Last night around 3am I woke up with a start. I don’t remember what it was that jolted me from sleep but it was nothing scary or anything. Just as I was about to snuggle down again, I realised that something was wrong. The apartment looked kinda bright. So I turned my head to the livingroom door and my heart stopped. The tealight I use in my aromatherapy thingy was LIT. The flame was as big as ever and dancing a bit in a draft. I swore I hadn’t left it on when I went to bed 3 hours earlier. The wretched thing wouldn’t stay lit for some reason and as far as I remembered, it was dead when I went inside to sleep. I looked at the cats for some sign that it wasn’t safe to go outside into the livingroom but they were snoring obliviously on at my feet. Darned cats. So I gingerly crept forward to blow the damned thing out. Every second I expected something to attack me and scare the living daylights outta me. Fucking tealight. Even if it wasn’t a supernatural thing, I’m still mad at myself for not being sure that I had blown the thing out. Burning down your own apartment is a really stupid thing to do.