Scared To Death

There’s something terrible in this house. It skulks around corners and chitters from beyond the edges of my candlelight. Its presence is cold and clammy—a decaying fish against my bare skin. It smells of rot and a sweetness that makes the rotten stench all the worse. I cannot sleep. I cannot have my back to an open room. I dread at any moment I will feel its touch or see its hideous face. I am helpless. I can only wait until we meet, and then I know I will die of fright.