The air is cold as I step out of my car, which I have just parked in front of my small rowhouse. I can see my breath in the air. My gloved hands pull my key out of my pocket, and I climb the stairs, up my porch and towards my front door.

The street is completely silent: there doesn't seem to be anybody out. No lights seem to be shining from the windows, either; and I can't hear anything.

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the pane of glass in my door; my hair looks frazzled, and greyer than usual. I look tired. Almost as if I have just driven for six hours, I thought, smiling grimly to myself, as my trembling hands unlocked the door.

Inside, I don't stop trembling, although I wasn't quite sure why. My craft shop, on the first floor, always seemed a bit scary at night with all the strange shadows and silhouettes, although, I reproach myself slightly, I should be used to it by now.

I don't even bother taking off my long, purple winter coat, or even my boots, which I am usually so particular about. I tell myself that it is because I am cold, even though it might be because I feel slightly nervous.

As I walk toward the stairs to the second floor, the floor I live on, I quickly glance into the crafts shop, because the door is open. I am not sure why I am so scared of it all of a sudden.

The door is open way further than I thought it would be. I don't dare to look into the yawning void which I am sure lies beyond the door, and I want to shut it so badly, but I am far too afraid to stick my hand that far from my body and pull the door closed.

My heart starts to pound, my heavy brsths fill my ears, I lose control and almost run up the stairs.

Having arrived on the second floor, I calm down, and scold myself a kittle. Caroline, come on. You're fourty-eight years old, act like an adult. I shake myelf and ruefully grin a little. Wow, that was stupid. Why did I come running up here so fast, like a child? That's ridiculous.