Dead Whispers in the Wind
Today’s post is based on a writing prompt I shared in a previous Daily Drafts & Dialogues post. Keep reading to see what I wrote, and to access more writing prompts.
What I wrote below is based on the following writing prompt: Write a scene about a ghost. You can make it funny, heart-warming, or scary— you decide.
Dead Whispers in the Wind
I wake up when my earlobe is tickled by the brisk wind coming through the half-opened window near the head of the bed, but keep my eyes closed and don’t move a muscle. Otherwise, I’ll have to get up and go to work early. And I’m not ready to go make dozens of coffee drinks strong enough to revive all the zombie-like patrons who will inevitably roll in and out of the café like they’re on some sort of invisible automated conveyor belt. Not yet.
No, I still need to sleep off everything that happened last night.
“Chelsea?”
Someone whispers my name like it’s a question. A soft voice I vaguely recognize.
I open my right eye halfway.
Nothing. No one. Only the fading moonlight cascading through the window, outlined by the sheer curtains billowing in my periphery.
I don’t see anything or hear anything else, so I close my eye again, desperate to get a few more minutes of sleep, desperate to forget the new reality of my status in life, for a little while longer at least.
It must have been the wind I heard, that’s all. There was no voice. That would be ridiculous. There’s no one but me in this house, like it’s been every other night for the past seven days.
The cool early morning wafts over my face, lulling me back to sleep.
I’m finally on the edge of what promises to be a blissful, innocuous dream when I hear it again, the voice I can’t seem to place.
“Chelsea.”
This time, my name is a statement. A fact. A reminder. An alarm.
My body stiffens.
I can’t budge, can’t open my eyes, can’t move at all. I try, but my limbs, my entire body, don’t want to cooperate.
“Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea,” the voice tsks as the wind amplifies it, causing it to echo across the room.
“How can you sleep at a time like this?” The voice is getting even louder and angrier as the wind continues—
Wait.
I don’t remember opening the window last night before I went to bed.
Did I?
No, I certainly did not.
Not after what happened last week. Not after what he did. Not after all the things he said I did to him and the others, the people I loved. Things I can’t remember doing, no matter how hard I try.
“Chelsea, it’s time,” the voice says, unmistakable this time.
Now I know exactly who is beckoning me, who refuses to let me sleep peacefully ever again, which should feel terrifying but isn’t, oddly enough, considering that the voice I’m hearing belongs to someone who is dead.
Finally, I’m able to sit up and…
[Write what happens next, then share what you come up with in a comment or chat thread.]
I might revise, edit, or add to this draft in the future. Stay tuned.
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© All Rights Reserved by K.E. Creighton; Creighton’s Compositions LLC. The above work is a piece of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on experience, all names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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Today’s Writing Prompt
Writing Prompt: Hayride
Write something from the perspective of a child who is on their first hayride.
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