Sweet Dreams

    I am lying in bed now, alone, with the lights turned off, but that damn moonlight permeates through my windows.  Shadows creep and crawl as they play amongst moonstricken outbursts, and I hear noises click and tick and scheme; they’re devious so they plot against me.  Looking into the darkness, I see something there, but, for the life of me, I can’t make it out.  Yet it’s there—I know it!—some creature is there, and it lurks about, mocking my existence, the fucking bastard.  “I know you’re out there, you son of a bitch,” I cry out pointlessly, but no one responds.  Only darkness, still and stoic, answers.  I swear, though, something is out there.

    The air grows colder, chilling my spine, because something is there.  Red eyes!  I see red eyes; it’s the devil here to drag me to hell!  Blood!  I smell blood, and it’s dripping on my white carpet from some sharp, seasoned blade, no doubt!  I turn on the bedside light, and peek out across my room to see no deathly tidings, only shadows, more shadows created by my feeble light.  I turn it off, and hear the sounds once more; it’s—