Little Monsters
Sometimes you can spell terror with just one letter, no make that one number.
I look down at the letter, see the number on it, and my hand shakes and my stomach tightens. I’ve seen the number before, so many times before; it’s the number of a beast, the most monstrous of the monsters.
I know I’ll have to go to its lair and face it. I’ve tried to hide, I’ve tried to keep quiet, but it always knows I’m there, always chases after me.
The anticipation is the worst part, apart from the worst part itself where I’m there, slowly approaching its dwelling, but then, out of nowhere, it’s upon me, its inhuman sounds deafening. I run and run, hearing its howls behind me, and it seems like I’m not moving no matter how much my legs try to propel me... and then it’s reached me. I look round at its never-smiling face, its hairy jaws open wide, saliva dripping from its fangs.
And then I wake up. It’s just a dream, a nightmare. But it’s not, it’s also my reality.
Admittedly, it’s not the largest of monsters. You probably think I’m making a fuss over nothing, just like my co-workers. To me it’s a tale of fear, but to them it’s just another shaggy dog story.
Maybe they’re right. Maybe I’m just not cut out to be a postman.
