Dead of Night

Sitting alone in my room, it’s the dead of night. I start thinking dead of night, dead of night, dead of night; almost like a chant, a summoning, one of us, one of us. 

The house grows quiet, I can make out what I hope is the sound of a withered branch scratching at the window. 

A gust of wind howls through a loose fixture; I can’t pinpoint the location, it surrounds me, envelopes me, chilling to my bones. 

I hear a thump, then another; something is moving directly above me. 

Just when I expect a swarm of zombies to bust down the door, I hear the baby cry upstairs and I know, even in the dead of night there is life; hungry, unstoppable life. 

And that scares me more. 

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