When I look out the French doors of the living room into the back garden, I see all sorts of movement. Sometime I can see a pair of yellow eyes staring back at me. I imagine it’s a fox with a ragged, mangy tail. Other times I think it’s one of the neighbourhood cats, staling the sleeping mourning doves sitting in the high branches of the magnolia tree. The best times are when I deliberately scare myself. I think there is someone watching me. I’m looking out and some ominous, unknown figure sits crouched in the hedges looking into the house as I write. I think of the cellar door. Could something find its way into the house? I make my way up the stairs to the front of the house and look at the empty street, a street lamp casting amber glow onto the pavement. I wonder, is the road too far away from anyone to hear noise from the house?
Write a narrative about someone alone in a strange place over night. How do the noises of the house sound? Describe every creaking floorboard and shadow in the woods… boo!