The realtor with the green eyeshade and the raspy voice handed me the keys.
“It’s haunted,” she warned.
“It better be,” I answered.
I settled into the long-abandoned study on the top floor. I flipped open my laptop and lit a candle. Inspiration was sure to find me.
Outside, I heard whistling among the rotting oaks. Inside, hissing rose from the rows of decaying leather-bound books. Somewhere heavy chains rattled in the darkness.
Still the screen in front of me remained blank.
I rented this supposedly haunted mansion to cure my writer’s block.
I got nothing but hackneyed tropes instead.
The Weekday One Hundred 