I woke up at 2:59 this morning to a loud crash. I thought sure someone was in the house but my search (wielding, of course, a fearsome steak knife) turned up nothing.

Some detective work after I got up  concluded that it must have been snow avalanching off the back roof onto the bulkhead.  But I can’t really tell because you can only see that part of the roof from the backyard and I’m not willing to trudge through snow that deep to find out for sure. 

The alternate theory is that the crash in the night is connected to me reading Stephen King’s Full Dark, No Stars right now.  The supporting evidence?  The snow on the roof at the front of the house hasn’t moved an inch and remains about two or three feet high.