Yesterday, I admit the blues came skulking around and hovered over my shoulder. The temperature hovered too–in the mid-50s. Rain drizzled, the sky was gray, leaves fell from the trees, and shorter days with less sunshine was just a bit dreary, leaving no doubt about the season of the year. How to combat an approaching case of the low-down, nasty blues? Writing has always been a refuge and a relief, so I wrote. As you read what I wrote, don’t let it give you a case of the shivers. It was all in fun.
Darkness closed in early, drawing around the house like a curtain. Trees, bright with leaves of gold and crimson, nodded their heads, agreeing that when morning came around, much of their fall finery would lie on the ground in a brilliant carpet.
A certain pervasive chill invaded the house and shadows clung to the corners like memories that refused to be banished by lamplight.
I placed dry logs in the fireplace, struck a match, and lit the kindling put there yesterday. Firelight jumped and crackled, creating a circle of warmth. Glad for its companionship, I held out my hands to the blaze, turned, and warmed my back.
Despite my feeling of relief at being safely in out of the damp darkness, uneasiness clung to my mind. A fitful wind sprung up, nosing around the ancient walls of the house, rattling windows, banging the screen door I had forgotten to fasten. But, there was another sound. A shiver ran down my back, like an icy finger. Across the porch, something scraped, stopped, scraped again. Something tried the door. The knob jiggled. Would it turn? Was the lock secure? My breath caught in my throat as I stared at it, frozen to the floor, afraid to move.
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