I thought I would try to enter a haunted Halloween contest put on by The Write Practice… but then I saw there was a fee and I knew that was the end of that.

Yet, why not try and create something from the prompt, Haunted. Seems easy enough.

Not easy. I usually love “spooky” season, but the magic dissipates little by little for me each year. Personal tensions, work, life– and I find myself unable to delve in and enjoy the crisp fall weather or the spooky stories I used to hold so dear.

And now this short story. I found a spark of inspiration reading the first mass reading of Job chapter 3. That is a man of haunting, for sure. Haunted by the agony of life. Bit of a paradox. Most fear and dread death. Not Job. He longs for it; holds it as an idealized place of peace, freedom and rest as some would say of heaven. Just no longer being conscious is Job’s idea of peace.

Job is haunted by life, misery of turmoil. There is no rejoicing in life for him: he longs to rejoice on his way to the grave. I have an image in my mind of emaciated Job, frail stick and bones dancing in the setting sun as a grave yawns before his weary, dusty feet.

How much misery and suffering does one have to endure to crave death? Loss and more loss. How much can a human heart take until that human starts to feel less and less like himself?

Haunted by the idealism of death. Of a dream to just cease to be and finally let the heavy, unbearable weight of suffering slip from one’s shoulders and then rest– rest and peace.

But then the last verse of Job 3 really grabs one’s attention:

“What I feared has come upon me;/ what I dreaded has happened to me./ I have no peace, no quietness;/ I have no rest, but only turmoil.”

Neverending misery. Nothing is more horrible than not being able to stop pain. Good stuff, raises the hairs on the back of one’s neck. Hence, I found this chapter sparked something in my imagination, but alas I am storyless. Maybe I just need to ruminate on the haunting of Job more. There is something there.

Anyway, I am afflicted by the doubt that I will be able to write something that is my own out of this.

Something that holds the horror of an eternity on earth, something like what vampires experience: eternal youth means nothing when all you love is dead.

I like vampires, maybe I could write about those.

What do you do when you think you have something that could be a great idea but then pull up short?

Pax