Back then, I’d only just started writing and self-publishing horror stories. I’d finished a few: The Low Road, The Narrow Doors and The Compressionist, but I was still finding my feet. At first, I didn’t even think about trying to make a story out of my nightmare. If I’m being honest, I just wanted it out of my brain.
It was only after a shower and a mug of coffee, that I realised I had to try and do something with it. I was trying to be a horror writer. It would be a shame to waste the fear jangling through my system. So, instead of distracting myself, I sat down and began to work with it.
There was a definite menace in the silence that followed. I don’t think I heard a front door close, which makes me wonder if I heard anything at all. Still, that silence pressed down on me. It wouldn’t let me close my eyes. I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t fearing for my own safety. My sleep, maybe; but not my safety. I lay there and waited for a violent encore. Raised voices. Doors slamming shut. Glass smashing. Or, worse, laughter.
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