That’s odd, I thought, and just a little eerie. You see, I live alone. To make matters more intimidating, I or no one else has been in that room for over four years ever since my wife died unexpectedly at forty-seven. The autopsy revealed it was an aneurysm.

That was her space where she did her creating—writing actually. In fact she died in that very room while working on her latest paranormal mystery novel. She had published several thrillers, all involving the strange and bizarre. Whatever she was writing was left unfinished.

The light would keep me awake so I ventured up the stairs to turn off the light and close the door. Reaching through the door to flip the switch I caught the fragrance of her favorite perfume. The switch was off and I realized the light was coming from her computer screen.

Looking over the top of the monitor, her eyes aflame caught mine. “Oh hi,” she smiled. “You’re just in time. I finally finished the story and just as soon as I submit it to my publisher we can go.”

“We? I don’t understand.” My puzzled look conveying my confusion.

“I wrote the ending so you can come with me.”

She hit submit, she took my hand and together we were drawn into the monitor.