October 31st, 1994

It was Halloween when I woke up, although I didn't know that yet. My desk calendar hadn't changed since I hadn't been awake to rip off the pages and I didn't own a computer. It just seemed like a bunch of unnecessary bells and whistles, when all I needed to write my novels was my 1956 SeaFoam Green Smith-Corona Silent-Super typewriter. I had heard rumors about this "information superhighway" that was supposedly going to change the world, but I'm certain it will be nothing more than a passing fad. No, it is brilliant works of literature that will change the world, and I fully intended to start working on mine.

The first thing I noticed when I roused myself from my slumber was the blessed silence. Apparently that cretin next door's party had fizzled out at some point during the night and now, at long last, I had the peace and quiet I was looking for.

I flung open the window to let in some fresh air. It was a beautiful clear sunny day, although the temperature seemed a bit crisper than I would have anticipated for the first day of September. Perhaps a cold front had rolled through.

It really was profoundly quiet. I couldn't hear the sound of any vehicles. For that matter, I couldn't hear any birds chirping or insects buzzing. What a glorious day!

I sat down at my writing desk and rolled a fresh piece of paper into my typewriter. I centered it and wrote "Chapter One" as I felt the giddy anticipation of imminent creation. I lined the page up to start my first paragraph, cracked my knuckles, and placed my fingers lightly on the keys. And then I stared at the blank page for the next twenty-five minutes without a single keystroke occurring.

Sometimes the first sentence is the most difficult. If you can just get that written, the rest of the words will flow naturally. The trouble was I couldn't think of a satisfactory first sentence. Very well, then. Sometimes you just need that first word. I stuck the tip of my tongue out of the corner of my mouth and confidently typed the word "The." A moment later I ripped the page out of the typewriter, crumpled it up into a ball, and threw it into the corner of the room. What had I been thinking? I couldn't start my masterpiece with a pedestrian word such as "The." It was all wrong.

I stood up and paced around the room for a few minutes before heading back to the window. It was still a bit chilly out and it was still peculiarly quiet. Now that I noticed it the silence seemed to almost have a material quality to it. It seemed to have a weight bearing down, as if a heavy blanket had descended on the surrounding environment. It was beginning to feel a little oppressive.

I shook my head and stepped away from the window. I sat back down at my desk and rolled in another fresh sheet of paper. I started to re-type "Chapter One," but my fingers felt clumsy and I accidentally typed "Chopter One" instead. Maybe if I lined the typewriter up correctly I could type an "a" over that errant "o" and I could proceed with my work, but I misjudged the spot and the "a" kind of overlaid the "o" and the "p" right smack in the middle and now it didn't even look like I was writing in English, but rather some sort of ancient runic language.

This didn't seem like a particularly good omen to me. I ripped the page out, crumpled it up, and tossed it. I attempted to load up another sheet of paper, but this one ripped as I was placing it in the roller.

It dawned on me that what I could really use was a good cup of coffee. I had seen a quaint little coffee shop downtown that appealed to my sensibilities. I hadn't actually gone into it yet and sampled its wares, but now seemed like as good of a time as any to give it the old college try.

I hopped on my bicycle and pedaled down the lane towards the town. The only sound I heard was the wheels turning and my own breathing. It was a bit unsettling, but I distracted myself by thinking about my novel. I had the basic outline all mapped out in my head. I knew the ice cream would fall to the ground around page 200 and that we would spend the next 1100 or so pages experiencing it in real time as it slowly disassociated and dissolved drop by drop into the sidewalk. I just couldn't seem to nail down that opening paragraph.

I was only dimly aware that I hadn't seen a single car driving down the street or any people out and about. Nor had I heard any dogs barking as I passed by their yards, or any squirrels or other small critters gallivanting about.

It didn't occur to me that anything was especially out of the ordinary until I arrived at the coffee shop and discovered it was not merely closed, but also boarded up. That was odd since I had just passed by it the day before and had made note of the tempting aroma wafting from its open doors. As far as I knew it was an average Thursday and nothing should be closed for any reason. It was actually a Monday, although that shouldn't have made a difference either.

I took a step back and looked around. I hadn't noticed it before, but all of the buildings on Main Street were boarded up. Not only that, there was an automobile overturned in the middle of the road and not a single solitary soul was anywhere in the vicinity.

Something very strange was going on around here. A large oak tree growing by the sidewalk caught my attention. Someone had carved the word "CROATOAN" into it. That seemed vaguely familiar to me, but I couldn't place where I had heard that word before.

I was still pondering this when a high-pitched creaky voice said "Hello, Mr. Literary Genius."

I nearly jumped out of my skin from the shock of suddenly hearing a sound when there had previously been only silence all around me. It took a moment for my heartbeat to resume its normal rhythm and by then I had gathered myself together enough to look up towards the source of the voice.

A parrot sat in the branches of the oak tree. But this wasn't just any parrot. It was a green parrot with a familiar looking yellow lyre pattern on its chest. The exact same markings as my old pet parrot Chaucer. I nearly wet myself in fright.

Don't get me wrong, I was happy to see my old friend. But the thing was, he shouldn't be here. It had been a tragic turn of events and I didn't care to dwell on it, but I had seen Chaucer get devoured by an alligator in Florida three years ago.

So what was he doing sitting in an oak tree in upstate New York now? And more chillingly, why was he laughing and repeating the phrase "Beware the Witch of the Misty Woods" over and over again?