Creepy

The sound of the rain and the appearance of the rain clouds were suitably atmospheric. As is often the case with scary stories. And as he told the scary story, the crackle of the fire directly behind him added a certain element to the way in which the words lazily left his mouth and rose in the stuffy air and disappeared with the smoke from the fire, which, it has to be said, was a touch out of control as far as indoor fires go. Of course, they were in the middle of nowhere, and of course the electricity had long been cut off due to the storm.
So now Jerry took to telling some not so scary scary stories for the benefit of his three friends who were mighty peeved that the weather had turned out to be so not what they had planned when they had planned this midweek getaway to the middle of nowhere. The plan had initially been sun and fun.

Yawns could be heard, and there was much sighing and much lighting of cigarettes, because, as everyone who smokes knows, to light a cigarette is to combat complete and utter boredom for as long as it takes to smoke that cigarette, which I've heard is around 5 to 7 minutes, depending on whether you smoke the cigarette right down to the end of the tobacco road, or, if you take flimsy puffs and eventually realise you didn't feel like the cigarette to begin with whereupon there is premature stabbings of butts in ashtrays. Or, if you're not allowed to smoke inside and your smoking outside and trying to make haste because no one likes to smoke outside, especially in the heat, or the rain or the wind, you become decidedly impatient and throw said cigarette, unfinished, over a wall or drop it and squash it with the heel of your shoe. 5 to 7 minutes. Give or take.
Yawning, sighing and smoking.
The rain is noisy and Jerry gives up, and one could hardly blame him. Tough crowd.
The fire is the only major source of light in the humble little cottage. The cottage's only redeeming factor is a large lake mere minutes, the number of which you could count successfully on one hand minus your opposable thumb, walk away. To be specific.

There's jerry, who considers Natural Born Killers to be the ultimate love story. He is inexplicably fond of Poodles and is known to frequent bars of the gay variety for reasons admittedly unmentioned by his three closest friends, Maureen, Casey and Phillip, for fear of the severe silence which inevitably ensues upon any mention that he may be just a little bit gay.
Phillip aka Philly aka Phil is, unlike Jerry, proudly and openly gay. He wears a lot of Pringle and Lacoste and he gels his hair back, not unlike Patrick Bateman aka Christian Bale in American Psycho.
Maureen is pretty. Pretty in the way that Susan Atkins aka Sadie Glutz was. Is. Pretty. It has to be said that she is no hippie. She is a lawyer. Lawyers simply cannot be hippies. That's a fact known well.
Casey is, unbelievably, a teacher, of the pre-school persuasion. Unbelievable because Casey here is a closeted Nazi sympathizer as well as one of the most impatient people any of the three of her friends had ever come across and they had come to quite a bit of impatience, the three of them.

All in all, a creepy lot.

So there they sit, those four creepy friends, in the creepy cottage with the creepy weather outside.

It would seem to any sane person, or a knower, a knower who knows things like who Patrick Bateman aka Christian Bale and Susan Atkins aka Sadie Glutz is, that this foursome is just more than a little creepy. If you are not a knower of such trivialities, Google it. But what it wouldn't seem like to a sane person or a knower or anyone else for that matter, is that this particular trio plus one or twosome plus two are, well, aliens.

Now, I know what you're thinking.
At least, I can guess, and my guess is that you think I'm lying.

You would be right.

They are not aliens.