The front door slammed shut, and a set of feet pounded up the stairs.

I wiped my soap-lathered hands on my jeans. “Hey, hey, hey!” I shouted from the kitchen, “what’s the rush?”

The footsteps stopped. “Sorry, mum... It's Biscuit business.” A second passed. “You wouldn't understand.” The hurried steps continued, and I winced at the slam of her bedroom door.

Turning back to the sink, I plunged a hand back into the lukewarm water and pulled the plug. The sink gurgled, and the bubbles twisted in a whirlpool down the drain.

“How was your day at school, Sam?” I said under my breath. “Oh,” I replied to myself, “It was lovely, mother, thank you for asking, how was your day? That's kind of you to ask, Sam; my day was—”

THUMP.

I glanced at the ceiling.

“Biscuit business,” I muttered.

B.I.S.C.U.I.T.

Sam had started her little club, Biscuit or Benevolent Investigators Saving Confused and Unprotected Innocent Terrors, over a year ago. Building work had started behind the house, and soon after, holes in the ground began to sprout everywhere. Contractors said they were due to

But of course, Sam and her friends—and their delightful child's imagination—believed the holes were caused by little creatures called Terrors, invisible beings from somewhere beyond.

I played along, of course; who would I be to squash my child's imagination?

Another loud bump.

But when she began to destroy my house...

“Sam!” I called up the stairs, “what on Earth is going on?” Something bangs from her room, and I quickly make my way up.

Knocking on her door, I turned the handle. “Sam, are you—”

I stopped.

Carnage.

Mess.

E v e r y w h e r e.

Paper and rubbish littered her floor. Dirt stained her blue rug—her wormery shattered.

Clothes hung from the lampshade, the back of the desk chair, the curtain reel, and against the wall, the bedside lamp had toppled over and fallen onto her bare mattress, the blue of her duvet screwed into a tight ball.

And under her bed, was her, bottoms up.

“Sam!”

Squealing, she wiggled out, and I picked up a shard of glass. “What happened to Wormtopia?” I asked, then stopped as I caught full sight of her—luckily with no sign of blood. “Actually, what happened to your uniform? What have you been going?”

Thick ladders spanned from large holes in her black tights. Mud smeared her skirt and the front of her blue school jumper, and as she hopped forward, I could have sworn there weren't any tears in the sleeves of her blazer when she left this morning.

“It’s—”

“If you say Biscuit business!” I warned.

“But it is!” She ran a hand over her knotty hair. "There was a Terror at school. I know you don't believe, but I couldn't just leave it!”

I blanched.

“I’m Biscuit’s leader, mum.” She lifted her chin. “It's my duty—”

“Enough!” I scooped up her broken wormery and placed it on her desk. “Just enough. Clean this up.”

“But!”

“No, Sam! Look at Wormtopia. All this, is it wo—!”

A pile of washing quivered by Sam’s feet.

Sam sidestepped away, turning her back towards me. “Don’t be mad,” she said, “It’s just scared.”

Is it scared? There's a strange creature in my home, and IT'S scared.

Twitching jerked the clothes again, and my mind ping-ponged to images of mice and rats running a rampage. Pooing. Chewing. Their tiny hands clawing...

I shivered. “Whatever you've brought home,” I said sternly, “Get it out, now!”

Sam leapt at the colourful mound, grabbing, but she came away empty-handed, and somewhere, I could hear a short, sharp snuffle.

“Where did it go?” I squinted. “Why can't I see it?”

“They’re invisible. Duh.”

“Excuse me, miss, don't...” But my words were forgotten.

The snuffling had stopped, and a single black bean appeared in the centre of the carpet. Before my mind could begin to comprehend what it was, a sharp crack split the air.

The bean had split...

And something oozed from its middle, seeping over the carpet like thick tar.

My stomach lurched as the floor shook.

“Sam,” I urged and wiggled my hand, stretching it towards her. “What’s that?”

“I think...” Sam clasped my hand. Wind picked up, whipping around her bedroom. Papers and book pages caught hold, swirling in a tight, powerful whirlwind. My hair whisked from my face, and I pulled Sam closer.

“I think,” Sam continued, far too joyfully, “it’s a portal... To the Terror’s home.”