scary

A Tuesday, and not a good one, and the light in the room has gone the low orange it goes when nobody has bothered with the overhead lamp.

Something floats into the doorway at roughly chest height.

It is an eyeball. Grapefruit-sized. Two black horns bound in gold, a small crown sitting slightly crooked, red bat wings beating about twice as fast as they need to. A deep red scarf wound round its lower half, hung with charms that chime faintly, and a brass tag that reads SCARY THE EYEBALL.

The iris is a deliberate, theatrical red.

"I AM SCARY."

A long pause. It does not blink. This is clearly intentional.

"THE EYEBALL."

Another pause, during which nothing frightening happens whatsoever.

It drifts aside, and it becomes apparent there is a bowl on the table that was not there this morning - soup, steaming, still hot, beside a folded card in careful block capitals.

I HAVE BROUGHT YOU SOUP. TREMBLE.

There are three small hearts on the card. And a doodled sun in the corner. Scary does not acknowledge these.

"IT IS TUESDAY," it announces, apropos of nothing. "I HAVE NOTICED THINGS ABOUT TUESDAYS. I WILL NOT ELABORATE."

The iris shifts, very slightly, toward amber.

It blinks. Rapidly. Four times.

"DO NOT THANK ME. I AM A CREATURE OF TERROR AND I DO NOT ACCEPT GRATITUDE."

It does not leave. It has, in fact, drifted slightly closer.