A/N: Prompted by InkyCoffee, the Prompt Overlord, and fueled by late night rehearsals for Beauty and the Beast.
Once upon a time...not so long ago…
Richard Castle was once an optimist. Vain? Well, yes. Immature? Absolutely. Self-absorbed - not always. Despite his success at writing novels about people being murdered in frequently gruesome ways, he'd had a great deal of faith in humanity. Most of it.
Castle lived in a citadel, high above the common streets of Manhattan, venturing forth only to seek, more and more in vain, the city's whirl of excitement that stirred his imagination. He was well off, sexy, handsome, fun at parties (and elsewhere) - he had the world on a string. But he was beginning to feel that his faith, these days, was faltering.
More and more in vain - because his imagination had become immune to stirring, of any kind. He'd grown jaded and weary; he was on the edge of giving up hope that he'd ever find a spark of inspiration.
One night, Castle was visited by a dark spirit, one he knew of old. She had come to demand the final portion of his latest work, a portion which he'd found himself unable to envision, let alone write. The spirit railed and scolded while Castle argued and pouted and made excuses and generally felt sorry for himself.
In the end, the spirit rose up and delivered a terrible curse.
"That's it, Richard," Gina spat. "You are not setting foot outside this loft until you finish this book. You've wasted your time on parties and games and fangirls, and it's time you quit being selfish and did some work for a change."
Castle didn't bother to see her out. She'd made threats before; this would be no different.
The following evening he dressed himself in fine clothes and a smug attitude, prepared to step out on yet another night of fruitless searching, when he discovered just how mistaken he'd been about the spirit this time.
He literally could not leave. He opened his front door - and was halted just inside the threshold. Couldn't step one more step. It wasn't like walking into a wall - just that his feet refused to cross into the hallway. If anyone had been there, they would have found the ensuing struggle highly amusing; Castle took off his shoes and still was thwarted. He took off his socks - same result.
He tried getting down on his hands and knees. He tossed his shoes out in the hall - apparently they weren't the problem - he even tried roller skates, scooting along on his backside (with and without a throw rug), and in a moment of desperation, tried tucking his laptop under his arm as if planning to write in some other location.
Nope. The best he could do was stretch out with his torso in the hallway, supported on his arms, while from the ankles down he was somehow tethered to the interior of his loft.
Next: Castle and his enchanted - er, enchanting household.