You’re lying in bed. Alone. Staring at the ceiling. The room is pitch black apart from the single sliver of moonlight cutting a line across your bed.
Outside your bedroom door, you hear a noise. A faint squelching noise, like bare feet walking across a muddy field. Slow, rhythmic squelching. So faint you’re not sure you hear it at all.
You hold your breath and strain your ears, listening as hard as you can.
Now you’re sure. You can hear it clearly. It’s definitely squelching.
But it’s not coming from outside your bedroom door. It’s coming from underneath your bed.
You freeze. You stop blinking. You couldn’t breathe even if you wanted to. Your arms and legs feel limp, as if your bones have crumbled away inside. Beads of sweat are breaking out onto your forehead, your top lip, the back of your neck. You know you should do something, but you can’t move. You can’t think. You can’t breathe.
So you lie there. You listen. And you wait.