The Creative Writing Club has decided to integrate poetry to our writing! This month’s prompt is about describing a color to a blind person without directly stating what the color is. This can be done through feelings, objects, people, etc. The poem doesn’t need to rhyme and has a minimum of 4 lines. Be sure to check out what BUHS has to offer!
This month’s prompt is about a person who is suffering from angelic possession. We’ve all heard about demonic possession, now you must write about being possessed by an angel! Perhaps from the point of view from someone who has always been rather mean and is suddenly downright lovely or someone who knows they’re being possessed. The word minimum is 250 words. The possibilities are endless! Be sure to check out what BUHS has to offer!
I always hated moving. Mostly because I’m something of a hoarder, and that makes it difficult to pack everything up and I usually get forced to throw some stuff away. Parents just don’t understand that the scented pencils in my desk drawer have sentimental value.
Still, I’ve moved probably a million times over the last seventeen years; it doesn’t get any easier.
A few years back, I got this apartment by myself for the first time. Usually I’d lived with friends or my parents, and the thought of living on my own was both daunting and exciting.
I pulled up in an Uber right in front of the towering apartment complex. As I stepped out, I bumped my head on the ceiling of the tiny sedan and searched my purse for the note I’d made telling me what the apartment number was. It was pretty silly that I made a note, because I had already committed to memory the number and floor, but I guess when I’m put on the spot I need to have a reference or I’ll forget. Thankfully I made it, because my memory seemed like it was wiped right when I got out of the car.
“Floor 10 number 10-G,” I read quietly to myself, then nodded as I made my way to the front doors.
Before I knew it I was standing in front of the bold “10-G” engraved in the metal plate bolted to the rugged-looking door. I dug around in my bag for the small key and then opened the door slowly, holding my breath.
I let out my breath in relief as I saw the completely normal interior. It was pre-furnished with some crummy outdated couches and stuff, but I didn’t mind that. I dropped off my suitcase in the bedroom and started to explore the tiny place I would soon call home.
After my investigation was complete, I grabbed the remote and sat on the couch. There was a little CRT television sitting on a table in front of me, so I clicked it on and watched cable for a bit.
The mini-fridge had nothing in it, so I decided to have the granola bar I’d stashed in my purse for dinner.
Nothing really happened for around two weeks, but then things got spooky.
Believe me, I know it’s cliché, but the creepiness started around Halloween. A few days before the holiday I started hearing chatter at night. I say chatter but it was raucous laughter and hollering. But it only happened late at night. I would’ve sort of expected chanting like in Rosemary’s Baby, or I would’ve wanted to hear chanting more than maniacal laughing because if there was chanting I would know not to talk to any neighbors so I didn’t end up like Rosemary. Enough about that though, I don’t want to spoil the film for you.
The laughing sometimes turned into what I thought was drunken singing of sea shanties. The weird thing was that sometimes the voices got really close to me, almost like the owners of the voices were standing next to my bed or hiding in my closet. Even when they woke me up in the night because they were so loud and seemed so close, I kept my eyes sealed shut because I didn’t want to see if they were actually in my room. Ignorance is bliss, I thought.
One night, I think it was Halloween night, I couldn’t stand it any longer. Before I went to bed I knocked on the neighbors’ doors in 10-E and 10-I and asked them about the sounds I was hearing. They looked at me like I was nuts. I asked them to come by at 1:00 A.M., that I’d leave the door unlocked, but of course they refused probably because they thought I would murder them or something.
I pulled a knife from the block in the kitchen and I set it under my pillow. It would’ve been dangerous but I knew that I wouldn’t sleep at all so I couldn’t accidentally stab my hand.
I could have won an Oscar for my fake sleeping; I let my mouth hang open and everything. Before too long the voices started, pretty quiet at first, but then got louder and louder until I was sure they were standing right next to me. I opened my eyes and sprung up with the knife clutched in my hand. There was nothing in front of me.
A light shone from above me, though. A dim blue light. I brought my eyes upward, trembling in fear. A figure was swirling around, and as I stared at it I realized it was human and wore an eyepatch. “Ghost pirate,” I mumbled, “huh.”
The Ghost Pirate didn’t even seem to realize I was awake and armed, because he just continued to sing “Drunken Sailor”. Soon, another bluish figure (this one fatter, with a peg leg) floated through the wall and joined the eye-patched one in song. I wasn’t even scared anymore, probably because I accepted that I was going to die and there was nothing I could do about it.
Finally, the concert ended and the two pirates drifted out of my apartment via the East wall. I set the knife down on the nightstand, completely in shock over what I’d just witnessed. I felt faint, but when I tried I couldn’t sleep.
In the morning I called my parents and told them everything, but they thought I was mad of course. They thought I was just having anxiety or sleep paralysis or whatever, but I know it was real. I moved out of my apartment that day. I was able to contact a previous renter, and I found out that they’d experienced the same thing at Halloween. I researched pirates being near the coast of New York and discovered that three pirates had escaped custody in the mid-1700s while being sent from the West Indies to Britain, and had ended up on the East Coast of the United States. I don’t know why they chose my apartment, or why there were only two of them.
Jeremy knew his new apartment was strange. The very moment he arrived from San Francisco with only a few boxes and a mattress tied to the top of his Prius, a haggard old lady wobbled over to offer him a batch full of fresh gingerbread cookies.
“You need more meat on your bones” She smiled, scraggly hands coming to pinch his flushed cheeks.
Jeremy politely accepted her offer despite his suspicions, deciding to discreetly throw the treats into a nearby trash bin as she disappeared into her house. To much of his dismay the sweet smell of gingerbread never quite left his senses. Even after taking a long shower and spraying Febreeze across the entirety of his apartment, the scent remained. Jeremy went to bed with a heavy head that night, twisting and turning through retched nightmares of witches cooking fat children in ovens. When at last he awoke in a cold sweat and decided to take a feverant early morning run, the old woman sat watching him from across the street. Jeremy waved only to be greeted with a cold and almost distant stare of hunger.
Street after street he ran, shaking off the discomfort scathing across his skin as he passed desolate houses and shops. Too much of his relief, another woman soon came into sight stopping to take several heavy breaths before jogging in the direction of Jeremy. Soon they were running side by side, exchanging quick and breathless conversation.
By the end, the woman by the name of April offered Jeremy a cup of coffee which he happily accepted, relieved to finally conversate with someone seemingly normal. Not long after he sat contently in a small chair, telling his oncoming friend of his recent move from San Fransisco.
“Where do you live now?” She asked, spoon circling lazily around her mug of hot tea.
“Some apartment on Line Street” He smiled “A weird place I have to say.”
Her eyes widened at his words “Apartment 2b?”
“Yeah. A really strange woman lives across from me”
“You have to leave” Her eyes suddenly grew stern
“What?” He laughed
“Apartment 2b is a dangerous place” She took a small sip of her tea “Move somewhere else”
“What?” Jeremy nearly stammered “Why?”
“I-” She heaved an uncomfortable sigh “a couple years ago two kids were found dead in the ovens of that apartment. Some say…they-they were cooked alive”
Jeremy’s stomach churned, hands twisting together anxiously “Cooked alive?”
“Well according to the kid’s parents that were informed of their autopsy-” She scratched her neck uneasily “Yes, they were cooked alive”
Jeremy felt sick. How was he not heard of this? “So this is the same apartment?”
“Well…” She paused “Not exactly. The apartment was condemned before being bulldozed…but many say it’s still standing”
He took a shuddering breath “What about the killer?”
“Gone. Never found, some think it was the crazy old lady”
“The one across the street?”
“Who else could it be?” She shrugged “Some say she’s even a witch”
Jeremy’s appetite had diminished by the time their conversation had ended. With a small and grateful smile, he thanked April for coffee before reluctantly making his way back to apartment 2b. All the while questions of anxiety and curiosity swarmed his head. How could an old lady cook children? Is there a reason his apartment smelled like gingerbread? Was this all a lie?
In the midst of this confusion, he failed to notice that the old woman across the street had disappeared from her rocking chair to leave only scraggily black cats in her place. At last, he arrived at the base of his apartment door, entirely unsure of whether his blistering headache was only his false imagination. With unheaded frustration, he twisted the doorknob and pulled back only to have the entire half of the front door rip off.
Jeremy stared at his hands, momentarily puzzled by the giant chunk of what he believed to be wood. But the door was to light to be wood and smelled almost sweetly. The moments after passed in uncomfortable silence before realization smacked Jeremy forcefully in the face. In disgust, he dragged his tongue across the board to be met with the only the taste of gingerbread. Something was terribly wrong.
This was no apartment at all, This was a gingerbread house. And he was the witches next meal. As if on cue a chilling laugh rang from the window, the sweet smell of gingerbread dancing around his nostrils in almost a teasing manner.
“Jeremy” She sang “I have more gingerbread cookies”
As if instinctive Jeremy turned from the gingerbread door and beelined for the car, ripping the keys from his pocket fervently. The witches voice sounded strangely softer and younger than he remembered, almost driving him to run back to the false apartment. But with a heavy breath, Jeremy managed to silence his lucid thoughts and slam the side door of his car shut, clumsily smashing his fist against the ignition.
The Prius lit to life before he forcefully pressed his foot on the accelerator and jolted forward, leaving skidded tire marks across the driveway as he attempted to distance himself from the apartment. Even when he swerved away from Line street, incredibly reckless and feverant, the laughing never seemed to stop. Soon enough his hands began to shake uncontrollably, causing him to let go of the steering wheel and sending the small car straight into a tree.
Jeremy spent the next minute trying to catch his breath and push away the marshmallow-like airbag that somehow managed to wrap around his head. When at last he emerged breathless to be met with the shockingly snide face of April he could not help but be surprised.
“April?” he croaked
“Life lesson Jeremy” she smirked “Never have coffee with a witch”