Paranoia or What If?

I was in Houston last week. Tenth floor—downtown hotel. I always enjoy the view from my window—the architecture is beautiful—but this time our room was all wrong. The bed pointed in the wrong direction; must have been a Feng shui thing. It never felt right. The room seemed smaller too, but then it may have been that extra chair they’d squeezed between the bed and the window. A perfect place for me to sit with legs propped up while I read two romantic suspense novels. Of course, while sitting in the chair, my back was to the window. One night I got the strangest feeling that I could be shot in the back of the head. The shot would probably have come from one of the other buildings; lots of construction going on in some of them. I moved to the bed. Creeped my husband out. Ever get those feelings?

Early morning hotel halls are creepy too. Hubby leaves for work around 5:15. I moseyed out for ice. I felt jittery as I walked to the other end of the hall to the ice machine. I mean, all those closed doors and I had no idea who was on the other side of them. Seriously, what if someone had opened a door, yanked me inside, cut me into little pieces, stuffed me in suitcases and carted me out?

They don’t call me paranoid for nothing. But then again, maybe I’m just a writer with a vivid imagination.

I sat quietly … reading my romantic suspense. Something pelted the window.
And then I saw a thick black cord dangling.

 And then I saw a foot, finally, a leg,

And then . . .

Of course, I grabbed my camera but I couldn’t help but wonder—What if?