How does that happen? The several feet of mundane domesticity during the day is, in the dark, an endless stretch into the void. A ribbon of solidity in the darkness, sheathed on all sides by the irregular skin of old plastered walls.
Your bare feet on the floor boards as you grope your way back to the safety of sleep. But you know there’s something behind you. You know it, the way you sense you’re being watched in a quiet room. The hair stands up on the back of your neck. If you were to turn around you would lose. Lose out to what you know is a base instinct, a fear drawn, filthy and dripping, from the well of childhood. But primal fears are like that. Sometimes they reach out, take your consciousness by the hand, demand you pay attention.
Are you paying attention yet?