'Tis the season to be terrified - The Chaff with Scott Stephenson
Ghosts, ghouls and goblins have unionized this year and we are fairly certain they are personally responsible for The Chaff’s complete inability to write. This week The Chaff is too scared to produce a single sentence. Every shadow seems to flicker and stretch toward the empty page, whispering words like “Give up” and “Your words belong to us now.” It began innocuously enough after Thanksgiving. A soft breeze crept through the hallway and a floorboard creaked. At first The Chaff thought it was imagination. Then came the scream from the neighbour’s attic or perhaps from some ancient evil residing in the walls and we have been hiding behind the coffee maker ever since.
Writing now is like navigating a haunted maze filled with things that should not exist. One moment inspiration seems to flutter, the next it vanishes into a shadowy puff shaped like 1,000 tiny fingers pointing at The Chaff with accusations. Somewhere in the distance a crow cries our name over and over. A single misplaced pen tap echoes like a gunshot in a graveyard.
The shadows are the worst. Not polite little shadows. These are big, lumbering things with tiny glowing eyes. They creep across the floor, across the desk, curling around the paper as if to consume the words before they can even exist. Every sentence begins to transform mid-writing into something sinister. A simple “Hello world” is rewritten by invisible claws as “HELLO WRITER OF DOOM.” The pen sometimes floats a centimetre off the paper before landing with a wet thud that smells faintly of burnt hair.
Outside, the wind rattles the blinds, whistles through the cracks and occasionally rolls in under the door with a cold gust. Every sip of coffee now carries a hint of ash and regret. Leaving the room is impossible. The hallway is carpeted with creeping vines that wrap around ankles, making escape a game of life and death. There is a small chance these were harmless houseplants, but The Chaff refuses to risk it.
Even pets have turned traitorous. A cat, or perhaps a spectral twin in cat form, perches on the bookshelf, glaring at The Chaff as if judging every futile word attempt. It tilts its head in ways that suggest it knows exactly when courage will fail. A neighbourhood dog has spent three days barking at invisible things, as if preparing for a dramatic confrontation with something that may be able to chew through reality. The fridge rattled last night and The Chaff is convinced it is now a portal to some minor demon realm that opens only when snacks are retrieved.
Attempts at humour are immediately corrupted. Every joke evaporates mid-air or mutates into sinister riddles. “Why did the writer cross the street?,” asks The Chaff. A whisper floats through the room in response. “To be devoured by your own metaphor.” Past drafts of The Chaff hover in the corners like ghostly editors, silently glaring, waiting to punish any attempt at creativity.
Nightfall transforms the room into a theatre of horrors. The lamp flickers like a dying spirit casting unnatural shadows across the walls. The clock ticks backwards, mocking every passing second. A random creak in the floor might be the door to the underworld opening. Even the furniture participates. The chair wiggles slightly as if laughing at The Chaff’s trembling cowardice. The notebook occasionally slides across the desk of its own volition, leaving squiggles that resemble warnings or ancient curses.
Coffee breaks are ritualistic ceremonies of survival. Each sip sends a tiny shiver down the spine. Steam curls into screaming faces. Sugar disappears mysteriously leaving only bitter regret. Attempts to scribble notes are interrupted as the pen levitates, sketches horrifying faces, or writes entire paragraphs of prophecies that The Chaff dares not publish.
And yet we cannot stop thinking about writing. Fear fuels a strange mix of inspiration and terror. Every shadow, every creak, every distant howl makes The Chaff want to write something terrifyingly brilliant. But courage is fleeting. For now, The Chaff crouches under a blanket in the corner, muttering, “Please do not haunt me”, glancing nervously at corners where shadows twist and imagining things the human mind was never meant to imagine.
Dear readers, if The Chaff remains blank this week, know that it is not laziness. It is pure unadulterated fear. Fear of ghosts, goblins, cursed coffee, possessed paper, spectral cats, creeping vines and the knowledge that some things are too scary even for columnists. Lock your doors. Check your closets twice. Somewhere in a small dimly lit room, The Chaff shudders under the weight of a blank page, one pen stroke away from summoning horrors it may never survive.
Happy Spooky Season one and all! May you and your families be terrified throughout the coming year.
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