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JOURNAL FOR FRIDAY 31ST OCTOBER, 2025
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SUBJECT: Another eerie something for Halloween
DATE: Fri 31 Oct 04:33:33 GMT 2025
Another[1] evocative little musing for Halloween. Inspiration taken from the
likes of Poe, Orwell, Wilde, Dante, Stoker, Brontë, Kafka, Plath, Gilman, King
and many other great writers. Enjoy, if you can…
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HAPPY HALLOWEEN!
THE CONVERSATION
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The study, a cathedral, a sanctuary of dust and memory. Burning in the hearth
a fire, its embers glowing like the eyes of some feral beast. The desk, carved
with the gnarled fingers of time, stood in one corner, its surface scarred by
the weight of centuries. Between two chairs — opposite one another, like
judges presiding over an eternal trial — rested a small table. Upon it, a
decanter of rich amber whisky and two glasses.
He watched; the glasses caught the reflections from the fire and toyed with
them, warping them and twisting them. In the gloom, crafty imps dancing.
The man sat in one chair, his fingers drumming a staccato rhythm against his
knee. He was dressed in a jacket of darkest blue, the fabric frayed at the
cuffs, as though it had been worn through decades of sleepless nights. His
face was gaunt, his eyes hollow, but his voice carried the weight of a man who
had once been a scholar, a poet, a man of reason.
Above the fireplace the clock paused, hesitant to intrude on the silence.
Eventually, it chimed. Midnight.
“You’re here”, he said, though no one else was.
The other chair was empty; filled with an absence of presence.
But the fire flickered, and the shadows stretched long and thin across the
walls, curling like tendrils around the furniture. The antique desk, once a
monument to order, now seemed to groan under the weight of its own decay. The
man’s voice wavered, as if the air itself resented his words.
“You’re here”, he repeated, louder now, a desperate invocation against the
silence.
A glass clinked.
He turned.
The other chair was occupied.
A figure sat there, cloaked in a shadow that did not belong to the room. Its
form featureless in the darkness, unmoving, silent. It stared intently at the
glass it held, oblivious of the other. The man’s breath caught. The fire
roared, casting a light that seemed to devour the room. The shadows, once
playful, now coiled and writhed creating a deeper darkness.
“You’re not real”, the man whispered, though his own voice sounded thin and
distant, as though spoken from another room.
The figure tilted its head, a slow and deliberate act, a judgement, and the
fire dimmed.
“You’re not real”, it echoed.
The man’s hand trembled. The decanter rattled.
“Who are you?” he asked, the question a desperate attempt at clarity.
The figure did not answer. It simply leaned forward, its shadow stretching
across the floor like a living thing. The fire burned brighter, then died.
The man’s chair creaked. A mournful lament to the silence.
The other chair was empty again.
He reached for the glass, but his hand passed through it.
The fire roared once more, and the shadows danced.
He laughed, a sound like the crackle of dying embers.
“Two chairs”, he murmured. “Two truths”.
And in the silence that followed, the study seemed to sigh.
--
Diddymus, with AI critique and suggestions from gemma3:12b
[1] As my short story “The Long Dark” seemed to be well received last year,
I thought I’d try again. The Long Dark: ../../2024/10/31.html
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