It had been nearly 5 years since my last novel, The Oil Baron’s Maîtresse had been published, and a nasty case of writer’s block had me feeling like a complete hack. I just didn’t think I had it in me to write another “erotic sizzler featuring a high-stakes game of political intrigue” (Entertainment Weekly). Worried that I was losing the respect of my contemporaries in the Park Slope literary elite, my agent, Ari, had arranged for me to stay in a secluded cabin in the Catskills in the hopes of clearing my head. “A little fresh air’ll do ya,” he assured me. “We’ll have those fingers typin’ in no time.” Little did he know, the only thing I would soon be typing was the letter O. Type O, that is. (I’m speaking, of course, about BLOOD.)

The first day in the cabin was as relaxing as one would come to expect. The sounds of the open wilderness eased my mind into a state of pure tranquility. I counted 17 different species of bird calls, and the scent of the organic Arabica coffee beans that Ari had left for me helped to rejuvenate my senses. I even began to tackle my greatest enemy of all (the typewriter… :P) and was already 10 pages in to a new manuscript tentatively titled The Litigator’s Daughter. But as the sun began to set, I couldn’t shake the lingering feeling that I was not alone.

Sure, this was Halloween, which just so happened to fall on Friday the 13th this year, and it also was the 10th anniversary of when I killed a jogger in a horrific drunk driving accident (allegedly), but I chalked up this nagging sense of dread to my overactive imagination (I am a New York Times best-selling author, after all).

It was around midnight that I finally decided to get some shut-eye. I was pretty tuckered out from a long day behind the typewriter, and it wasn’t long after climbing into bed that I began to doze off. That’s when I heard it… the scratching coming from inside my closet.

Maybe it’s a mouse, I thought; it was an old house, after all. But as I listened closer, it became entirely clear to me that whatever the sound was couldn’t possibly be a small animal, but rather something much, much more sinister. At first I tried to ignore it, but the scratching just kept getting louder and louder. I knew I had to investigate if I planned on getting any rest for the following day. As I sat up in bed, my closet seemed to take on an ominous, antagonizing tone from across the dimly-lit room.

*Scratch… scritch… scratch*

Turning the bedside lamp on, I lowered my feet onto the cold, hardwood floor and starting inching my way closer and closer to the closet.

*Scratch… scritch… scratch*

I gripped my hand around the old, loose doorknob, and in one swift motion, I tugged the door open! Behind the door was a sight so horrifying… so spine-tingling, I couldn’t believe it was real. Standing no higher than two feet was a tiny man wearing the mask from the Scream movie franchise! In a fit of involuntary fear, I tore off his mask, and behind that mask was a very small Freddy Krueger (the character from the movie “Jason vs. Freddy”). “Boo, bitches!” he said, sexistly. Offended, I let out a bloodcurdling scream.

The little Freddy scratched my shirt open with his claw, severing both my nipples. With his other hand, he sprayed silly string at my face. “Take that, bitch!” he said. I reached for my gun’s holster that I always wear as a demonstration of open carry laws. Shooting the little sucker three times in the head, I noticed that his wounds were instantly regenerating. “Looks like this is going to take a very big gun,” is what I should have said in retrospect, but instead all I did was scream “MOMMY!,” because I’m a little wussy boy.

The miniature Freddy Krueger lept out from inside the closet and chased me around the house spanking my tiny, little butt. “Hey, quit it!,” I shouted.

“No way, dude! Eat my shorts!” he replied, evoking television troublemaker Bart Simpson. Memories of watching “Treehouse of Horror” as a child flooded my mind, adding an extra layer of terror to an already horrifying situation.

It was in this moment that the little creature snatched up my rough draft from the typewriter. I chased him into the study, but before I could stop him, he snuck down a secret passageway behind a rotating bookshelf. I knew that if I wanted to get my manuscript back, I would have to chase the little mischief-maker behind the bookshelf, so I began frantically pulling all the books off the shelf in hopes of unlocking the secret door. Finally, after pulling on Bill Cosby’s Fatherhood, the bookshelf pivoted, revealing a darkened, spiral, stone staircase descending deep under the house. I grabbed one of the medieval torches from the wall and started tiptoeing my way down in to the damp, echo-y dungeon. The chilling sounds of spooky organ music got increasingly louder as I approached the basement.

When I finally reached the bottom of the stairwell, I squinted to find what appeared to be an old-timey laboratory full of dusty Bunsen burners and mutated fetuses in mason jars. I should clean those out and use them for summer cocktails, I thought to myself. In the corner of the room a fog machine pumped out it’s ghastly brew, giving the dungeon an even spookier feel. I pressed stop on the “Sounds of Halloween” cassette tape, bringing the organ music to a screeching halt. Just then, the little menace lept out from behind a stack of old, dusty newspapers.

“Who are you?!” I asked.

“I’m your worst nightmare, bitch!” he replied.

“I know, but who ARE you? Like, in here.” I said, placing my hand over my heart. It was in that moment that the little Freddy Krueger man shed a single tear. He explained to me how he was the lab experiment of a mad scientist named Doctor Wernher von Braun who attempted to create the perfect monster to fight alongside the Nazis in WWII. He explained how something went horribly wrong in the process and he was imbued with the power of love rather than hate and fear. He explained how some nights he gets lonely and wishes he had someone to pass the time with. He told me how he staves off the loneliness by reading all the great 20th century American novelists. He told me that my novel, The Oil Baron’s Maîtresse, got him through some of the darkest nights of the soul.

It was in that moment that I realized this little monster that had been terrorizing me all night wasn’t a monster at all but rather, a misunderstood little man. This revelation only lasted a moment before I kicked him backwards into a raging furnace that he happened to be standing in front of; his body shriveling up in the flames like a snail covered in salt. “Back to hell with you, shit demon!” I proclaimed before shuffling my manuscript into a neat pile and heading back upstairs.

5 years later. The Litigators Daughter is a New York Times Best Seller. I have two healthy, bouncing baby boys, Caleb and Aiden, and I’ve been vegan now for three months. I never think back to the little monster man, because in all honesty, he seems like kind of a footnote in a larger story. I suppose the takeaway here is that sometimes all it takes is a little peace and quiet is to churn out another “sexy legal thriller you wont be able to put down” (USA Today).