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When Fear Comes to Visit in the Middle of the Night

I gave myself a writing retreat for my birthday a couple of weeks ago. I escaped to a little cabin a short walk down a dirt road from the Sylamore Creek. When I arrived before noon, the temperature gauge out on the porch read 72 degrees. The weatherman had promised the warm weather would not last and it didn’t.

The girl I talked to on the phone about renting the cabin told me it was a safe place to stay when I asked about the location. “We all keep our doors unlocked around here,” she assured me without missing a beat. I remembered those days in the distant past. Good for her I thought, but I’d probably lock up anyway.

I turned out the lights before ten and crawled into the bed pushed into a corner next to a wood burning stove. The light on the coffee pot on the kitchen counter blinked green. Otherwise, the room was dark. I hoped I could find my way to the other room if I had to go in the night. Maybe I wouldn’t?

I talked to the Lord for a minute or two and drifted off only to wake a few…

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