It must have been yesterday or it could have been last week, I find it hard these days to remember the when's and the where's. It's not my fault, it runs in the family, we all seem to have a very bad memory but I do think I remember this being yesterday.

    It was about 3 AM on a Tuesday, real nasty weather outside, we get something like 64 days of snow a year and yesterday it was terrible, horrible weather. I live in a nice big cabin not too far out from other houses but not too close or else end up having neighbors, and I don't feel like having to hear loud music or deal with little kids throwing balls in my yard or have them visit me because I don't 'come out to visit'. 

   It's not me, and it's why I got this cabin outside my town, that way I can take a nice 30-minute drive to Costco and enjoy my music. I like to buy in bulk for the off-chance that I run out of supplies during blizzards like the one yesterday. That reminds me, I had one hell of a night yesterday, or today.

   The blizzard was raging outside; it was falling so hard that now and then I could hear the wind howling through my window. Everyone calls it howling, though to me it sounds like whispering. Anyway, I was sitting down on this wonderful, comfy chair that I got as a gift from somebody, don't ask me who it was because even if I knew I would be too selfish to share this experience with anyone else. 

  I had the chair sitting close to my fireplace and it made the experience ten times better, and when you decide to pull up a book while next to your fireplace on a snowy winter night, it's a recipe for a good time. Anyhow, I was reading this book, I wish I could remember the name of it, it was a good read but it lacked what makes a good horror story, a great horror story, you know?

   Published as non-fiction, can you believe that? With all these monsters on different planets and a talking octopus on the moon, first of all, it sounded way too corny and out there to even be considered real but then the guy had the nerve to write it under a pen name. Like the guy was some sort of genius worthy of praise, hiding his identity as if he was important. 

   I got around to finishing it though, and the first thing I could think of was "I bet I could write a scarier horror story." So that's what my night turned into, I stood up off my comfy seat, grabbed my lighter, my last cigarette pack from the top of my fireplace and finally my laptop. I pulled up a chair and placed everything on my desk, which was in the same room as my fireplace. 

  I opened up my laptop and let it boot up, I figured I might as well take a couple of puffs before I start so I pop open my pack of stress relievers and I already felt stressed.

 I only had three cigarettes left, three, I was more than a little annoyed that I was fresh out because I was sure I had bought a huge pack when I was at Costco but I decided I would take it as a challenge. 

 I usually go through about thirty or so cigarettes when I'm writing stories, but today I only had three and my head still hurts thinking about it. I took one of those coffin nails out, put it between my lips, flipped my lighter, and we were off to the races.

    After lighting it, I began to admire the lighter; it had some wonderful craftsmanship that I hadn't appreciated. It was a silver lighter with an engraving at the bottom that said Memento Mei, I could never understand it, I can't read Latin and every time I thought about googling what it meant I managed to find something more interesting to do. 

   Today though, there was something about this lighter that I felt I was missing, you know that feeling you get when it's at the tip of your tongue but you can't put your finger on it? 

   That's how I felt about this lighter like there was some crucial detail that I was missing, as I'm eyeballing this lighter like a detective in a noir, the laptop's startup sound pulls me back into reality. I take a look at the laptop and remember what I was planning on doing, like a man on a mission I open up Microsoft Word and I get ready to write my latest masterpiece.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

    Problem was, I couldn't think of anything to put on the page and it didn't help that my cursor kept phasing in and out of reality on Word as if it were taunting me. As I'm pondering how to even begin, I hear a loud scraping sound, like metal hooks scratching a chalkboard, and my heart takes a quick siesta. 

  Turns out my answering machine decided it's about time I check out who's been leaving me voice mails now, It has this very annoying sound that I set up myself so I would remember to check my voice mails every three weeks. I don't answer my telephone very often and I figure this way I can at least hear the idiots who call me without having to speak back to them, I walk over to the machine and press the button that lets me hear what people have to say to me and I was met with a pleasant surprise.

   It was the same kind old lady that calls every week to see how I'm doing, Ms. Ramer, I swear she is the nicest woman I've ever known. My only problem with her is that she is far too nosy, always asking how I'm doing and whether I'm taking my vitamins and whether I'm feeling better. I know she means well, but if I had a dime for every time I got a call asking how I'm doing, I could go buy another wholesale cigarette box.

   Today's voicemail was about how she misses me and how she hopes I'm not smoking anymore; Ms. Ramer is a bit clingy. Turned out most of these voice mails were all Ms. Ramer and the rest were telemarketers looking for their next commission check, so I shut off the machine and went back to work.

    As I'm walking back to my desk, I sense the house move, as if it were moving with me, I built this cabin myself, laid the foundation and everything and I have never had to worry about structural integrity when it came to my temple. But this feeling was something new; it felt like my whole house was moving with my footsteps, and for a second I was outside of reality again. 

   The wind snapped at the window and hail hit the glass and the house began to creak, my mind jumped back into my living room and I get this thought in my head. It almost felt implanted in there but I didn't disagree with the sentiment, "It's too cold in here, let's put some wood on the fire."

  There I went to fetch some of the wood I had next to the fireplace and into the fire it went, mixing into the blaze as if it had been there all along as if it had always been on fire. I finally sit down again in front of my laptop and think about what I'm planning to write, and I'm still drawing a blank, the tube's still in my mouth.

   I realize I haven't taken a breath since I turned off my answering machine. I open my mouth and a puff of smoke escapes my mouth, I start coughing like an eighteen-year-old taking his first hit, and that's when I realize how loud every action I took sounded.

   The wind stopped howling and it sounded like the snow had stopped falling, it was quiet, like Cathedral on a Monday night kind of quiet. I look at the cigarette-stained with spit and thoroughly put out, I should have been annoyed but I felt unnerved more than anything and the silence didn't help. 

   I pointed my gaze towards my lighter and glared at it until I heard the house creak again, this time the wind was whispering instead of howling but still no snow. The wind seemed to carry a message with it, it managed to float into my ear and my mind, "It's too hot in here, we should turn off the fire." I knew it wasn't my thought, I knew that I had heard it as if it had been whispered to me but I still did it. 

    I went to the fireplace, took my poker and gently spread out the wood and embers and then I shoveled the ember over the fire to put it out and took a handful of baking soda and dropped it on doused firewood without giving a damn about how much I was using. I felt like an obedient slave to whatever it was that had suggested I do this, but I couldn't disobey it because it felt wrong too. I stood up again and took a look at the mess I had made on my legs with all the ash and baking soda, annoyed for what felt like the umpteenth time, I went and sat in front of my laptop for the third time.

   Still couldn't think of a damn thing, this time I leaned back on my chair with my hands clasped on the top of my head and close my eyes, hoping that I could visualize a good story and ignore the events that had transpired. Feeling a bit relaxed, I lean back more until I am near parallel to the floor, as I'm falling ever deeper into the rabbit hole of unconsciousness, I begin to have this sinking feeling. 

   The kind of feeling you get when you lose your balance or fall backward, and with that feeling came to an emotion I rarely feel, fear. Everything is silent again, no wind, no snow, only the sound of my heart beating and my lungs expanding, then I heard it.