Piper's Attic.
As you ascend the creaking fold-down stairs, a dull yellow light envelops you. The first thing you notice is the dust: dust-rimed windows reflecting ghost images of the room, dust drifting down from the rafters in hourglass trickles, dust motes dancing in the light of rusty gas lamps swinging from the pitched ceiling. The converted attic space is floored with unvarnished wood, most of it hidden by tottering stacks of books, piles of blankets, and other junk that the owners didn’t see fit to keep downstairs.
The only sounds are the quiet hiss of the gas lamps, and a soft tick tick tick, emanating from a gold pocket watch that is sitting open in the palm of a man, the chain spilling over the side of his hand to pool on the floorboards. He sits cross-legged on a voluminous beanbag, a spidery figure whose tailored clothes accentuate rather than hide his scrawny frame. HIs trousers are black, his collared shirt white; the only concession to colour a blue waistcoat with a paisley pattern picked out in faded silver thread.
Cast in profile, you can see that his face is almost as colourless: pale, washed out, angular - thin skin stretched too tight over his skull. The gas-light playing across his face seems not to stick, sliding off without chasing the shadows from his features. Presumably it’s eager to go and play somewhere more healthy.
The man turns his head towards you and smiles the sweetest knife of a smile.
“Oh, visitors, visitors.” he rambles excitedly. “It has been some time. Time...time...what a construct, time, what an idea, ha ha…”
His thumb caresses the pocket watch in slow circles.
“Why are you here, I wonder? You must be very special writers to have been invited here. Look at you all...just killing time, until the killing time.”
The lights flicker, the shadows trembling. For a brief moment, you swear you see a sheen of green light glint across the man’s sunken eyes.
“There’s that word again,” he muses. “Time. Time is relative, time is of the essence. But one thing more than anything else, time is…” A flick of his thumb and the pocket watch lid closes with a snap. “Short. Especially for you.”
The man’s shoulders quiver, as if he is suppressing a laugh. He extends a spidery claw back over his shoulder and plucks a book from the precarious stacks. The leather creaks as he flicks it open.
“I’ve always liked short stories. They say the best writers can tell a story in just a couple of sentences. Look at this one.”
He places a bony finger against the page, a jagged nail tracing the words.
“I was alone, and in the dark, and when I reached for a match, a match was put into my hand. That’s the classic one, of course. But I also like ones like this.”
He turns the page with a flick of his finger.
“My little sister’s always coming into my room and crying. I’ve been to her grave to ask her to stop, but she won’t.”
He sighs quietly and turns the page again. This leaf is blank, and he smoothes it flat as he fishes a fountain pen out of his waistcoat pocket, licking the nib.
“But enough of me talking, let’s see how you do. You know, while we’re here killing time.”
He puts pen to paper, tapping thoughtfully.
“Here’s your Halloween challenge: give me your best spooky story in just two or three sentences.”
He spools up the pocket watch chain and then lets it fall, the timepiece swinging back and forth below his hand. Tick tick tick.
“Let’s see who’s best, hmm?” He smiles, the shadows wriggling across his face like worms. His eyes pulse green. “I suppose time will tell.”
Spoiler: Rules of the game
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