Miles could hear every creek of the cabin. The storm attempted to snap every joint of the wooden vessel. It was the only protection for the Winterberry family. Creak. A teary-eyed Robin provided a dim illumination from the candle lit cupcake he held in the palm of his hand. He held it as if it was a newborn dove that had cracked from an egg. Miles could almost taste the the sponge melt in his mouth, but this was quickly hijacked by the unpleasantry flavour of damp rotten wood. The tiny candle flame came close, slowly unearthing the silhouette of faces in the darkness; Grandad, Grandma, Little Phoebe and of course Bobby, Phoebe’s, recently deceased, Labrador. The light revealed nothing but his jagged teeth that looked more like a bear trap, gauged open. The storm’s rage became more aggressive. Creak. The candle light whipped back and forth in a frenzy as if it was signalling a warning. “Blow them out now dear,” Grandma’s fragile and soft addressed Phoebe. They all whispered happy birthday, but not in it’s uplifting melody. It was like a seance. Moody. Creepy. And then everything turned to black. A coldness tingled at the back of Mile’s spine. The sound of cracking glass teased him. It was cracking at such a low momentum it was like he was standing on ice unable to determine the point it was going to shatter. He tightened his throat. An alert Bobby would normally bark or whip his tail back and forth. But his warnings would never be heard again. Instead Phoebe whimpered quietetly, but uncontrollably. Miles reached our attempted to plant his hand on her shoulder and but felt his foot slide against something mushy. Her birthday cupcake. Crrrrckk. “In the bedroom,” Grandad ordered in a panicked hush. Miles followed the scurry of the footsteps, his heart tearing his insides slowly. Creak. Crrrckk. They were all blind as bats, but their conscious seemed to guide them quietly en-route. SMASH!! Glasses poured like rain in a moonlight stream from the window. The beam of soft light was ambushed by a figure that dived through in ninja-like stance. Except it wasn’t human. His dark silhouette of reddish undertones struck Grandma to the ground. The thing tore into her and all Miles could hear was the squelching, the harsh cracks of bone and the subtle groan leaving his grandma’s lips. “Run”. Blood burst out of like a water balloon, splashing Mile’s lips. It tasted of death. “Phoebe! Robin!” He attempted to yell, but his voice was strangled. A figure thudded against his chest and another grabbed his shoulder. A tight, yet encoring grip confirmed it was Robin. And the soft whimpering and warm tears that damped his torso reassured him it was Phoebe. He scooped up his sister while Robin gently pushed from behind. They shot out the front door. Miles didn’t want to look back. His imagination revealed the bloody carcass of his Grandma, feasted on by monsters.