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The incessant scratching. It is an awful noise like nails from the inside of a closed coffin. What is that noise and from whence does it come? It is not the cat for she is sleeping curled near the fire as I write.

Alone in the house, I listen intent on finding the source. There is nothing but silence ringing like a bell. I start to write again. Putting words on paper in a haphazard way they tumble down the white sheaf.

There it is, the scratching. It is back to haunt me as I write. I pause and listen.

Silence rings loud in my ears like a siren. The fire crackles shattering the silence into a million pieces on the cold stone floor. Still no scratching. I dip the end of the quill into the ink pot and begin to write once more. Trying to summon the words like some lost soul in the night I search for prose. I search for the connection in the spaces between the words.

Scratch, Scratch Scratch. The souls are in the silence says the cat.


 

Not sure exactly what this is. I was doing some free writing and this is what flowed out of my fingers. It reminds of Poe and I like it. Maybe it is the beginning of a story or maybe it is just what it is. What do you think?

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