Optional: Nominate a friend to participate!
Part 1: The Prizes
There will be multiple winners to this part of the event. Winners will be automatically added to The Witching Hour anthology on the Paranormal Community profile (more information on that coming soon!).
Winners will be promoted across all associated Wattpad profiles to an audience of almost 300,000!
The grand winner of the short story contest will have their story immortalised as the basis of the next part of this event, as well as take a feature spot on Halloween in The Witching Hour anthology.
The grand winner will also win an epic audio reading of their story, courtesy of WattZombie!
Reminder: Do not post the link to your story in the comments. This may jeopardise your chances of winning!
▶️▶️Update!!!
Part 2:
Chapter One: The Second Hour
Congratulations! You have all made it through the first of the three Witching Hours. Fifteen stories have survived the first hour which you can find here at ParanormalCommunity Witching Hour Anthology.
However, one of them is still missing its conclusionchapter . Continue on to the next chapter to find out which one!
Chapter Two: The Second Hour - Story
Below is the winning story of the first hour and the one whose mystery has yet to be solved. Take the next three days to read through it and ponder upon what hidden message could have been left in the aftermath for us to uncover.
***
Voices in the Chapel by StevenBrandt
"I'm a good person," I whispered. "I know I am."
It was on Friday, the day I regularly went to the chapel at midnight to spend three consecutive hours in meditation. I sat alone in the church of St. Michael the Archangel, an army of tiny statues of saints stood before me to protect me from evil thoughts. A giant painting of the final judgment spanned the wall behind them. The demons seemed to grin and cavort, and the angels' swords seemed to flash in the flickering light of the candles.
I waited.
I didn't know if it would happen tonight, but three times in the past year, the little statue of St. Mortense had wept tears of blood. When that occurred, I would listen closely, and he'd tell me who to kill.
The door of the chapel creaked, and an old woman carrying a gigantic purse doddered in. She wore a small black veil upon her head and a heavy winter shawl about her hefty frame, despite the fact it was early autumn. Finding her way to the front of the chapel and dropping to the kneeler seemed to take all her effort.
I resented her presence. The statues wouldn't speak to me unless I was alone. But what could I do? I should have been praying, It's what a good person would do. So I prayed that she would leave.
"You're the one who protects us, aren't you?" she asked.
"Are you speaking to me?" I replied.
"Who else? The statues?"
Her tone was mocking, but she glanced at St. Mortense where he stood piously with his back to an army of demons. It was as if she knew. A tingle of fear slithered down my spine.
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