I wasn’t supposed to be scared, I was a big girl, eight years old.

I was ready for my own room, mama said. We painted it together, blue with little white daisies in the corners. I hoped they would brighten up the dark places, I was wrong.

I lay in bed, listening to

the scuttering.

A new sound came, like short nails running over textured glass. My window is textured glass.

I held my breath and counted my fingers;

one,

two,

three,

four,

five,

six,

seven,

eight,

nine,

ten.

Breathe out, breathe in, start again;

one,

two,

three,

four,

five,

six,

seven,

eight,

nine,

…?

CROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAK