My bedroom door creaks as I turn the knob and pull it open. Out in the main room, I again have to navigate by the faint glow of a clock dimly shining from the kitchen stove. Ben’s door is cracked open, so I make sure to walk on my toes, not wanting to wake him.

As I creep through the room, I get that sudden, panicked dread that comes with an overactive imagination. It’s the same discomfort I experience when I go into Pops’s dusty, unused basement or when I have to walk home after work, alone, late at night. Every shadowed spot is hiding a potential threat. Maybe a hand will shoot out from underneath the couch to grab my ankle. Or a looming figure is lurking just behind the door, ready to drag me to hell.

There’s no visible danger, but my mind plays the what-if game until my heart picks up speed, and the beginning trickles of adrenaline enter my veins.

Before I can cause a self-induced panic attack, I’m able to maneuver around the few furnishings and reach the bathroom.

Problem is, I can’t find the light switch. The walls are bare as my fingers scramble and search, coming up with nothing. Finally, I give up and resort to using my toes to feel my way around the confined space, eventually coming in contact with porcelain.

As I sit on the chilly toilet seat, I try to rationalize away my fears.

1. Ben’s grandfather lived out here with no problems for years.

2. Our trip was so last-minute; no ax murderer would even know we were out here.

3. Ghosts aren’t real.

4. Probably.

5. Ghosts probably aren’t real.

This isn’t helping.

Now, I’m stuck on ghosts and how likely one might exist in this cabin.

Ben’s grandfather killed himself.

Did he do it in this house? In the room I’m sleeping in?

Suddenly, the haven of my bed doesn’t feel so safe anymore.

Great. Toilet time was supposed to be calm down time, not find new ways to freak myself out time.

I flush and locate the sink to turn on a rush of cold water. That way, I can wash my hands and splash my face with it in an effort to shock the ridiculous nightmares out of my head. After drying off, I take a deep breath and place my unsteady fingers on the door handle.

Time to brave the unknown.

BEN

The sound of the toilet flushing wakes me up. A quick glance at the clock reassures me that Holly’s probably just taking a nighttime bathroom break, and I haven’t overslept. Unfortunately, I’m now fully awake, thinking about Holly sleeping one room away.

After stargazing, we hustled back inside and decided to watch one of Grandpa’s old VHS tapes. Holly picked Rush Hour 2, and we chuckled our way through most of it, sitting side by side on the couch. At one point, her head rested on my shoulder, and I realized I was the only one watching the buddy-cop comedy. Carrying her to bed was easy; she’s not that heavy of a person. What was hard was not crawling in beside her, holding her close to my chest, and falling asleep, pressed against her warm, soft body.