Welcome to another round of the scary writing prompt game. Again, here's how it works: I'll announce the prompt, then you guys post a 1-2 paragraph response in the comment section. At the beginning of each round, I'll share my favorite bit from the previous week's entries before announcing the next prompt. As I announced in June, at the end of the year there will be a spooky prize drawing for ALL participants!
Want to give yourself more entries in the drawing? Go back to review and comment on past rounds if you haven't already. A late entry is just as fun to read for me!
2 winners will be receiving customized horror bottles in the scary book or movie of their choice. (What's a horror bottle, you ask? That, my spookies, is when I decoupage the shiz out of an empty wine bottle to showcase whichever book or movie you choose. They make for some killer decorations! Pun intended, especially if you request a Freddy Krueger bottle.)
Last month's prompt brought a reaping, of which all entries were truly stunning. I continue to get all the horror warm and fuzzies when I read through your responses, but this one in particular was especially fitting with the photo selection. Ameriie, girl, you nailed it this week:
You take a step backward. A gust sends the neighbor's newspaper fluttering down the sidewalk, and you hear the pages from the clipboard flutter in the wind. You glance down, ready to kick it from the welcome mat.
But the pages aren't moving. Some of them stick straight up in the air, as if someone has pressed pause on time. You edge farther away from the doorway, and the pages flip furiously in the opposite direction. The wind screams and the woman opens her mouth wide.
A green convertible jumps the curb across the street and runs right over Mrs. Kelson's lawn and into her jasmine bushes, but the car doesn't stop until it rams into the side of her house. Two girls sit motionless in the front seats. You take a tiny step forward, when their blonde heads snap back, synchronized, and even from here, you can see the blood running from their eyes. You can see their mouths, two black holes punched into their faces as they stare up at the churning clouds.
The bell tolls again, and again, and just before you slam the door, your head snaps back. You struggle to raise it, but you can't. Your neck muscles are so taut, you can barely breathe, and when you feel your feet lift from the floor, you wonder if you may be hallucinating, if your brain isn't suffocating. Because how could your toes brush against the top of the old woman's frizzy hair? How is it possible you're floating out from your home? You manage to turn your head. There are others. Hundreds, floating up and up with their heads back, their spines forming lazy c's as they rise.
A flash of pink in the distance, high above the rooftops--the ballet flats you got for her birthday present last month. A tear squeezes out the corner of your eye. This can't be the last time you see your mother, not like this.
Not like this.
Good job, Ameriie. Your descriptions were gripping and memorable and oh my, don't we just wish the narrator had signed the contract?
This Week's Prompt:
|Photo credit: leslieavonmiller.tumblr.com|
Mrs. Mason told you on the phone that you had been the only person to answer the flyer, which surprised you. A hundred bucks was way too much for working just five hours, but you weren't about to tell that to the overly anxious-looking woman who opened the door on Friday night, thanking you once again for answering the flyer.
"We'll be gone until about midnight," Mrs. Mason said as soon as you stepped inside, grabbing the purse that hung on the wall and going out the front door. Wasn't she going to introduce you to the kid first? "Edmund is upstairs waiting for you."
Then the door was closed again, and the house was quiet. How rude was that of Mrs. Mason, leaving so quickly when you didn't even know your way around the house or what the kid's usual routine was like? And hadn't she said 'we?' Where was Mr. Mason?
"Edmund?" you called up the stairs, unsure of what to think or expect. "My name is Jamie, I'm the babysitter..."
No answer, but you could have sworn you heard a banging noise in one of those rooms upstairs. Maybe the boy was hiding. You ascended the stairs quickly, not caring for the chill and impending feeling that you were being watched that weighed the air of the entryway.
The hallway floorboards creaked beneath your feet as you approached the room you thought the noise came from. With a clammy hand, you pushed the door open. "Edmund?"
Sitting in the center of the room was a boy so small he could have been a doll. There was a wooden mask, painted to look like a ventriloquist dummy, hiding his face. His feet were covered in blood. "Jamie," he said.
Just then, a pair of hands shoved you into the stale room from behind, causing you to shriek and pitch forward. Before you could even see who it was that pushed you, the door to the room had been slammed shut.
"What's happening?" You cried to the boy as he got slowly to his feet and took a step toward you, leaving bloody footprints that soaked into the wood. You noticed for the first time that the back of the room was lined with dolls of all different sizes.
"Hello, Jamie," Edmund said, and took off his mask.
Unleash the Hellhounds!