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.