Why is it that whenever someone hears a scary sound in a horror movie or novel, that person always rattles off a laundry list of possible, and always innocuous, explanations for it — when we all know it’s a monster?
“Oh, it must be that damn cat again.”
The ominous rattling grows louder.
“Hmmm. It doesn’t sound like Jinxy. Must be the wind.”
The sound is now right outside their bedroom door. Suddenly they hear a growl so terrifying it could only have come from the very depths of hell.
“Damn kids must be watching TV again. Let’s go back to bed.”
…And that’s when the monster eats the idiot.
Whenever I hear a strange sound at night, I immediately think, “Shit, it’s a fucking monster.” I then grab whatever is handy — usually a hockey stick or a plastic fork — throw on all the lights, open all the closet doors, and wake up my wife, shouting, “There’s a fucking monster in the house!”