"The room around him was a world of inky blanks and dancing purples."
That was as far as Mitch Hughes-Dahlberg had gotten before the massive, brick wall that was writer's block hit him and hit him hard.
Now he was sitting at his desk, looking at the computer screen with a furrowed brow, as if trying to will the completed story into existence; he was, of course, having no luck in that endeavor.
He got up and stretched, wincing at the snapping and popping sounds his cramped vertebrae made as he did, What crazy person likes that sound? he wondered, instantly relieved that he had as the memory of his Husband, Adam, returned to the forefront of his mind.
Adam relished the sound his bones had made as he popped them; it was one of his less obnoxious habits.
Mitch shook his head ridding of the grin he wore and turned back to the screen, the unfinished story was still there, mocking him with its blankness. Mitch sighed again and got up, he paced across his sparsely-furnished living room and into the darkened kitchen, he flicked the light switch and briefly basked in the fluorescent light, even though it stung his red-rimmed eyes.
He went to the nearest cabinet and brought out a bag of brown sugar, he opened it up and was just about to dig in when a spectacular gust of wind whistled through the old house, setting his teeth on edge, then the arctic October chill hit him and he shivered.
Damn this place, he thought darkly as he walked to the nearest window, which was open. Why did I ever let my agent talk me into coming to this shit-hole?
Said "Shit-Hole" was a small cottage located just outside of a town that was so small it hadn't even registered on his GPS, the cottage was old and squat, a hutch of wood and weathered stone that far exceeded the usual standards of "rustic". Hell, the only signs of any modern influences were a crooked antenna and a small generator that hugged the cottage's left side.
The generator was big enough to provide light and phone reception, but anything else was stretching it, he had to get an extra one just to be able to run his laptop and the mini fridge that he had brought with him from his apartment.
His agent had told him, in her own roundabout way, that the place would be perfect in getting the old creative juices running. Mitch had thought that she meant that the place had a storied and interesting history or had been visited by other authors.
He knew better now. The reason that his agent had chosen this spot for him was because the damn place was indisputably the creepiest place he had ever seen.
And the unease of the place wasn't in the many dark nooks and crannies, nor was it due to the ever-present moan of the wind through the creaky rafters, though those things did contribute to the overall atmosphere.
It was the fact that it was situated smack dab in a massive clearing full of tall reeds and surrounded on every side by gnarled, ancient trees that, despite having no leaves, still seemed to harbor a sea of shadows.
It was, he thought despite himself, an ideal place to write a horror novel.
Mitch huffed as he went to the window and closed it, latching it as he did. Had I left it open? he wondered, feeling a chill slither up his spine, Of course I did. He shook his head to clear away the imaginary ghosts, and looked out over the clearing.
The reeds were bending in the cool breeze as if bowing to each other, the full moon hung in the tar-black sky, its eerie light revealing their pale green coloration, the moonlight also made the shadows of the surrounding forest creep outwards, like an army advancing on his little cottage.
