Aria’s father used to tell her stories. Every night, he would settle at the end of her bed, his leather-bound book cradled tightly in his arms, reading words written on the pages she was never allowed to see.

All through her childhood, Aria wondered where the stories he read came from—who wrote them. Once, on a night when bravery bubbled, she snuck into his office after dark and carefully opened the drawer on his desk. The book sat nestled on top of a green cushion. Golden edging claimed the corners of the worn brown leather, and three vibrant, emerald gemstones formed a triangle in its centre. But despite the elegance of the cover, it held no title or author, and the back offered no blurb and told none of its secrets.

Aria’s father had caught her before her fingers could even brush the first page, her head stuffed deep into the drawer.

She never tried to look for the book again—his disappointment in her enough to squash even the smallest flame of curiosity.

After he passed, still Aria left the book untouched. She now kept it locked in the chest at the foot of her bed, surrounded by the rest of his handed down possession. Aria hoped that one day she would have the courage—as she did on the night when she was young—to open it, to read it as he once did.

But for now, all Aria cared about was sleep.

Darkness still claimed her room in a quiet blanket of peace, and she buried my face further into my pillow. The fabric came away wet, and Aria realised she had dribbled.

Moaning and highly repulsed, Aria twisted onto her back, stretching out her legs.

Something solid blocked their trajectory, and she froze. Her eyes widened.

It couldn't be the end of her bed; she wasn't that tall.

Aria kicked again, and the mass squeaked. What if it was a rat? Ravenous for milk... Or her.

Keeping her body tightly wrapped in the embrace of her covers, Aria peered over the top, her eyes squinting in the dark.

Her breath caught, lodging in her throat.

A shadowed figure perched, hunched over at the end of her bed.

Aria jolted. She scooted up, tugging her knees close to her chest. “Get out!”

Springs creaked, and the figure leaned forward. “Milk?” They asked, their voice reminding Aria of grating rocks, rough as salt.

In the stories her father told, he would often tell tales of Brownies and hobgoblins—household spirits that came in the night to complete various chores and duties. So, every night before bed, Aria would leave out a bowl of milk or cream as an offering to the helpers that cleaned her room.

She believed him, his stories, until one morning when she woke early and found not a Brownie enjoying the milk, but three giant rats, their tiny feet and whiskered noses submerged deep into the white liquid.

The figure before her couldn't be a Brownie, could it?

No! No, it couldn't. She had forgotten that nonsense long ago... But then again, thinking the figure at her feet was indeed a mystical Brownie felt much better than thinking a creep from the street or Dave from a few doors down had broken into her flat asking for milk.

Aria opened her mouth to speak, but the figure shushed her.

“Speak not,” they said, “or the shadows will wake.”

“Wha—”

The figure lunged forward. A cold boney finger—claw?—pressed against Aria’s mouth, and her head met the headboard with a hard crack.

“Not, I said!” The figure hissed.

Rancid breath, rotten and sour, invaded her space and an involuntary squeal escaped her sealed lips.

Did they not own toothpaste? Mouthwash? Any common courtesy?

The figure shifted their weight, the mattress beneath groaning. Their finger slipped away, but Aria could still taste the unpleasant clammy woody tang of their skin.

She definitely needed toothpaste—no! What was she saying? This figure needed to get out!

“You wanted milk?” She swatted the figure's arm away. Its form was now a solid silhouette against the growing blue light of dawn in her room. A bead of sweat rolled down her back, and she shivered. “Yes?” She asked, her voice shuddering, “Milk?”

“Human quiet!”

“No. You’re... You’re a Brownie, aren't you? A creature of the fey?”

Gods, she seriously hoped the figure was a Brownie; she sounded ridiculous. “If I give you milk, will... will you leave me alone? Please? Leave my flat?”

“Milk, yes. Talk, no. You must follow.” the figure said, “Before died, he came to us, Sir Edward. Told us to find you, his daughter, if trouble come. Trouble has come, and I found you, daughter. You must help us.”

“No.”

“You believed once. Once left milk, yummy delights, by window in room. You will believe again and come. Before shadows arrive.”

“No.”

“Sir Edward—”

“My father was crazy,” Aria declared. Tears pricked her eyes, and she curled her fists in the warm material of her duvet. “He saw things that weren't there and believed stuff he shouldn't. Actually,” She shook her head. “why am I talking to you? Get out, whatev— whoever you are!”

“No speak, daughter! Sleep now. I bring you and Sir Edwards book. Both much needed.”

This had to be a dream, Aria thought.

Yes! She couldn't understand why she hadn’t realised it sooner.

Asleep. A dream. As simple as that. She’d wake soon, laughing at the stupidity of this fantasy.

The silhouetted figure raised an arm and blew a cold, horrid breath into her face.

Something soft, sweet and smelling like poppies tickled her skin.

She sneezed, and her body flopped, falling like a dead weight. Her eyes drooped, and the blue light and the darkness began to fuzz, swirling together in a vortex of sleep.

Before she drifted off, she felt two small hands wrapped around her shoulders, lifting her from the warmth—the safety—of her bed, pulling her to who knew where...

Maybe the land of the fey.