21,936 Words... Week 2 Blahs

I actually did enjoy my writing session, but I am still technically experiencing the Week 2 Blahs, as I need to start making things happen, but am not quite sure how to write what is coming next... so I just write a lot of description. Ugh. Anyway, here is an excerpt from what I wrote, hope you enjoy.

That night the locals of Black Wood, Ontario all went to bed early. Even Jackie, who never closed up shop early, had no choice. For once, no one came in. In the eerie silence of his living room, Jackie sat, alone, a sense of foreboding in his belly and a song in his heart.
They all went to bed early, and so no one was there to witness Alcantara putting on her Sunday best and preparing for a guest, the first she had had in days without count. For houses, as I’ve said, keep their own time, they leave the counting to the rest of us.
The oil lamps that had been left sitting on the mantel were lit, how this happened without human hands to light them I don’t care to guess, but lit they were, and in the warm glow cast by an oil lamp, does not even the dustiest living room seem a welcoming sight? An old fashioned gramophone sat on a solid oak side table. If you’d seen that side table yesterday, you’d have thought it dull and in need of a good polish, but that night it gleamed with a warm glow, as did the dusty carpets, their faded colours picking up the warmth from the flames of the lamp. And somehow, the gramophone had been wound, and was playing an old song, a happy one, one you could dance to if you had the mind to do it. Would you care to dance with the devil by the pale moonlight? I think you’d be best to choose to pass.
In the dark of that August night, the dog days of summer as they are called, Alcantara did her very best, like a young woman preparing for her first date. Sad it might be, if you look at it in that light. How she wanted to try. That night, Alcantara put out the equivalent of a welcome mat. But perhaps it isn’t the type you’re thinking, a warm brown shade, somewhere to wipe your boots before entering a home where loved ones await your arrival. Perhaps it was more like an unseasonal pink fuzzy mat, not even intended for outdoor use, with a creepy, disembodied hand clutching a revolver. And perhaps instead of the word “Welcome” scrolled in a pleasant cursive, which would have indeed indicated comfort and warmth. Instead, it might read “I don’t dial 911”. Indeed, as Alcantara was cut off from all lines, electrical and otherwise, it seemed highly unlikely that she would consider such a thing. For Alcantara had her own way of dealing with those who have the audacity to enter her walls. It wouldn’t do to dial 911, it wouldn’t do at all.