Voodoo in the Hallways

 Winds blew in from the north, slamming against the windows of Greenlocke Apartments. Kenneth Worthton sat at his writing desk, leaning back in his chair and whistling. Ghostly howls screamed outside, the wind picking up even more than usual for autumn. Kenneth skimmed over his recently concluded novel; Voodoo in the Hallways, his story of the history which haunted his very own home in Greenlocke Apartments. It was an ancient forgotten history of the occult and dark magic; witches and undead creatures were said to roam the property, built long ago over a satanic ritual site.

He stacked up the papers and strode over to his fax machine, scanning and sending them out to his publisher to read over and finalise. Although he had been interested in writing for years, Kenneth had never managed to finish a story. This novel would be the first of many which he intended to pen. As he did this, a particularly ferocious gust of wind slammed against the window in his office, unbuckling the latch and flinging open the window.  Wind swirled around the room, throwing paper and objects around the tiny office. Kenneth rushed to the window and struggled to push it shut, barely managing to slam it closed and tightly secure the latch.

He scratched his head in bemusement. How could the window have come unlocked? Deciding to ignore it, he made his way to his kitchen where he found all of his drawers and cabinets had been pulled open. His heart began to thump loudly in his chest; he picked up a broom from the utility closet and held it out in front of himself.

“Hello, who's there?!” he called out into the empty apartment. Whispers echoed around the walls, coming from each corner of the kitchen and flowing in from the living room. He raced into the living room and swung his broom into the empty air, hitting a vase and causing it to smash against the floor. The whispers soon dissipated and Kenneth stood in a whirl of confusion. 

He collected a dustpan from his utility closet and swept up the shards of ceramic from the broken vase. Dumping the sharp pieces in the bin, he went back into his kitchen and closed all of the drawers and cabinets which had been pulled open.

His back was turned when he heard loud tapping, what sounded like fingernails clacking against the wood of the dinning room table.

He whipped his head around to find a stack of papers neatly sitting atop the table. He cautiously walked toward the table and looked over the papers; the final edited pages of his novel had been placed purposefully, as though they had been there the whole time. His breathing became ragged and he looked around the room for the culprit, thinking for a moment and then gathering up the papers and running into his bedroom. He gripped the papers tightly, looking down as he walked and noticing that they had been defaced with red pen. Comments had been written all over the page, criticising Kenneth and mocking his writing ability.

One of the criticisms read: “The amateurish writing is very apparent in this sentence. Bad authors write like this.”

Sweat dripped down his forehead as he flicked through the pages, more and more sections circled in red pen with harsh criticism written beside them. Another entry stated: “Your first novel won't sell; look at how untalented you are.” 

A dark figure darted from one side of the bedroom to the other. Kenneth retrieved a page of his novel to find his writing was gone, and in it's place was a large pentagram drawn in red ink. He threw the page back down onto the stack in frustration, storming out of his bedroom and into his office. There, another stack of papers sat waiting for him at his desk. He sifted through the pages which somehow contained every failed story he had written before his latest project. Another shadowy figure moved impossibly fast from the hallway and into his office. When he looked up and around again, he found his office walls again marked by pentagrams and cruel, demeaning words.

In large blood-red letters, a message had been written on his wall: "Worthton! Worthton! So scared and frail...wants to write a book but knows he'll fail." 

Kenneth rolled his eyes at the taunting words and turned to leave his office, looking down the hallway to find it had become a winding tunnel with nothing but darkness at the end. A dark mass of shadows was creeping up the tunnel and reaching out for him. He stomped his foot onto the ground and sprinted down the tunnel, the darkness snaking towards him and undulating as though it was a living creature. Kenneth tripped over his feet, falling flat on his face. Groaning loudly, he pushed himself up to find he was in his kitchen. He sat up and turned around to look down what was now just a regular hallway which seemed to stare back at him, mocking him. He got to his feet, looking down to see a trail comprised of pages of his novel which went winding into his living room. He followed the trail and listened out at the sound of talking, which got louder as he walked. Entering his living room to see the trail ending in front of his television set. On television sat a cast of attractive presenters chatting with one another. 

A presenter held up a copy of a book with the title reading "Voodoo in the Hallways." The woman shook her head.

"Now this is a segment of the show where we discuss the worst book of the week. Well, how about this one for worst book of the century?!" she announced to an uproar of laughter from her co-hosts. A clean shaven man in a dark blue suit chuckled

"This truly is one of the most amateur and uninteresting works I've ever read," he stated. A thin blonde woman in a red dress chuckled at the man's comment and looked directly at Kenneth, who stepped back from the television. The woman smiled with pearly white teeth.

"Your novel will fail, and you will be a mockery. Give up," she said in an eerie sounding voice. Kenneth scoffed at the woman's words and crossed his arms.

"I am a talented writer and my story will be published. I am not afraid of failure anymore!"  

Kenneth woke at his office desk, his head slumped down into a puddle of his own drool. He looked at the time on his digital clock: 9:32 am. His computer pinged with an email from his publisher

“I got your faxes; everything looks great - but what about that pentagram drawn at the bottom of the last page? Are we keeping that in?” 

Kenneth heard a faint giggle echo from outside of his office door that trailed away softly.