Bogleech.com's 2016 Horror Write-off:
Hands slam on the table in desperation, a blank document blinking on a computer screen. The woman sitting in the chair gets up and paces around the dark room, angrily trying to combat her writer's block. She thinks to herself desperately, trying to come up with some concept for the horror writing contest in but a few days. Her belly growls in hunger, and she moves to the door of her room and to the stairs leading to the floor below, shrouded in a hiding darkness that engulfs her when she ventures down.
She flicks a light switch up, filling the kitchen with a bright white light. Her hungry eyes gaze around, passing over something which should not be there. She barely notices it at first, then moves further into the kitchen and sees it. A plate of spaghetti. A plate of spaghetti sitting on the counter, empty when she last saw it. It stared at her eyelessly with its tentacular noodles, slick with oils and drenched in grotesquely thick and chunky marinara. She could feel sweat form on her forehead and her face, her body frozen there. She lived alone, and she doesn't remember putting that spaghetti there. The spaghetti sits there silently. She shiveringly and slowly moves over to the cabinet, grabbing some food out of it while still looking to the pasta. Her eyes leave it for a moment behind the doors of the cupboard. She looks back to the counter, the spaghetti having disappeared. Her mind filled with fear and paranoia upon seeing that strange thing, she quickly runs back up to her room, the dark stairway and hallway engulfing her before she reaches her room, shutting the door tight and breathing heavily, her eyes looking about paranoidly, calming down slightly when she sees nothing out of the ordinary.
Sitting down at her computer screen to begin writing anew, a thick glob of stinking sauc drips from the ceiling. She looks up, only to see the crawling form of the tentacular spaghetti clinging to the ceiling above her, dropping down onto her face. It snaps and wraps and clings to the face of the woman, shoving noodle after noodle and meatball after meatball into her mouth, force-feeding itself to her. As the last slimy noodle slips down her throat, she finally comes up with what to write, her pallid grey face, chunky marinara sticking to her mouth, a pasta tendril reaching out to scoop it into her mouth.