Oh dear. Well, at least it’s on time.

Scritch-Scritch

The monsters first came at night, which seemed natural. First there were stories – urban legends and the ramblings of madmen – then we heard the screams rebounding from the high walls of emptying cities, then blurred pictures and then we all saw them. They stalked the streets at night and we surrendered the world to them until the sun rose, praying not to hear the scritch-scritch of their approach.It was not such a hard thing to do. Many of us had always suspected that our mastery of the night was tenuous, had sensed that our attempts to tame the darkness with flickering gas or harsh neon had always been futile. The night belonged to monsters, what difference did it make if they were imaginary or real, human or other? These creatures were only taking back what we never felt we owned.There was fear and anger and resistance. We demanded that someone do something. We called on the government to save us. First the police, then the army, were set the task of winning back the night. Scritch-scritch.The monsters tore them to shreds. So we locked our doors, sealed our windows and huddled around our fires and listened. And we learned to live with it.Follow the rules. Stay inside after sunset. Keep doors and windows closed, locked, barricaded and blocked. Don’t cook. Keep a blackout. Keep quiet.

We became burrowers and troglodytes and we survived.We reached an accommodation with the things that were preying on us.

Scritch-scritch.But then they started to come in the daytime.First we heard them moving in tunnels and sewers.

Scritch-scritch.Then they began to move in the shadows. It was the poorest who suffered most. Those who lived crammed together where the daylight never really reached the streets and where packed tenement corridors never saw the sun.

But that was only the beginning. The monsters adapted and moved out.

Scritch-scritch.Soon they were slipping through the daylight, their oily, slickly-sleek coats tearing rainbows from the sunshine, globular eyes squinting against the light, ragged yellow rows of teeth or horns lolling down, tearing grooves in the roadway to mark their passing and always the scritch-scritch of their claws.Scritch-scritch. Move on. Scritch-scritch. Please don’t stop. Silence. And they pounce, wailing, drowning out the brief screams and the wet sound of tearing flesh.There was no longer an accommodation.

There was only the hunted and the prey.

Scritch-scritch.