Writing Exercise #3

With Halloween approaching, it’s time to write a little spooky flash-fiction. Incorporating the image of the house, weave a short and scary, eerie, creepy, suspenseful or frightening tale to share in the comments. See if you can deliver the punch in one hundred words or less.

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20 thoughts on “Writing Exercise #3”

  1. Listen, the creak of the shutters blown on an un-seen wind. What within the house stirs? A place where not even a bat will live, too afraid to dwell there. So what is that smell, what potion is being brewed? Does some fiendish Witch live here and cast her potent spells? The house looks as if it is watching you, what is it up there? Or is it a portal to another dimension where demons lurk is that what causes that sound? Nothing of the sort, but a family cooking up a feast ready for a Halloween party to begin.

  2. Never mind it’s Halloween, this place looks haunted, we’re in the middle of nowhere on our way home from “Rocky Horror Picture Show” and our car broke down! Jenny really has to pee. She drank the large pop and for whatever reason, couldn’t use the bathroom; something about public toilets. How’s that for a first date?

    Walking up to the door, I could almost hear, “It’s just a jump to the left…” I just knew Riff Raff would answer the door, and Dr. Frank-N-Furter was going to invite us in. As the heavy door creaked open, a very pretty woman said, “Oh, Jenny you’re home from your date already?”

  3. She pulled her battered old Fiesta up in front of the house. "House?" she thought. "It looks more like something out of a Hitchcock film." The windows made a face,a very empty face–no soul there! The turrets reached for the sky as if pleading the gods for help.

    As the winds blew dried leaves across the weed-strewn yard, she opened the rickety gate and carefully stepped closer to the porch. It's missing boards and the squeaks and squawks as she climbed the stairs were unwelcoming. What on earth had possessed her great-aunt to leave this place to her, of all people?

  4. It was the perfect place to take the shot. The hit was right on schedule, the target would be arriving home from work at any moment. No one would think to look in the old, decrepit house, thought haunted by many of the locals. Sven had seen enough of the horrors of the living to know there was nothing beyond the grave that could scare him.

    There, the mark had just pulled up. Sven made ready for the shot when he felt something graze his upper thigh. He jerked around, pistol at the ready, but the room was just darkness.

    "Must be my imagination. C'mon Sven, take the shot and get out of here," he said quietly to himself. He was about to make ready for the shot, the target now clearing something out of his trunk, when he heard it again, this time much more clear and infinitely more terrifying.

    "Sven…" the voice whispered out of the darkness.

    "Who's there," he demanded. "Show yourself before I light you up."

    "Sven… Come to us," whispered the voice again, this time closer and directly in front of him.

    Against his better judgement he lowered his night-vision goggles, brought along in case the operation had taken until nightfall. As he shifted it into place, the room lit up.

    Nothing. Just an empty room. Then he felt the drip, drip, drip on his head. He tried to cover his head with his hand while he scanned the room. The roof had been leaking early but the rain had stopped. As he brought his hand down from his head, he realized it wasn't water. It was blood.

    "Time to die," he heard the voice say for the last time.

  5. The portion of the house closest to the street resembled a happy skull. Oh, do come in! Welcome, welcome!

    As we approached, the creaking of the wooden walls reminded us how old the structure must be. Older, even, than the letter we had found, and perhaps just as fragile. Would we be able to search properly without crashing through some rotten floorboard?

    "Why didn't the letter say what the treasure was?" whispered my wife, her voice shaking.

    "What does it matter?"

    But of course, life is a treasure. And when you are buried alive, you are buried treasure.

  6. The smell of a dead possum hung in the walls. The lingering curls its way to the picket fence. There is no sign: private property keep out. Betsy and her boyfriend Rex dared to go inside, there is nowhere for teens to go on a Saturday night in Cincinnati. Betsy put her red hair behind her ears and her gum on the back of the door, anticipating his kiss. She shut her eyes tight. A pause and a dusty antebellum wind slammed a window. The sound of glass pierced her core. When she opened her eyes, Rex was gone.

    copyright © 2011

    Happy Halloween

    Caroline Gerardo

    Caroline Gerardo

  7. "Go on Billy! I dare ya!" whispered Rik, his eyes darting all around. No one had followed. Not a soul. No one would see.

    "What's it worth?" asked Billy after a few minutes.

    Rik scratched his head. "My marbles…"

    "Not enough," said Billy.

    "My lunchbox tomorrow…"

    Billy waved his head. "I get your seat and get to sit next to Maria in class tomorrow…"

    Rik sighed. "Ooooo-k!"

    "Right," said Billy, preparing himself. He put down his rucksack, stretched his arms, bent his back, stretched his legs, clicked his neck…

    "Come on…"

    "Right, I'm ready," grimaced Billy, pushing the rusty old gate open.

    The boys peered up at the spooky old house. Its grim greyness stared back at them through empty window sockets. The very wood seemed to creak in the icy wind that seemed to roar from behind the door. They silently gulped. An icy chill ran down Billy's neck as the front door slowly creaked open.


    The only thing left in front of the garden was a lonely little rucksack. The boys' butts were fast disappearing down the road.

  8. I walked slowly across the living room; the floor felt quite cold; it was gloomy and dark. Every now and then the lamp hung high above swayed and moaned. I continued down the corridor. It was adorned by oversized self-portraits; their eyes seemed to bore on me; I shrugged it off. I pressed on and reached the kitchen. I lost my interest; there's nothing here so I strode out of the house.

    "Hey, Hal. There's nothing inside this house. Let's go."

    I can not understand why Hal is running away; I was just saying hello.

  9. The windows are frosted over now, inside and out, and I can't bear the thought of scratching a hole in the ice to see the weed-infested yard. It's just too sad. I know it won't be long before I can't move at all anymore, before I get so very cold I just fall asleep, and I welcome it. I've longed for this. The house died years ago, and it's just been waiting for me to join it.

  10. The house seemed lonely, craving laughter and love. So we moved in. A few days later, Hell emerged from the shadows. My husband disappeared before my eyes when the walls whispered his name. He drifted into oblivion with the wicked wind that whirled through the house, leaving me to face Evil alone. With no time to mourn, I desperately searched for a way out, to save my soul. But the house was too strong. Like a demonic god, it summoned me. Powerless, I succumbed. Now, like my husband and many others, we are imprisoned here forever.

    Consider yourself warned.

  11. He spread his map on a stump, feeling certain about the derelict mansion. Suddenly, the woods quieted. Nature held its breath. He slipped through a hedge after a squirrel carrying a fat raspberry, watched it drop in a basket on the ramshackle porch, and hid.

    Finally, his curiosity won. He stepped out with quaking bravado. Another basket hung there, grass trailing between woven vines. He reached up just as a feathered torpedo pinned him to the wall.

    Then a high-pitched voice screamed: “Stop whatcha doin’!” A wiry hand reached out, snatched him inside, grabbed the berries, and slammed the door.

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