In the small, dark hours, darker shapes come creeping in thought, sibilant whispers with stinking breath and acid words. Hungry, they creep. Hateful, they creep. Thinking to find helpless prey, they creep.
They seek entry, some small vulnerability. The fragment of a moth-eaten old memory will do. It is enough. Fresh thoughts are even better, so juicy.
They seek to devour, to destroy.
The storm crashes, rain battering the metal roof, thunder shaking the windows and vibrating through the bed, wind hurling itself against every impediment, howling away across the hills with joyful abandon. Hello, love.
The shapes pause. The tiny smile upon waking is anathema, the soft murmur of welcome to the frolicking storm god unbearably bitter. There can be no happiness tolerated, it ruins the feast.
Mew.
A soft, huffing churr.
A paw.
Heavy against restlessness, tail lashing, whiskers twitching, purr rising to meet the rumbling booms, a cat. Two cats. Three. Up on the bed. Up on the human. Curling comfortably again the softness, accepting small pets as their due. Peering at the darker darknesses. They see. They know. They no.
Fourth cat, almost grown but still kitten, prowls the perimeter. Swats at the dense nothings. Go away. Mrrr. Rrrow. Not tonight.
If all is not well, it isn’t worse, and that is a victory of sorts. We’ll take it.
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