...do not read Stephen King.
Especially not when Shadow stands just outside the doorway, watching you, watching you watching, never tilting a head in acknowledgement that you're there or returning the gesture when you do. Shadow watches. Shadow just watches.
Red spots in the doorway. Another doorway, blinking lights, lights that don't make up their mind on what setting to appear on.
The rattling door down the hallway that insists on you keeping it down the hallway. Walking, rattling, walking, rattling, walking, passing, seeing it, the door that rattles, shakes as if wind were pushing it, urging it to shake, shake and rattle in the hinges, rattle, rattle, sheading the snakeskin and the little worm in your mind that is fear crawls, crawls into darker shades and shadows.
Unfamiliar noises, familiar noises, the little bit, the big bite, respite and lack of keys... All blend in, all mixing, blending, blinding, hard to keep track, making it hard to keep the keep secure and the track, the road, the shutters stutter, shutting down and you know, you know what's going to happen. Because it's already happened and you're not just writing a memorial, you're writing about the past, the late happenings and the dead dread that creeps down your creepy spine in cold, cold silence that's oh so eerie and you can't stop thinking, can't stop to drain or drown it out because there's no ending it and you pray and you scream and there's no sound no sound at all and all you're able to do is type, type, write, write, keeping the darkness at bay, keeping the hedges clear and visible ready to face the darkness inside of you and the hedges, the hedges are real.
Shadow in the doorway agrees.
Fiction mixes with fact.
The real world becomes a fantasy.
The voice on the radio comes from afar, afar and sounds like the muffled washout of wordless dead things from under the sea where dead gods dream.
None of this is real.
Shadow outside in the hallway stares silently at me. I hope that Shadow agrees with me.
Tonight is a night you should be sleeping.