‘Scritch, scritch, screech’ the noise echoes through the house.

We look at each other “Do you think it’s mice?” my brother asks hopefully.

‘Scrrrrrrreeeeeak’ and as I hear the noise there is a bang on the wall and a claw shape appears in the plasterwork pushing its way towards us and then disappearing again. Then silence.

And far away there is a laugh, cruel and devoid of humour.

“It’s gone now I say” we are safe and the two of us settle down wrapped in our duvets. This is the first time we have visited our Uncle and his bleak house in the middle of the moor.

“We’ll leave first thing in the morning, get back home before lunch” I say reassuring him.

“Just mice” he mumbles.

And then with a roar it pushes its face into the plasterwork stretching toward us in a scream, claws pushing as if reaching through into the room.

With a scream we run into the hall to search for our Uncle, calling his name over and over. But as we run through the house, all we can hear are our footsteps ringing on the floor and the distant cold laughter. Uncle does not answer us and we realise we are alone, with this thing stalking us.