Writing Prompt: The Headless Writer

Horror writing prompt on Bluesky, courtesy of @pgpayt.blsky.social and @fhpowellwriter.bsky.social. The prompt is the headless writer.

Beware the headless writer. They sit at their computer and write a story that never ends. 

I didn't believe the rumors. They were as bad as the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow. Washington Irving took a local legend, built upon it, and wrote a timeless classic. A chilling horror tale, for sure, but in the end, that was all it was. A fanciful story to tell the gullible when the autumn winds blow through dead trees and the campfire crackles on the leaves.

The house seemed innocent enough. It stood empty, but it was hardly decrepit. It even had a fresh coat of white paint, with brand new blue tiles on the roof and the front door a deep shade of plum purple. The new grass seeds sprouted in the front lawn. A wooden fence marked the boundaries of the property. So far, so good. The realtor had told me that the charming exterior, excellent location, and sturdy construction should fit my needs.

Of course, the disturbing rumors scared any other potential buyers. Their loss, my gain.

I unlocked the front door and stepped inside. The first floor included a parlor, a kitchen, and a living room. There was a sliding door that led to a wooden deck. All rather cozy, but the room I was interested was upstairs.

The old office.

That door was locked, to my surprise, but the realtor had given me all the keys to every room in the house. The ring held about fifteen keys of various sizes, and included the ones to the cellar, the bedrooms, the attic, and even to every bathroom. It took me a moment to find the right one for the office. The lock clicked and swung open.

I saw an otherworldly glow near the window. The sound of clicking keys paralyzed me to the spot. To my horror, I met the eyes of a detached head on the desk, its wide blue eyes stared at me with a look of utter irritation, as if my appearance had broken its chain of thought. A specter sat in the chair, its fingers on the computer keys. Blurred words filled the screen; I could not decipher the strange symbols.

The eyes turned speculative, then cunning. It glanced over at its body, and the fingers paused as if receiving some unspoken order. Then the screen cleared and new words appeared. This time, it was in a language I understood.

And too late, I realized those eyes knew my every secret and those fingers automatically wrote them on their screen.