Jacob Landry's Blog
The End
He stared at the dark screen as the gray cursor blinked repeatedly. He had been at this for hours and the screen was still mostly empty, save for a single sentence and a few random marks leftover from his short nap on the keyboard. He held the backspace key for a few seconds and cleaned it back up. The blank screen stared him in the face, taunting him with the only phrase he had been able to punch out so far.

“This is the end.”

When he had scribbled it out he had been filled with intention and excitement, it had poured out of him like a deluge and he was prepared to sit and write for hours with a huge smile on his face but as soon as he hit the period key on his keyboard his mind went completely blank. Never in his long career had he experience such severe writer’s block. Nothing came to mind, nothing sounded fun. It was almost as if that was the story right there. As if he meant to say “this is it, people, it’s all over now, just sit back with a drink and enjoy it.” It wasn’t the end, though, at least he didn’t want it to be.

He pushed back from his desk and let the chair roll to a slow stop on the hardwood floor, let out an exasperated sigh, then stood and walked to the bar he had placed by the window. After pouring himself a drink and taking a sip he pondered his night, searching desperately to find something to blame for his current predicament. To be honest, this wasn’t the first time it had happened. It was the worst case so far, for sure, but his deadline was tomorrow and he had been faced this all week, throwing away several different drafts that he had powered through. An entire week wasted on second tries, the though of it amused him, though it shouldn’t have.

“This is the end.”

The words echoed in his head, taunting him. Maybe it was time, maybe his career was over and that is why the only sentence he could muster up had to do with ending. Maybe it was time to fold, call it quits. He swallowed the last of his scotch and set the glass down roughly, he was never one to quit and the thought, alone, made him wince. He took a long look out the window before turning around to get back to work when his blood froze in his veins. Sitting at his desk, staring at him with a complacent smile, was his wife. His late wife, to be exact, but she looked just as beautiful as she did the morning before she died. Her auburn hair laid gently on her pale shoulders, just as it had before he sliced her neck open with his hatchet. That smile, it lingered on her lips knowingly, taunting him as he stuttered and shook violently by the window.

“It’s time, you sick son of a bitch.” She cackled, suddenly by his side laughing into his ear. He squeezed his eyes shut and whimpered. “Finish the story,” she smiled cruelly as she whispered to him. “Finish it.” He ran to the computer, ready to slam it shut when he read the screen.

“This is the end. This is my confession.”

“No,” he whimpered again as tears strolled down his face and she laughed her maniacal laugh from the corner of the room. The keys clicked and he watched in horror as his story typed itself out, and his wife laughed and laughed as he cringed and cried. When the detectives found him two months later he was a dried, horrified husk, still sitting at his computer. His face was frozen in a cruel, grotesque shape as if he was screaming and crying. The computer screen glowed, illuminating him in an eery light. The detectives commented that they heard a woman laughing as they entered the room but could find no evidence of anyone in the house. His confession letter was still on the screen in front of him, typed out in full. The computer screen had been smeared with blood near the bottom right corner and when they looked closely they found that he had signed his letter in his own blood.

The detectives recommended that the house be burned, they all agreed that something horribly evil still lingered there. To this day none of them will speak of that day, and all but one of them have left the force. The house still stands where it did, silent in the woods amongst the northeastern pine trees. The neighborhood kids tell stories to each other around campfires about a woman’s wild cackling that can be heard if you drive by the house slowly at night with your windows down. They say the cackling is always followed by a woman singing the words “this is the end” to a distinct, light tune. They don’t like to talk about it for long, and no one likes to hear of it very much.

When the “For Sale” sign was taken down and the yellow tape was removed the town quietly cringed in fear. No one was supposed to be there. They gathered together before move-in day and burned the house at the end of the road, and huddled together in fear as the screams grew louder and louder, rising above the flames. As the house collapsed everything went silent and the whole town let out a collective sigh, the nightmare was finally over. They started to disperse as the quiet and gay cackling started again and the town watched in horror as a fiery form waltzed out of the fire, laughing hysterically and performing a slow, seductive dance while singing “this is the end, this is the end.”