Writing, and rewriting, scenes about monsters seemed like a good idea at the time. But now, lying in the dark, duvet pulled up past my chin, I hear the pitter-patter of tiny feet outside the door.
Tiny, furry feet.
Up and down the stairs, they disturb the floorboards and ornaments. I hear a clatter. A bang. I bury myself in the mattress, and wait for it all to pass.
Then, all is still.
Perhaps it is over.
But it isn’t long until the silence is broken… a laugh from the baby’s room next door. The giggle of a plastic, wide-grinned child.
“Say something, and I’ll repeat it back to you in song!”
The door creaks open…
Not quite terrifying beasts, but still little terrors. They leave me alone all day, until I open a book or newspaper. Then they come running.