, her mind’s eye watching as her daring heroine got closer to the hangman’s rope. And just when the chair her heroine stood on was pushed away and a sickening crack echoed on the pages, a loud smash reverberated across the house.

      The sound of glass shattering on the floor. Someone was in the house.

      “Hello,” she said as she stood up from her table and went to the kitchen. She hated the way her voice shook and her hands trembled. News highlights of a serial killer on the prowl and the gruesome deeds he left behind did little to ease her nervousness.

      On the glassware rack, stood a fat rat looking with pleasure at the devastation on the ground.
      “Oooh you. See what you did, you dumb rat,” she exploded, all fear forgotten.

      “Maggie.”

      She froze. Every hair on her nape stood still. it couldn’t be. She knew that voice and its owner was supposed to be behind bars. She turned slowly. The last thing she saw before she blacked out was a frying pan rushing to meet her face.

      • Orion says:

        very cleverly written. I like it how you made it seem like everything was fine, then flipped it completely around. A double plot twist if you like. A very ingenious technique.

    • She looked up from her writing. Was that a creak? But she’d oiled the hinges just yesterday. Curiosity overcame her creativity. Was her mind playing tricks? Was the creak reality revealing itself or just imagination expressing itself?

      With a slow but deliberate effort she decided to examine the source of the creak. It was a sound unfamiliar to her ears. Up from the comfort and safety of her chair in her study, her voice called out, “Hello, hello! Ollie, Ollie, all come free. Show yourself to me.” The words were more for her benefit as she definitely did not expect or desire an answer back.

      From the safety of the warmly lit study into the hallway of shadows that led to stairwell she slowly walked with reservation. Faith and fear were in conflict as her heart began to beat a little faster and her breathing became more rapid. Her mind struggled with what she knew: her home was secure for the night. All the doors were locked and the security alarm system was activated as usual. She had been living alone for quite some time, but this creak was not a sound she could wrap her mind around to dismiss or be alarmed by. Her eyes peered around the corner of the hall onto the landing at the top of the stairs which framed a view of the front door. Nothing appeared disturbed. Nothing the eyes could see could explain the creaking sound that echoed up the stairs. Undaunted from getting an explanation, her bare feet led the way down the steps, one by one. Her hand slid upon the smooth rail to offer some support for her each step down she made. “Hello, hello!” She had little volume in her announcement. She was not sure if she wanted an answer or not?

      Now she stood with both feet at the bottom of the stairs. A glimmer of light cast a shadow from the hallway to her right that led to the kitchen and the rear door of the house. Had she left a light on? What could it be?

      • Josef Chemtob says:

        “Was her mind playing tricks? Was the creak reality revealing itself or just imagination expressing itself?”. I like it!

    • Mel McRoberts says:

      She looked up from her writing. Was that a creak? But she’d oiled the hinges just yesterday. Distractions, they were everywhere even in the floor boards of an old house. How was she ever going to meet the deadline with the publisher if she gave in to them? She shook her head as if to remove the cobwebs from her mind and focused on her writing. But then she heard it again. This time louder, closer. She pushed her chair back and walked towards the sound. “Hello, anyone there?” Suddenly out of the corner of her eye she caught movement. But, it was too late. He was on her before she even had time to cry out. A black glove held a cloth soaked with some type of drug which rendered her unconscious in seconds. She woke up gagged and tied up some time later. She heard the creaking sound again and in walked her abductor. He was over six foot tall, of slender build and had a noticeable limp when he walked. She felt so vulnerable in his presence and wondered what his plans were for her.
      “So, my sleeping beauty has finally waked up, has she?” he said in a gruff voice. She wondered if he wasn’t purposely making his voice deeper than it was normally. She just looked at him without even nodding her head.
      “A quiet one, are you? Well, that’s good. It wouldn’t do you any good to yell down here. No one’s going to hear you but the rats and me.” At the mention of rats she turned around looking at the room where she was held captive. “Don’t worry, my love. They’re sleeping like you were. Don’t come out in the daytime unless aroused by someone like you carelessly yelling for help.” He laughed. She began to shiver, not from the cold, rather from knowing the type of hideous creature her captor must be. His comments made her realize she wasn’t the first of his prisoners to be held against her will. She wondered what had been their fate and would be hers.

      • Orion says:

        its a good story. I liked how the captor was developed.

        one way to improve it is to use more short sentences, especially around her getting kidnapped. I haven’t really thought how you’d do it but short sentences build up the tension.

        I my self haven’t done this well but I’ve found constructive criticism is always helpful

        -Best regards, Orion.

    • She looked up from her writing. Was that a creak? But she’d oiled the hinges just yesterday. She frowned chewing on the end of her pen. She was home alone at the moment. She was new to the area and was also quite sure she locked the door behind her. She decided at that moment she really needed a dog. She strained her ears to hear any other noise. Crash! She jumped to her feet going over to her window. Looking out at the great ash tree in the yard one of the limbs had crashed to the ground. She breathed in a shaky breath. Her heart pounding in her chest.

      She returned to her seat. After picking up her pen and notepad. She sat down again, willing her heart to slow down. Then she heard it again, the noise the creak. Her eyes searched around the room she was in for anything to defend herself with.

      A shadow fell over her and she jumped.

      “Jumpy Dana?” Eddie smiled carrying in a bag of groceries.

      “I forgot you went out.” Dana smiled wanly. “I keep hearing odd noises.”

      “Maybe we should get a dog.” Eddie patted her shoulder. “Old houses make noises.”

      “They do indeed,” she agreed with him and shivered. “They do.”

      • Dennis says:

        Nice writing. I always hated the creaks in my house growing up. In fact, I still do.

    • Olga Mena says:

      She looked up from her writing. Was that a creak? But she’d oiled the hinges just yesterday.

      Frozen to her chair she sensed rather than saw a human warmth floating towards her. “What’s happening here?” she thought as invisible warm fingers wrapped themselves around her arm and gently lifted her off her chair and guided her towards the sofa where she fell with a soft ‘plop’. Staring wide eyed at an empty space a hazy mist formed slowly creating a familiar shape. She watched as the figure turned and walked towards her desk, sat in her chair and started to type on her computer.
      http://
      For what seemed like ages the figure typed without a break. Mary watched as the letters became words and the words became paragraphs filling page after page and then it stopped typing as the printer jumped into action and started pouring out page after written page. Slowly the figure walked towards her, arms outstretched. Rising from the sofa Mary was drawn to the hazy figure which slowly began to fade until it disappeared completely.

      Reaching her desk Mary began to read the printed sheets. It was her book. Her unfinished book that she had struggled with for years and it had been written by a hazy figure that could have been her twin.

      • Josef Chemtob says:

        very interesting take. good work


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