Another rendition of the stories we wrote in my high school creative writing class. I think this may have been one of my favorites. The prompt, “It Was A Dark and Stormy Night…” was set upon us on Halloween in 2013. We had just finished up our study of Edgar Allen Poe and we were certainly in the groove of the suspenseful and horror.
As I understand it, this is a common prompt used in creative writing classes and other literary classes as you must finish the story from a single line. If you were either bestowed this prompt, or now choose to write your own, I would love to read it.
Enjoy.
It was a dark and stormy night and Dr. Thompson was too far into his work to stop now. His arthritis-riddled hands worked tirelessly at soldering the two remaining wires to the inset frame of a small metal box. Down in the damp, depths of his basement, played a small, antique television. As it was mid-October, all the classic monster movies were on. The haunting presence of the monsters flashing across the screen were right at home along side the madman enthralled in his work.
The scraping of the low shrubbery against the pane of the narrow, ground-level window, went unnoticed just as the screams of horror from the television set did. However, a long roll of thunder had our doctor’s head snapping up and hands stilling. He ran to the cracked window, trippin over forgotten bits of metal as he did, peered into the frightening night, and counted,
1…2…3…8…12…20…28…FLASH!
“Twenty-eight miles.” He mumbled, the first words he had spoken in hours, as he made his way back to the lab bench and the contraption it held.
His empty stomach roared in protested with the lack of contents. Dismissing the protest, shaking hands finished the soldering. Snapping the lid into place, the box was finally complete. He held it under the single desk lamp for inspection. The metal glinted in that damp and hallow room, its edges as sharp as its makers face. Marveling at the contraption, Dr. Thompson gave a sickening grin, then dashed up the stairs to the second floor. Then the third, and the fourth, where he paused. He stared long at that door down the hall of the darkened fourth floor that had been shut up for some time now. Had it truly only been a month, he wondered to himself.
The sight of the door alone contorted his face between the softness of joy, to the heat of pain, settling on the sorrow of love. As his eyes bore holes into the door’s face, a beautiful woman in a yellow sundress danced down the hallway. Her honey-gold hair flowing in a phantom breeze as she passed him. He could smell the lilacs of summer wafting off of her, assaulting his senses with longing. He made to move for her, touch her warm skin, if only for one last time, but as she made it to the end of the hall, she disappeared through the oak door, an ethereal laughter reaching his ears.
A tear raced down the grief-worn grooves of his ruddy face, pooling in his unkempt scruff she would have disliked. With his eyes still fixed on either that door, or the woman who was once there, Dr. Thompson reached a blind hand to the cord that hung in the hallway. A set of stairs, no more than two feet wide unfolded with a whining creak. The crisp, fall air cascaded down with the old wood steps, though he had no time for the goosebumps a sane man should feel. He stood at the base and stared up into the darkness that had swallowed the attic.
Sulfur snuffed out the phantom scent of the lilacs as he lit a match for the lantern on the adjacent table, its rusty handle squeaking in his hand. With the box securely tucked into the knobbed crook of his arm, he began the ascent.
The glow of the lantern cut through the darkness as he climbed to the top of the unstable stairs, putting him in the center of the attic. With his lantern-arm stretched out, he could scarce see either end of the rain pelted attic.
Once he found is footing on the dilapidated boards, Dr. Thompson walked straight ahead till the outline of a small, wooden table appeared. Setting the box down with such care, he then carried the lantern to the left end of the attic. There, he set down the lantern on a shelf crowded with mementos of his forgotten happiness. The end window to the shelf’s left obscured any view of the once beautiful garden that lay beneath. He began to switch on the three heavy, metal arms that caused the large machines to groan to life. A couple of lights flashed, then wavered on, filling the left side of the attic with a ghastly glow. He paused, watching and waiting till they steadied, then continued.
Soon, he had lights and machines of all kinds on, from wall to wall of the large attic. He looked out the window when he heard the next roll of thunder. He began to count,
1…2…3…8…12…20…FLASH!
“Twenty miles,” he mumbled, “perfect.”
He turned and looked to the far-right side of the attic. Still encased in that never ending darkness, he carried the lantern with him. Halting his swift steps when he heard the thunder again, he again turned to the window and counted,
1…2…3…8…12…FLASH!
The perfect moment was upon him. Tossing the lantern down on the center table, he dashed to the right side and to the woman, the one and only woman he loved. The one whom, as a doctor, he could not save from tuberculosis. She laid on a wire-frame bed, he still body encased in the cleanest sheets he found find in their dust-coated house. Though her was hair a now dull yellow. He stroked a gentle, shaking finger along her grey, peaceful face. Oh, what he would give to have her back.
Clutching the headboard of the bed, he gently rolled it to the left side of the attic, the wheel squeaking, much like the lantern, with each step. Stopping only for a moment to retrieve the box containing the answer to his sorrow. His pain. His longing. The next roll of thunder grabbed his attention. Looking to the window and out into the stormy night before him, he counted,
…1…2…3…8…FLASH!
He positioned the bed in the center of those whirling machines. Hastily, he clamped the wire cables to each side of the metal bed frame. Snapping the box in place, he moved to another switch.
Closing his tear-filled eyes, he waited, he counted,
…1…2…3…FLASH!
Write. Read. Repeat. 
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