As I turned, I saw no one. The sense that I could not cut the tension in an empty house. A writer with an imagination. A premonition, too.
That I would be dead before dawn, and that a character would seek revenge. My conjuring complete, effective writing, a plague.
I took refuge in my armchair. A pen, no armor. That I would perish before my bestseller, tragic. I needed to kill him. But, how?
As darkness pressed, I smelled his dank sentiment, felt ember’d orbs baring down upon me. I pulled my pen, raised it, and..
Then, I found the solution. Like Beethoven to music, I would dim my senses. I would write in my dreams, my waking, safe.
I approached the figure. She rocked back and forth, bolts of light, escaping. Bloody fingers reached for me. I could not resist.