Last night wisps of bacony perfume tickled my nostrils as I was finally drifting off to sleep. “Mmmm, breakfast for dinner was such a good idea, although it’s totally weird that it still smells so fresh.” My brain perked up, “hey, wait a minute! Who’s cooking bacon at 3am in my apartment?”

I groggily got to my feet, and unsteadily limped to the kitchen, trying to be gentle on my sprained knee. The air grew thicker with the souring stench of burning bacon and a haze of smoke. Sleep snapped clear out of my brain as I realized that the stove had been left on and the pan that had the remnants of dinner’s bacon grease was smoking. With all the speed and dexterity of a pirate with a peg leg, I removed the pan from the burner and turned off the stove.

If I had gone to sleep any sooner I probably never would not have smelled the smoke. So I can thank my being here to write to you today on the gripping and terrifying tales I was reading in “A Penny down the Well” by J.A.Crook.

You heard it hear first folks, horror saves lives.