I was roused by a sudden chill.

The room was black as pitch save for a fog that glowed with a soft pale luminance that clung to the walls and floor. I must have left the window open again. How foolish of me to be so naïve. Letting in the elements this time of year, at the height of winter, I could catch my death.

I went to throw off my covers but realised I could not move. Fear gripped me in its icy clutches. No matter how hard I strained I could spur no movement from my extremities. All but my eyes were frozen solid.

It was deathly silent. Not a peep. One would expect, in such a time of stress, to hear the thundering of one’s own heart fill their ears, but that was oddly absent. I felt no surge within my breast despite the clear panic I was in. There was something awfully wrong.

I glanced down the length of my body and saw not the typical rise and fall of the chest but a smooth flatness that remained stiff as a board. I was not breathing. How then was I still alive?

The realisation to that question struck me so hard I would have gasped had my lungs not already been void of air. I was not alive. I was dead but still conscious.

No sooner than this dawned upon me did I see it. A figure cloaked in a shroud darker than the inkiest blackness of night or the deepest depth of ocean hung at the foot of my bed. A force that disturbed neither me nor the fog caught itself in the cloak. Black fabric wafted as it was gently billowed, almost as if the figure stood upon an open plain, buffeted by a light breeze, and not enclosed within the sturdy walls of my home.

A voice, harsh and grating, issued from behind the veiled cowl, invading not only the dead air of the room around us but also my mind from within, “It is time.”

I needed not ask what the spectre meant for it was obvious. This phantom had come to wrest my soul from my body and take it to the world beyond. A path I was no doubt destined to tread, but I felt my journey was to be cut short if I were to end it now.

“Wait,” I cried, the sound trapped inside my own head but nonetheless audible within the room, “I cannot yet be taken from this world! I am an important man, a scientist, an inventor like my father and his father before him, on the cusp of something great. I cannot afford to depart from this world now, not before my work is complete. So please, oh benevolent spirit, release me from this torment and reap my soul not until my good work is done!”

For a long time the figure remained at the foot of my bed, seemingly it had heard what I said and was undoubtedly considering my request until it again spoke, “I shall grant you this request.”

“Oh thank you,” a heavy weight was lifted off my sunken chest with the news, “thank you very kindly, dearest spirit. I shall endeavour to ensure that you will not regret your generous decision.”

Although I knew nothing of the spirits features, I felt a wave of dread wash over me as, in a tone that could only be accompanied by a sinister grin, it spoke one last time, “Why should I regret letting one soul go when I stand to gain so many more in return?”

I was roused by a sudden start, my heart hammering in my chest, threatening to burst free of my body.

Those parting words of the cloaked figure lingered briefly before all memory of that fateful interaction slowly bled into the shrouded haze of the grey dawning light, lost to the morning nothing more than a fleeting dream.

Had I truly died and been visited by some otherworldly presence, or what is just a matter of anxiety manifesting itself as a result of life’s most recent stresses? The answer to that question matters very little at present for the sun has already risen and I am going to be late.

Shrugging off the drowsiness of a disturbed sleep, I got myself ready in haste for today was a big day. Today is the day we begin introducing my new inexpensive lead-based gasoline additive.

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If you liked this, you can find more of my writing at r/TheHiveWithUdders.