Stranger in the Storm

This was quite possibly the best sex I've ever experienced. I ran my fingers through my hair, feeling thoroughly sated by the experience.

"Jesus Christ James, that was amazing."

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," he said gently stroking the side of my face.

"Could you hand me a tissue from the side table, I appear to be a bit of a mess," I said looking down at the strands and pools of white clinging to my torso.

"Sure thing."

James reached over to the box of tissues and pulled out a couple of sheets.

"Here, let me get this for you."

He dabbed at the mess on my stomach, scooping and wiping away. After he'd finished cleaning me up, he laid down beside me and we soon fell asleep.

The following morning, I awoke, not in my bed but in my armchair. My laptop was open but not on; the battery must have finally died overnight.

Oddly, I was still dressed. I rose from my chair and headed to the bedroom, hoping to find James still in bed. However, the bed remained untouched. This was becoming increasingly strange. I called out to James.

"James, where are you?"

There was no answer.

I left the bedroom, continuing my search. The kitchen and the bathroom were both empty. His clothes had vanished. I hurriedly checked the spare bedroom, but it was also untouched, with no signs of any storm damage.

Returning to the sitting room, I sat down and muttered under my breath, "What the hell? Did I just imagine all of this?"

The power suddenly flickered on, and I decided to charge up the laptop. I also turned on the TV, checking the news to see if there were any reports of road accidents, but there was nothing.

I decided to make myself a cup of coffee, hoping it would help me make sense of last night.

I turned the laptop on and opened my manuscript, knowing I had only written a few pages. To my surprise, when I opened the file, there were many more pages than I had remembered. I scrolled through the document, all the way to the very end. This was very strange; the book appeared to be finished in its entirety.

I spent the next few hours reading through every page. The story felt both familiar and foreign at the same time. It was my writing, but I couldn't recall ever writing it.

The book itself was not just good; it was exceptional, the best I had ever written.

I vaguely recalled starting to write about James, but now he was a fully developed character within the book. It left me wondering: had I fabricated the entire thing? Did I have one to many whiskeys last night?

With the book now finished, there wasn't a need for me to stay out here any longer. I decided to pack up my things and head back to the city.

I took one final look around the cabin, hoping to find any piece of evidence that James was real, but alas it wasn't to be.

I closed the front door and left to go home.

TO BE CONTINUED...