| Humor Fiction posted December 5, 2024 |
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The story that almost wasn't
A Bit of A Scare At Christmas
by Begin Again
"What good is a muse if she isn't around when I need her?" Claire muttered.
She'd put off entering the contest, using the excuse that she was too busy, but the truth was she couldn't wrap her head around anything. Tonight, her usual running group had canceled because of the storm, so here she sat, determined to write a simple short story. It didn't have to be long, just something that would grab the reader's attention.
Contests weren't her thing. She didn't care if she won or not, but her boss had asked her to enter, to represent their department, so she didn't have a choice. Right?
The rain drummed against the roof like reindeer paws. Claire's mind drifted to Santa Claus and warm, fuzzy feelings. She slumped back into her chair. "Everyone's probably writing about Christmas. After all, it is the season to be jolly." She wrote a few words, then backspaced until they were gone. She stared at the screen. "Ho Ho Ho!" she muttered sarcastically. "Maybe I could write that everyone got coal for Christmas or the Grinch stole the — the contest. And we all lived happily ever after."
The ticking clock on the wall seemed louder tonight, or maybe it was just the silence surrounding her. Claire hunched over her laptop, the soft glow of the screen reflecting in her glasses. The writing contest deadline loomed, and her story wasn't coming together. She re-read her opening paragraph for the hundredth time.
"The night was dark, the air still, and Emily felt something watching her. She shuddered in fear."
She groaned, deleting the line. It was too cliche— too predictable. How could she write something that would make a reader's pulse race?
Her fingers hovered over the keys as she searched for inspiration. Then she heard it. A faint creak from somewhere in the house. She froze, her ears straining against the quiet.
Was it the house settling? The wind?
Shaking her head, she chuckled nervously. "Get a grip, Claire."
Determined to focus, she typed a new line.
"Emily's breath caught as the shadow moved closer, its figure barely illuminated by the moonlight spilling through the window."
Claire grinned. Now that was more like it! The words began to flow, each sentence building the tension. Her mind wandered deeper into the story, her heart quickening as she pictured Emily trapped in the house, her footsteps echoing as she fled from —
A whisper. It was barely audible, but there.
Claire whipped her head around, staring into the dimly lit living room, but nothing was there. She laughed nervously again, but her pulse raced as she turned back to her laptop.
"The hand came out of nowhere, clamping over Emily's shoulder —"
"Mom?"
A hand touched her shoulder.
Claire screamed, jumping out of her chair so fast she nearly knocked it over. She spun around, clutching her chest.
Her eight-year-old son stood wide-eyed, holding a glass of water. "I called your name five times," he said, his voice trembling. "What are you writing? A horror movie?"
Claire let out a shaky laugh, pulling him into a hug. "Something like that," she said, ruffling his hair.
Her son tilted his head. "It must be a really good one."
Claire couldn't help but laugh. As her heartbeat slowed, she sat back down and glanced at her screen. The words seemed to have a lot of promise. Maybe the contest wasn't so far out of reach after all.
It scared the writer, didn't it?
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