Rotted wood beams just inches from her nose. Sounds of sharp, rigid claws clicking across floorboards. The glimpse of a red scaly hide, clearly not human. Then came the cold-blooded growl.
Phyllis couldn’t stop shaking.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Hard. She took a long deep breath, suppressing her near uncontrollable urge to scream.
Whatever attacked their house in the dead of night was still on the prowl.
Whatever effortlessly tore her two roommates to shreds was thirsting for more.
Phyllis dried her sweaty palm against her muddy jeans, re-gripped the handle of her kitchen knife.
She wouldn’t be next.
The Weekday One Hundred 