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Writing Prompt Repost: Someone Rearranged the Furniture

This writing prompt response is from the early days of  my original "The Eighth Shot of Espresso" writing blog on Wordpress. I've reposted it here in the new prose blog. 

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(Writing Prompt will be in bold. From "A Creative Writer's Kit" by Judy Reeves)

Someone Rearranged the Furniture

There was something off about the room, but he couldn't put his finger on it. It wasn't a tangible thing, just a general feeling of unease. It made no sense; he had been in this room before.

He circled the room. Bed, chest of drawers, mirror on the wall, an old-fashioned copper tub in the corner behind a privacy screen. A hand-drawn sketch of a woman, stretched out on the bed in an inviting manner. A single window leading out to a small balcony over the street. A closet the size of a breadbox. A threadbare excuse for a carpet under his feet.

No room for an assassin. No hidden wires leading to traps. No crumb of food to attract bugs or invite poison. All in all, a rather boring room, just how he liked it.

Yet the sense of unease lingered, and even increased the longer he stood there. He moved towards the window. A single oil lamp flickered on the mantlepiece. No one was awake at this late hour, even the saloon downstairs had closed and the escorts settled in bed for the night. The only sounds were the occasional creak of bed springs through the walls and his racing heart.

His eyes adjusted to the dim light and he gave the furnishings another careful look. Then it finally hit him.

Every single piece of furniture in this room had been shifted exactly six inches to the left. He dropped to his hands and knees and saw the dust left on the carpet, and the impression of the bedposts there. The dresser had also been moved in a similar manner. He got back to his feet and walked to the mirror. Now he saw the bare spot on the wall, an oval-shaped patch of pristine paint surrounded by the grime. The picture of the woman was six inches from its previous place, closer to the window.

Why would someone be so petty as to move the furniture six inches from their places? He turned his attention to the copper tub in the corner. Like every other tub in this hellhole, it was firmly bolted to the floor. His eyes widened in surprise as he saw the old rusted fittings in the floor where it had been, and the new fittings, six inches away.

How the hell did someone manage to move everything in the two hours he'd been away from his room? And why? Was this someone's idea of a practical joke? Though moving a heavy copper tub from its old fittings to its new ones was a lot of work for just a prank.

They knew you'd notice. They knew you'd feel something was off, even something as minor as this.

The question became who were they?

He heard the sounds of scratching from behind the closet door. Loud scratching, as if someone or something was trying to get out.

So he took out his shotgun and approached the closet, every nerve tight with tension. He would shoot first and ask questions later.

(To be continued?)

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