While working on the new story “Chew”, I found a lost folder of horror stories I’d started more than 10 years ago. Intrigued by tales I’d forgotten, I started opening files. This one is dated February 8, 2007.

NOTE: this is a classic writer procrastination trap.

I read it quickly at a coffee shop and was pleasantly surprised. There are some quaint things, such as references to VCRs and a payphone, but I’m also referring to my writing style. The double space after a period and using space bar to indent are notable examples. But otherwise, I think it holds up and I could see myself returning to it.

In the spirit of the Halloween season, I present the opening of “Witch Hunt” unedited. I hope it puts you in the mood to write your own thrilling tale, or to sit down in a cozy place with a favorite scary book, movie, music, or video game.

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A man in his early sixties sits at his kitchen table, surrounded by the typical breakfast accoutrements: a plated of eggs, bacon, and toast, a cup of coffee, a pitcher of orange juice and a newspaper, which is folded upon its spine to hold open an interior page.  Dressed for the pending workday, the man ate casually, reading the paper while keeping an eye on the small white television on the counter.  His wife, in a white terrycloth robe, busied herself with the clean-up, while keeping an eye of her own on her husband.

“Looks like we’ve got a nice weekend coming up,” he said.  “Be perfect for taking the kids and grandkids out to the lake for a picnic.”

 “Yes,” she agreed with a smile.  “I saw the same thing on the internet this morning.”  She never missed an opportunity to remind him that she was more computer savvy than he.

“How you learned how to work that thing, I’ll never know,” he said, referring to the computer she had insisted they purchase.

“Oh, you know how I like to fiddle,” she said, still keeping her night classes a secret.  He has his secrets, she had hers.

A loud beeping from the TV drew their attention.  “Ladies and gentlemen, good morning,” interrupted a tan news anchor.  “We have late-breaking news and exclusive footage from a breakout in Split Rock prison in upstate Vermont.”

“Split Rock?” she asked, “I’ve never heard of it.  Have you, Hank?”

Hank O’Leary didn’t respond.  He stared intently at the television, his fork hanging loosely in a hand raised partway to his mouth.

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