Installment 1

Her feet pounded the floor, her shrieks echoing down the endless hallway. He was right behind her – IT was right behind her. She clawed at the walls, but they gave her no mercy. She turned the corner and found a dead end. Death was closing in upon her. Just then . . . Suddenly . . . Out of nowhere . . . That was when she heard . . .

Writer’s block. It hit him every time he got to the climax of a story. His editor was enthralled by the beginning of his stories and always returned his drafts with notes in the margins saying, “Great! I can’t wait for more.” Jake never came through. Dozens of unfinished manuscripts littered his Seattle apartment. When his friend Taylor offered Jake the opportunity to stay at his cabin on the Olympic Peninsula for a few months, Jake jumped at the chance. He told himself that the change of scene would be good for him and provide endless inspiration. Still, he just wanted an excuse to run away from his writing. On Sunday afternoon, he quickly packed, grabbing whatever he saw first, along with his laptop and portable printer.

It was nearly a two hour drive to the house, and when he reached the rutted dirt road leading to it, he found a green and red sign that read “Holly Community.” The cabin was better than what he had expected. It had two bedrooms, each just big enough to fit a bed and a dresser, along with a kitchen, eating area, and living room. Sliding doors led outside to a brown lawn, which turned to a stony beach, sloping down to the water. Jake ate his macaroni alone before falling asleep in the bedroom closest to the kitchen.

The next morning, he awoke at 8 o’clock to the sun streaming through the window onto his face. After a breakfast of leftover macaroni, he decided to go for a walk on the beach. Jake went to the left first, but turned a corner and found that the tide was too high for him to continue. He turned around and headed past his house to the right. After passing two other houses, he heard a voice. “I’m Walter,” it rasped. He turned and saw an old man sitting on the beach, smoking a cigar. Jake looked at Walter’s salt and pepper hair, and estimated that he was about 70. Walter sized Jake up, noticing his sandy brown hair, and estimated that he was a spring chicken of about 25. “I’d offer you a cigar, but it’ll kill you. It’s killing me, you know.”

“Uh, thanks, but I don’t smoke anyway,” replied Jake.

“Don’t start, unless you want lungs that look like moldy raisins.”

“No, uh, that would be bad. I’m Jake.”

“So what are you doing around here? You don’t really fit in - - it’s like an old folks home, you know?”

“I just came to get away and try to find some inspiration.”

“Well don’t stay too long. You don’t want to end up like everyone else. I’ve lived here all my life, and I don’t think I’m going anywhere until they come to take me to the funeral home.”

“Did most people grow up around here?”

“Yup, and pretty much everyone hereabouts is as old as dirt. I’m the resident troublemaker. I could tell you stories about my neighbors that would make you laugh, make you cry, and make you run screaming out of here faster than a mouse at a cat convention.”

Jake laughed “You’ll have to share them with me sometime.” Walter talked endlessly and his mouth could hardly keep up with all he had to say. He seemed to be the perfect source of inspiration.

 “Come back tomorrow, and maybe I’ll let you in on a few community secrets.” Walter winked, and Jake continued on his way.