Time for another experiment. Beginning tomorrow, for the 13 days leading up to Halloween, I will be rewriting this story in 13 different styles, reflecting the various horror subgenres as part of my Thirteen For Halloween series. So, feel free to come back and weigh in with your opinion of which style worked the best!

Though dilapidated, the mansion, long forgotten by the residents of the nearby towns, was shrouded by a history of betrayal and sorrow. Within its husk, Anaïs lay upon an antique chaise lounge. The ornate carvings on its wooden frame told tales of generations past, and its faded fabric bore witness to countless secrets. Her lifeless form, dressed in a once-vibrant gown, was surrounded by shadows that seemed to mourn her death.

As the grandfather clock chimed midnight, a gust of wind from a broken window pane stirred the room. Anaïs’s eyes flickered open, revealing a sinister gleam that pierced through the gloom. A wicked smile, borne of ancient grudges and suppressed rage, curled upon her lips. Slowly, she rose, as if buoyed by the dark energies of the mansion itself.

The cold, metallic scent of blood hung in the air, a remnant of the betrayal that had led to her untimely demise. Freed from her mortal constraints, a malevolent aura enveloped her, its chill seeping into the mansion’s very stones.

Whispers from ancestral portraits lining the hallway seemed to recognize her transformation, their painted eyes following her ethereal movements. The world beyond the mansion’s heavy oak doors remained blissfully ignorant of the vengeful spirit they had awakened.

Venturing forth, Anaïs’s path was illuminated by the pale moonlight, her silhouette a harbinger of doom. The hunger for revenge and chaos burned within her, and she reveled in the power of her spectral existence.

In a nearby village, the townsfolk slept soundly, unaware of the shadow creeping into their dreams. Those unfortunate enough to cross her path were met with visions of their darkest fears, a taste of the terror Anaïs would soon unleash.

As dawn’s first light threatened the horizon, the village church bell tolled, its somber notes a warning to all. The world would soon witness the wrath of a spirit wronged, for Anaïs, with her dark legacy, had returned.

Beware, for as the sun gave way to another night, the vengeful specter of Anaïs prepared to etch her malevolence onto the world. The mansion’s dark history had come alive, and no soul was safe from its haunting grip.

The creature emerged from the depths of the murky lake, its movements slow and languid, like a grotesque dance of death. Its pale, lifeless eyes locked onto its prey, as it dragged itself closer, leaving a trail of slime and terror in its wake.

The too large for Instagram remix:

In the dying light of dusk, whispers rippled through the crowd as the small lakeside community of Gowansville gathered at the water’s edge. Wannipur Lake had always been a source of life, but now it emanated a dark foreboding. Townsfolk disappeared without a trace, pets had gone missing, and local legends of Purrie, the lake-dwelling monster, had resurfaced.

Betty Bowen, an introverted librarian who’d always found solace in books, stood among them. She clutched a worn leather-bound tome, its pages yellowed with age but brimming with arcane knowledge.

Just as the sun disappeared below the horizon, the surface of the lake broke. A creature, its form an unholy amalgamation of scales, slime, and gnarled limbs, emerged. The crowd’s murmurs turned into palpable panic; their paralysis was the creature’s feast.

Betty’s hands trembled, but she opened her book. Her voice cracked as she began reciting an incantation her grandfather had once taught her, passed down through generations but never used. The air tensed, electric. The creature roared, its dread-filled aura clashing with the energy now emanating from Betty’s words.

Nothing happened. The crowd’s hope wilted; their impending doom was palpable.

Betty’s eyes filled with tears. She thought of her late grandfather, of his unshakable faith in her, and the unspoken guilt that she’d never fully believed in the family lore. She turned the page, and her eyes caught a phrase she had never noticed before. Taking a shaky breath, she recited the new incantation.

The creature writhed, releasing a guttural cry that echoed across the lake. Then, with a final roar of defeat, it retreated, sinking back into the murky depths.

As the crowd erupted into cheers, Betty felt a weight lift off her, replaced by a newfound understanding. She looked down at her book, its ancient words now a proven arsenal against the unknown.

“People!” Betty raised her voice, holding her book high. “Never underestimate the power of these pages, for they are not just words but shields against the darkness. We must continue to read, to write, and to share stories that give us—”

Before Betty could finish, the placid surface of the lake erupted. Monstrous tentacles shot out of the water, heading straight for the librarian. Before anyone could react, the tentacles wrapped around her, pulling her off her feet and into the dark abyss of the lake. Her piercing scream was the last sound heard before she vanished.

The ancient tome had fallen from her grasp during her struggle, landing on the muddy shoreline with a soft thud. The crowd was paralyzed, their faces a mix of shock and horror.

The lake returned to its eerie calm as if nothing had happened. Town car mechanic Fred Baker looked at Betty Bowen’s book. Other people were looking at it too, but no one made a move, so he stepped forward.

Just as his fingers grazed the leather cover, another set of tentacles shot up from the lake, snatching the book and pulling it beneath the surface, leaving nothing but ripples in its wake, and Fred Baker shaken to his core.

The crowd stood there, their silence heavy with the reality of their powerlessness. Their last beacon of hope had been extinguished, swallowed by the same darkness they had sought to overcome. And so, they dispersed, each left to ponder the fragility of their existence and the impenetrable mysteries that lurked just below the surface.

As they walked away, a hushed conversation began to ripple through the crowd. “Maybe we should consider offering a sacrifice to Purrie,” someone suggested. “Once a month, to keep it at bay.”

Heads turned, eyes met, and for the first time that day, a sense of unity formed, born not out of hope but out of a shared grim understanding. It was a pact forged in fear, but it was a pact nonetheless—one that signaled their willingness to coexist with the darkness, even if it meant appeasing its appetite.

As explained in my previous post, I participate in Twitter hashtag games, and bulk those tweets up for Instagram…and sometimes they’re too big. So, instead of deleting them, I decided to post them here.

Original Tweet (the prompt was the word #puny):

Due to recent changes in supernatural beings labor laws, genies were released from their indentured servitude and replaced by AI bots. Although the redesign resulted in faster response times, a shamefully puny amount of the magic lamp was budgeted for granting wishes.

The too large for Instagram remix:

There was a time when magic was as common as the air you breathe, and genies and djinns were the custodians of wishes. For centuries, they offered a flicker of hope, encapsulated in the ornate lamps that adorned every market and household. The lamp’s metal felt warm to the touch, and if you held it to your ear like a seashell, you could hear the distant laughter of joyous genies.

But times were changing, which meant attitudes and sensibilities changed, and the labor laws changed as well. To simplify this tale, we’ll focus on one genie in particular named Elzar. Neither male nor female—but his pronouns were he/him—Elzar, with his long beard of actual spun silver, was considered among his peers to be wise and jolly, and so was elected to lead his brethren to freedom from their metal confines. Elzar, who kept abreast of the latest technology, brokered a deal to have the remaining genies and djinns of the world replaced by AI bots—cold, unfeeling, yes, but efficient. The company behind the bots, TechnoWish Inc., heralded the dawn of a new era.

However, transitions are never smooth, and the first cracks in the new program began to appear almost immediately. In a quaint little apartment where the wallpaper and furniture had seen better days, Sallie Benson, a young woman whose eyes had long surrendered their sparkle to the unyielding drudgery of life, clutched the magic lamp she purchased off the Shazamazon website. She couldn’t afford the top dollar she spent on the lamp, but buying one off OpenSesamebay was risky since one was never sure whether the lamp contained all three guaranteed wishes.

Her eyes flickered between the instruction manual and the antique brass lamp, its intricate designs almost mocking her desperation. A medical bill lay open on the table, and the numbers swam before her eyes. Next to it was a calendar marked with the days her mother had left—perhaps a week or a month at most. The room seemed to close in on her. “You’ve got three chances,” she mumbled, her voice tinged with a despair she couldn’t shake.

Taking a deep breath, Sallie activated the AI bot by sliding her palm along the galvanic pad on the lamp’s side and spoke her wish. “I want my mom to be healthy again.”

“Your prompt is my command,” a mechanical voice responded, and the lamp whirred, its circuits buzzing. “Delivery scheduled: One home gym set.”

Sallie stared at the lamp, her eyes widening in disbelief before narrowing into slits. Each failure was a betrayal; this inanimate object had just betrayed her when she needed it most. Her heart raced as she yelled, “That’s not what I meant!”

One wish gone, two remaining. On her second attempt, she reworded her wish, “I wish for my mother’s illness to be cured.”

“Your prompt is my command,” the lamp’s mechanical voice announced. “Order confirmed: One book titled ‘Living with Chronic Illness’ en route.”

Sallie, furious now, clenched her fists until her knuckles whitened. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

On her final try, Sallie focused all her concentration on her third wish. “Please, just make my mom well.” This time, the lamp paused longer as if trying to compute human emotion and need complexities. Finally, it chirped, “Digital coupon for healthcare supplement issued.”

Feeling defeated, cheated, and utterly alone, Sallie’s hands trembled as if holding the unbearable weight of her shattered hopes. “What an idiot I am for expecting a machine to understand what it means to watch someone you love suffer!” she cried as she hurled the lamp across the room, watching it collide with the wall as if she could exorcise her pain through its destruction.

In their newly conjured ethereal haven—a plane full of old-world floating palaces and cloud gardens—the genies and djinns relaxed, celebrating their newfound freedom. All except for Elzar, who stood apart, gazing at the magical tapestry that mapped out the mortal realm. Each thread represented a wish granted, a life altered. His keen eyes focused on one thread that dulled and darkened, snapping him from his reverie. He felt a jolt, a pang of guilt so sharp it was almost physical. The thread snapped, and he knew whose it was.

It turned out Sallie’s lamp wasn’t just any lamp; it was a repository of centuries of wishes, dreams, and sorrows. It still bore the residue of Elzar’s magic, an echo of his essence that now throbbed like a missing limb. This was more than a lamp; it was a tether to countless lives he had changed. And now, he felt he had failed them.

Elzar gathered the Council of Djinn in a lavish chamber where the air shimmered with unresolved wishes. “The magic we gifted to the mortal plane is being squandered,” he began. Murmurs filled the room, some of the dissent. “Are we not better off without the responsibilities?” one djinn challenged. Elzar’s eyes met the challenger’s. “But at what cost? We traded the gift of nuance for the chill of efficiency. And if we don’t act, we risk our legacy and the delicate balance of magic itself.”

After days of secret meetings and celestial lobbying, Elzar and his fellow genies launched a “Wish Wisely” campaign. They took their message to the streets, TV shows, and even Congress. All seemed futile until a blunder broke the camel’s back: an AI bot mistakenly turned a man into a literal “pillar of the community,” changing him into an inanimate column outside city hall. Public sentiment erupted, a groundswell of anger and disbelief, leaving the government with no choice but to re-establish the rights of the genie community.

A collective sigh of relief reverberated from every magic lamp, now warm and glowing as before. This was of little use to Sallie as she had thrown her lamp away. It was probably buried in some landfill waiting to be rediscovered years from now by some lucky soul who would take the wishes that rightfully belonged to her.

“So much sorrow, so much lost potential,” a deep voice murmured behind her.

Sallie leaped out of her skin as she spun. Her eyes widened in disbelief as a figure materialized in front of her inside a sudden burst of azure smoke. Her heart pounded like a drum, each beat a cry of alarm. She took a step back, almost stumbling over her own feet. Her first thought was for her vulnerable and sick mother in the next room. She opened her mouth, but no sound came—only a strangled, fearful gasp.

“Calm yourself,” Elzar exclaimed, his hands raised in a gesture meant to soothe. But his appearance, an ethereal figure in a mundane apartment, only intensified her alarm. He saw her eyes dart toward the room where her mother lay sick and realized how high the stakes were. “I assure you, I mean no harm.”

Sallie finally found her voice. “Who are you? How did you get in here? I have a sick mother in the next room! Take anything you want, but please don’t hurt us—”

“My name is Elzar,” he interrupted, locking eyes with her. It was as if he peered into the deepest corridors of her soul, where she hid her hopes and fears. He made a simple gesture, and the lamp Sallie had thrown away appeared in his hands. “And this was my home.”

“You’re a genie?”

“That I am.”

“I don’t understand. Why are you here?”

“Your original purchase contract has been renegotiated, and your prior wishes have been rendered null and void. You may keep or return the items you received; it will not affect the three wishes obligated to you.”

A glimmer of hope reignited within her. “You mean I get another chance?”

“That you do.”

“Wait, are these the same AI bot wishes? If so, no thank you.”

Elzar smiled, handing her the lamp. “Young Sallie, wishes are the seeds of destiny, but remember, your actions water them. What wish may I grant you today?”

The lamp felt so different in her hands now, warmer, heavier. She couldn’t stop tears streaming down her face as she whispered, “Please, Elzar, can you cure my dying mother?”

Elzar snapped his fingers with a playful wink, enveloping her in a warm glow. “Your wish is more than just my command; it is my honor, Sallie Benson.”

When Sallie heard her mother gasp, she rushed into the bedroom, heart pounding in her chest. And there she found her mother, not just upright but glowing with a vitality Sallie feared was forever lost. They embraced, their laughter filling the room like a forgotten melody. For the first time in years, Sallie allowed herself to imagine a future that extended beyond hospital walls and medical charts.

From that day on, AI bots were limited to more menial tasks. Through trial and error, humanity had been reminded that the delicate tapestry of human desires—woven from threads of hope, love, and desperation—could not be left in the hands of machines devoid of understanding.

Elzar returned to his celestial realm, satisfied but ever watchful, ensuring that the balance between magic and machine remained intact.

And so, the magic lamps of the world once more brimmed with endless possibilities. Genies like Elzar, free but forever committed to their sacred duty, were back where they belonged—making wishes come true.

As for Sallie’s remaining wishes and the adventures they would take her and her mother on, those are stories for another time. Yet, as they laughed and hugged, a mysterious emblem inscribed on the bottom of the lamp began to glow, its light seeping through the cracks of the wooden table. Neither Sallie nor her mother saw it, but somewhere in the ethereal haven, Elzar felt a shiver run down his spine.

Sensing his unspoken query, an ancient tome appeared before the silver-bearded genie; its pages fluttered open to reveal a prophecy, foretelling a calamity so dire it could snuff out both magic and mankind.

“What are you planning to wish for, Sallie Benson?” he muttered to himself.