"Children, did you hear the creak on the stair? Perhaps, it was the cat, pelted by the shock of something bodiless, black; hushing past. And did you hear it? The lock of the door, turned, ever so slightly in your half sleep? There see, the widening of light slicing the shadow as it opens, as if with a breath. But it embodies nothing; nothing, is there. Just the wind, you think, crawling through the house as it groans with the ache of too many years. Close your eyes now, sleep. Feel the warmth of your covers melt softly, softly over the skin. Silence settles, and you slip into it – But yes, there it is again! That snuffling, sniffling, slithering, itching, spilling through every crack, of your closet door. You sit up, draw the sheets to your nose and yes, it is open. And in it, something stirs; soundlessly, writhing and wriggling in the dark, dribbling slime and ink to the floor. The hairs of your neck, straighten and sting, and your limbs, lock: muscle sucked to the bone. And up from the belly, a feeling returns – that indescribable fear.
But children, do not trouble yourselves. Those wide eyes fixed so keenly, will only droop to a close, and then it will be morning. And you will go on living, not thinking of the things that thumped through the night. It’s all those stories your Daddy told you, packed into the brain too tight. And the night, awakens them all…"
- Helen Calcutt
