cinnamon rolls

So I'm standing at the stove and I'm carefully and artfully spreading white icing on cinnamon rolls to take to my just-moved-in-today upstairs neighbors. Suddenly I hear a sound that startles me because it sounds like it's coming from INSIDE my apartment. It's a metal-on-metal tinkle sound.

I stop, activate my innate, serial-killer-tracking-superpower, and listen HARD for about 30 seconds. Nothing. I go back to my icing and hear it again!!! I stop, alarmed now, and decide to just stroll through my apartment to see if I can hear it. Master, master bath, master closet, Living room, dining room, hall, guest room (Y'ALL COME!), guest bathroom, coat closet, and finally the patio. Nothing but birds and a neighbor's dog barking his usual "WHERE ARE YOU" bark that signals that his parent is not at home.

Satisfied that chopping, hacking, and bloodletting are not about to commence, I return to my cinnamon rolls. Immediately, the faint tinkling begins again. WHAT IS THAT!?!?! Then, I see it. I'm wearing a silk, floor-length caftan that has a laced up section at the upper chest. The ends of the laces have decorative beading, the metal of which is gently hitting the handle of the oven door as I apply icing to the rolls. Cue my eye roll to go with the cinnamon roll.

My imagination is prolific in its ability to transform the ordinary into the worst possible horror. I'd like to blame it on Stephen King, but I was like this long before I read The Shining - and everything that came after.

I ate a cinnamon roll before I took the rest upstairs. I felt this was fair compensation for the 3 months I probably lost off the end of my life. (This really won't age well if I'm visited by an axe murderer tonight.)