Free Rhayven House by Frank Bittinger

him to move out here in the valley? True, town was only a phone call away anyway, but would help really be able to arrive in time if something horrible happened?
         “Quit being so damned morose. Morbidity isn't soothing in the middle of the night,” he scolded himself aloud. “It might only be a mouse...if it's anything at all.”
         Moving across the floor to the window, Ian drew back the drapes and attempted to look outside. Thanks to the dark outside and the light inside, the glass was more like a mirror than a window. He moved closer, cupping his hands around his eyes to block out some of the light. The mirror effect faded and he had a nice but dim view of the yard. There was something out there walking around.
         Stiffening, Ian squinted his eyes. At first, he thought it was simply a weird shadow or a trick of what little light there was out there, but the more he concentrated the clearer it became—although nowhere clear enough to make out who or what it was. It moved wraith-like, but that didn't immediately mean it was something paranormal. Given the fact he basically lived in the woods, it could have been any type of nocturnal animal out on its usual rounds, searching for food.
         Ethereal movement caught his eye, fluid motions an animal out searching for sustenance would not make.
         No, he'd swear it was more like pacing—back and forth across the yard.
         The shadow stopped. Ian instinctively stepped back from the window and allowed the drape to fall. He didn't know why he thought it, because he couldn't be sure, but he had the feeling whatever it was knew he was watching and had stopped pacing to look up at him.
         Convincing himself it had been nothing more than first-night jitters, Ian gently rubbed his tired eyes, yawned real wide, and crawled back under the blankets. Ian convinced himself, given enough time and concentration, his slamming heart would calm down and he'd be able to fall asleep again.
         But he knew that was a crock.
         No matter how long he laid there with his eyes firmly closed, his heart didn't slow down. His breathing had calmed but his heart still beat a mile a minute.
         Finally, he pushed back the covers and reached for the light, telling himself if he couldn't sleep, he might as well get some work done.
     
    ~ ~ ~
     
         Working on one of his books always soothed Ian's nerves. He knew writers who disliked the process, but to him it was both a process of necessity and divinity. He'd never admitted to anyone before how god-like writing made him feel. After all, he created the characters and controlled their destinies. If that didn't make him sound like a god, then he didn't know what would.
         He wasn't that full of hubris. Ian knew he didn't literally create worlds and people; he wrote stories. Yes, he considered himself talented and successful and he was grateful for both.
          Try as he might to focus on the printed out pages of his manuscript, Ian's mind kept returning to the image of the shadow pacing outside under the dim glow of the cloud-covered moon. It was the way it seemed to sense his presence and stopped to look up in his direction. He knew he couldn't be missed, not the way he stood silhouetted against the window with the light behind him, practically begging to be seen.
         Security was a high priority no matter where somebody lived; he needed to make sure he was safe and sound especially in the valley. That meant getting every window and outside door wired up and getting cameras and lights for outside. Nobody could get lost and accidentally end up inside the wall to wander around, especially not in the wee hours of the morning. It wasn't just those seeking his autograph. He had to take security seriously and call the company that wired his townhouse.
         And if Ian felt uneasy in the house, he could always stay in his townhouse until the security company had everything