It was a dark and stormy night, I snuck down the stairs for a glass of milk, but something caught my eye from the living room. Something was inching its way across the living room floor, no, under the living room floor.

Papa sat bolt upright in his bed, a girl’s scream echoing through his mind, the sound of a glass smashing against the floor, the sounds of sirens wailing from the emergency vehicles that stood just outside his door, the smell of flowers at his daughter’s funeral. The dream repeated itself again, and again for weeks after the incident, he called animal control but they couldn’t find the killer animal. Papa glanced at the orange candle he kept burning in the corner in memory of her; he vowed that he would keep a candle burning until he found what murdered her. He stood now craving a glass of milk himself, out of habit he checked the living room and saw the lump under the rug. He froze, the lump that his daughter had died for, he wanted revenge. He grabbed a chair from the kitchen and beat the lump repeatedly till it was dead. He would call animal control in the morning and let them take care of the rest. And silently upstairs a breeze blew in from the window, extinguishing the flame that burned in the corner.