However, my luck doesn't seem to translate to writing. I also entered Autumn Forest's short story contest at Ghost Hunting Theories and didn't even get an honorable mention although I can kind of understand from reading those who did win. Anyways, below is the story excerpt I submitted. You can read it, love it, hate it, bang your head against your computer screen to avoid it....whatever you choose.
Matt Gilmore stepped out in to the gloomy morning. The air weighed on his shoulders with sour notions of a former life. The transformation showed its grotesque demure that night with the last drop of death. Violent tremors took over as the final mutation settled within his bones. One week after swallowing the poison, his heart pounded its last beat.
He walked across the green lawn, each step more difficult than the last. Images of his transformation remained fresh in his mind. He continued to walk. Matt made the phone call to The Center. One week. He was stuck with himself for one week. Hunger slowly crept up within him but kept walking until two white marble headstones came into view. Matt collapsed before the dirt mounds. He would wait alongside the wife and daughter stolen from his life with the soul ripped from his chest trapped in the white Victorian, shadowing his grief.
He dug his pale hands into fresh dirt. Memories of their smiling faces flashed in his mind, blinding him to the intruder’s approach. Whispers filled his ears. A chilled breeze whipped past him, consuming his mind with familiar emotions. Soon such a feeling would be absent to him completely. All thought and reason would drain from his existence, but on this day, he fed his sorrow as he waited to be recruited.
Another ambush of whispers and giggles sailed through him, slightly more recognizable than the first. However, the third wave opened his eyes to the truth. The barrier didn’t hold; his humanity now roamed free to inflict its rage on whomever it chose. A moment of panic passed by as he turned to his former home. A hand lightly grasped his shoulder, spinning his stiff body to face his adversary. The air appeared as vacant of life as before. Another light tap on his shoulder forced an additional one-eighty. His body temperature dropped a few more degrees. His stomach rumbled. Memories began to melt away.
Golden leaves scattered to a distant freedom with no natural aid. Soil shifted under his fingers. Matt spotted movement escaping from his eyesight from one side to the other, circling its prey. Isolating him in his final hours of sanity. Spirits were always great weapons for psychological warfare. His specter would be a great asset to any army, but could he survive the part of himself determined to destroy its final physical footprint in the world.