Tonight

The night is angry, pressing against the creaky walls of my house with such glowering malice that I can see the darkness pushed against my window, glaring at me. I am quite certain that I will die tonight; that the ominous amorphous midnight will seep into seams and cracks in my walls, my sad card-castle walls, fill slowly, ooze into the wall space through nail holes and breaches in wood and plaster. My walls creak beneath the weight and strain, and I’m sure that the hateful unease is creeping thick and slow through some window left unclosed and into my home, into my study where the warm glow of electronics and the reassuring hum of the heater are not strong enough guardians to protect from the night.
How will I die? My roof sighs and nails click in their holes as my house settles under the great mass of the nighttime. How will I die? Will it crush me? Will my home simply cave beneath the pressure? Will the endless night sky, the pallid moonrays, the uneasy flickering of the stars, the terrifying noises of the sleeping word press down and shatter my house like a light bulb that had been sat upon? Or will the walls give way, leaving only the frame and a viscous flood of terror pudding and me drowning in the mess?
I find myself staring at the words in my book, reading not the author’s tale, but seeing my own as I wonder how much longer the window will hold. Not long, I hope. An angry night is a good night for my climax. Last night had been a dark and stormy night, with howling wind and pouring rain, and I dread a death in such a cliché.