What is it about the gloomy dark of winter that makes me cold even when I am inside? As time’s moved on, I do things I never would have dreamed of as a kid.

I wear gloves.

I have a lifesaving supply of long underwear—left over from my days as a Ramp Supervisor for Southwest Airlines and many a night spent in frigid temperatures deicing planes—but now necessary for my mere survival.

My religious practices consist of wearing many layers of clothing, both inside and outside.

I zipper my jackets, once considered heresy in my youth.

Winter days follow a common pattern. Beginning with the clothing ritual, I prepare myself for the cold. And for most of the day, it works fine. Even on days when clouds mask the sun, the diffused light still brings a sense of comforting warmth.

But then, at the first hint of sunset, the cold permeates my body to its core. Now I’m not talking about being outside in some howling, wind-chilling blizzard or Arctic freeze. I’m talking about standing inside my house, where the temperature remains a constant 65 degrees until 10:00 P.M., long after I’ve crawled into bed and buried myself in the warmest of blankets.

Inside, out of the weather, something changes. Something unseen. Something unsettling grips me with an irresistible force.

I’m talking about a phenomenon that has grown more pronounced as I’ve added years to my age. The darkness overtakes the light and the chilling specter envelopes my very core.

I get cold despite any efforts to ward it off.

There is no scientific explanation for this.

My religiously applied layers of clothing remain.

The temperature in the house holds steady.

No insidious windchill permeates our hermetically sealed home.

Yet darkness falls and the cold sets in.

Like the cold grip of death, it chills the body.

Which each passing moment of life, the darkness grows colder.

But there is hope, the morning light dawns, and the cold demon recedes once more.