This post comes from no writing prompt.

There must just have been something about that night. A feeling of dread so great, it provoked countless questions; Questions which should not have been disturbing the peaceful nature which night brings with it. She wondered if the night itself knew what was so wrong, and she wondered why.

What is this night?

Why she was compelled to rise from her perch and await slumber so early, as if predicting something was not right. Why, as she lay nestled in her sheets, she saw countless unsettling images in her daydreams - uncomfortable images which she could not shake. Images of things she despaired and despised. Why was even the very pen she reached for in desperation, the hopeful source of her comfort, a disappointment, when it's very ink had run dry.

Was she not meant to share this disturbing night?  For surely if she simply lay trapped in this eerie state, the worlds would have disappeared by morning. Her fruitful rummaging through bedside drawers returned hope; She began to write.

Why did the residence, that very residence which she sought for comfort and solitude, suddenly become a place of discomfort? Why, in the dead of winter, did the air in the room become stifling? So stifling, she glady opened her window to let in the cold, damp air. Even this did not bring relief. The crisp night air, with its wintery, earthy tang - a smell usually welcomed for its familiary and its clarity - tonight felt uncomfortable, as though it were adding invisible corrupted particles to this already tainted room.

Why were the sounds of creatures howling in the night, so great at this moment? What was it about the foggy moonlight that provoked the animals so? Were they experiencing the same dread that she felt?

She paused, trying to think of a way to describe the evening's events in a way which would not seem exaggered, nor too hard to believe.

It felt as though every sense had been heightened, as though stimulated by some unknown substance. It was not a comfortable feeling, rather an alien one, as though she had no control over her surroundings and was merely a puppet for something greater, something hidden yet more important than her own existance. Every sound amplified, and having some greater meaning laying beneath it. The smells. The feelings. All so known, but yet also so unknown.

What is this night?

An ache grips her wrist, as she clutches at the pen to keep the words coming. She does not want to be alone, she desires greatly to stay in the company of the pen and paper who keep her distracted from her uneasy surroundings. Is that not a sign, this erratic pain? A sign that her thoughts are meant to be solitary, that she is to suffer in this madness alone?

The writing stopped.

I wrote this myself, last night, and this is actually a recount. I felt that same unease last night; I was drawn to bed early but then forced to lie there and submit to an uneasy feeling for several hours. So uneasy that I did, in fact, reach for my notepad and paper. So uneasy that I had to turn my lights on for a moment, to catch my breath. A very eerie feeling, however I hope you enjoyed the result. Did anyone else submit to such a strange evening?