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 baby’s toys; I hear the giggle of a plastic, smiling child.
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.