I live in an old house. You know the type. The floor, the wall, the cupboards – everything creaks.

A side effect of growing up here is that I’m always unimpressed by the so-called horror movies Hollywood churns out. Ninety percent of the scares are just creaky household furniture and fittings. Hah. I’d never lose sleep over that.

But tonight’s different. I’m jarred awake in the dead of night by something I’ve never heard before. Complete and utter silence.

When I look up, my eyes catch it pacing the room. But something’s wrong. The floor doesn’t groan in complaint under its giant, scar-laced feet.

The creature stops to scratch something into the wall. Its claws slowly, but deliberately rip through the paint. And yet, I still don’t hear anything.

As the silence becomes deafening, I slide back into bed, and pray for something, anything, to creak again.

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