A Writer’s Halloween

As I turned, I saw no one. The sense that I could not cut the tension in an empty house. A writer with an imagination. A premonition, too.

That I would be dead before dawn, and that a character would seek revenge. My conjuring complete, effective writing, a plague.

I took refuge in my armchair. A pen, no armor. That I would perish before my bestseller, tragic. I needed to kill him. But, how?

Mastered cunning, heartless Golem. A villain bent on my destruction. But, I alone, the writer, had the power. I would take him. 

As darkness pressed, I smelled his dank sentiment, felt ember’d orbs baring down upon me. I pulled my pen, raised it, and..

..Struck the page. With ghastly wails, the spirit found me, its whirling vortex corseted me, then, I wrestled its essence to quiet. 

I resolved to write poetry. But, the cloud of Edgar Allen Poe unsettled. I resolved to cook, but the blood from meat, unnerved. 

Then, I found the solution. Like Beethoven to music, I would dim my senses. I would write in my dreams, my waking, safe.

I slept for days. My dreams, a first draft undertaking. When I woke, I was free and rested. Then, I spied a form in the chair. 

I approached the figure. She rocked back and forth, bolts of light, escaping. Bloody fingers reached for me. I could not resist.

Her spirit found me. To the mirror, my fears met confirmation. I had been consumed by the writer in me, and so it would be.

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