How two small changes turned a fun Halloween contest into a surprisingly deep writing experience.
The room was almost dark.
Two Alexa speakers whispered haunting music while the LED lights stretched like a ghostly ribbon across the tops of the bookshelves.
Creepy images from the Canva slides flickered on the screen, each one timed perfectly with the soundscape.
Fifth graders slipped into the library wide-eyed and whispering, unsure whether they were entering a classroom or a movie set.
For the next two weeks, this was our world.
A Contest Transformed
Last year, our library’s two-sentence scary story contest took on a life of its own.
More than 170 entries poured in, and for weeks the space buzzed with creative energy.
Kids who rarely set foot inside were suddenly huddled over iPads, whispering eerie ideas and cracking nervous smiles.
It was one of those lightning-in-a-bottle moments that every teacher quietly hopes for.
But when the excitement faded, I found myself wondering: what if it could be more?
The contest had been fun, but I wanted to turn all that spooky enthusiasm into something lasting.
Many stories leaned on shock value or gore.
I wanted to see what would happen if we aimed for something smarter, quieter, and more psychological.
So I made two changes.
First, every story had to be 25 words or fewer.
Second, I turned the contest into a four-part writing workshop called The Blueprint for a Scare.
The Blueprint for a Scare
Instead of sending out a Google Form and hoping for the best, every fifth-grade class came to the library to collaboratively build their stories.
And that’s when everything shifted.
For two weeks, the library underwent a transformation. The lights were low. Spooky music played. The air hummed with imagination.
We weren’t just talking about writing anymore—we were making it.
Session 1: Deconstructing the Scare
We became Story Detectives. Together we noticed that every great short scare has three parts: a Setting that feels off or lonely, an Uncanny Character who isn’t quite right, and a Twist—the moment everything tilts.
Session 2: Brainstorming the Blueprint
This was all about freedom. I gave them a handful of What if... prompts (“What if your reflection didn’t copy you?”) and told them to just see where their minds wandered. They filled pages with eerie openings and half-formed story seeds. The goal wasn’t perfection. It was play.
Session 3: Forging the Twist
Here came the challenge: 25 words. No more. Every word had to earn its place.
We worked like editors, tightening sentences and swapping ordinary words for better ones. I modeled with “good vs. great” examples on the board.
We turned “Mom tucked me in twice tonight. The second one didn’t smell like her.” into “Mom tucked me in twice tonight. Then I heard my real mom calling from downstairs.”
That’s when it clicked. They could feel what strong writing sounds like.
Session 4: The Horror Showcase
The final day was hushed and electric. Students polished their stories, checked word counts, and submitted them through a QR code.
Then we dimmed the lights and shared.
Prizes were waiting, and yes—they were thrilled about those.
But what stayed with me was something deeper. They had felt the process of writing in a new way.
Many realized, maybe for the first time, that a story isn’t about length or shock value. It’s about choices. Word by word, moment by moment.
They discovered truths that will follow them into every piece of writing they do.
“A whisper can be scarier than a scream.”
What Changed
That 25-word limit I worried might hold them back? It set them free.
With less space, they learned to imply rather than explain.
A whisper could be scarier than a scream.
A flicker could say more than a paragraph.
The constraint didn’t shrink their creativity. It sharpened it.
The contest became a small writing lab—part language, part rhythm, part courage.
When we finally read the stories aloud, the library filled with gasps and laughter.
It didn’t feel like Halloween anymore. It felt like discovery.
What Lingered
In the end, the monsters and ghosts were never the point.
It was about what happens when young writers feel their own power.
The courage to whisper a story into the room and hear someone gasp.
That small spark of connection—that’s the real magic.
What lingers for you after a moment of shared creativity—the product, or the process?
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