It always happened at night. Her parents were out again and the housekeeper was snoring in her room on the bottom floor, off the kitchen, at the back of the house. No one would hear her if she cried out. She shivered as frigid air filled the room, freezing the water in the glass beside her bed and frosting the window. "Did they leave you alone, again," it asked. With strange sucking noises, it moved across the floor as if its feet were made of suction cups, squishing down, then popping loose. It reeked of rotting garbage.
"No, no." She pulled the covers over her head and curled up into a fetal position.
Crackles like lightning popped. Even through the covers they pricked her skin as if in a thousand places she was being shocked by electricity.
"Stop! Stop!"
"Pull down the covers."
"HELP! HELP!" She shouted.
"Pull down the covers."
"NO!"
With its long bony fingers it clawed at the coverlet. Desperately she clung to blanket. "Go away, please go away." It had worked before, if she held on, it went away, like it couldn't stay in her room very long. "Please, please," she pleaded asking God to help her. "Please."