Sometimes, when the coldest watches of the night creep with swift and stealthy silence towards midnight and I’m finally getting ready for bed, I’ll notice something weird on my wall; not abnormal weird, just a paint bubble in the wall or a crack in the ceiling sagging just slightly toward the floor. In the half-light I’ll reach toward it to see exactly what it is. And in that moment I’ll realize that the only thing thing that doesn’t make this the first kill in a horror movie is the lack of a musical cue.
But the idiots in a horror movie don’t hear the soundtrack either, do they? So I’ll quietly withdraw my hand without touching the abnormality — but natural-like, as though reaching out to touch it hadn’t ever been my intention — whistling cheerfully and defiantly into the crowding dark as I finish my evening toilette.
And, naturally, sleep with the covers over my head.