Once again, the house returns to being empty and quiet. The occasional creak of the floorboards and the heavy heave of the walls settling in for the cold march night seem ever so clear. The chilly wind penetrates every corner, and the steady chug of the boiler accompanies the infrequent howling outside, accentuating the lack of human voices.

You sense it coming; you hear its gradual descent and you shuffle to your feet, in a hurry to close the windows. Yet, it is certain that would not stop it, so you scramble to fill the room with any sort of noise you can create, any din you can make. But you know deep down, and fear, that soon it will be here - you are just delaying its arrival.

Soon enough, it emerges without formal notice, stealthily, steadily, quietly creeping up towards you, seeping through the cracks in the walls, from beneath the very ground you stand upon. You fight it with all your might, but to no avail; intangibility is its deadliest trait. Slowly it engulfs you. You scream but there is no sound -- taking its place are tears of fear, and you curl up under a blanket, but the intense cold arises from within you, and condenses in your gut, sitting there like a melting block of ice. The noises turn into a sad melody, and it is the saddest song you have ever heard. It is your song.

After what seems like eternity, it retreats with deliberation and crawls back into the now silent night. Your sobs are reduced to a slow trickle, like droplets from a loose tap, and your heavy breathing is accompanied only by the sympathetic sigh of the house, the sorry rustling of leaves and woeful chirps of crickets.

And then with slow realization, you understand why people fear it so much. You feel sorry for those who have to go through it, especially the ones who have had to face it because of you.

You understand loneliness.