It’s 2:30am when I’m startled by the sound of a crying child coming from inside my IKEA wardrobe. That’s not right, of course; it has to be one of the cats, but how did it get in there?

I pull on the door and it won’t open and I pull harder and it still won’t open and the crying is getting louder so I haul back and smash my fist through the mirrored door and the crying stops and it’s completely quiet, no, it’s crazy quiet, because I can’t even hear the bits of broken glass falling out of the frame.

Staring at my naked reflection in the wrecked door, my right arm outstretched, wrist scraping against the shattered glass, I decide the child’s cry was a dream. I extract my hand and kneel to pick up the shards of silvered glass, but my fingers won’t work properly; I can’t feel anything. I glance back into the glass and the bedroom is lit with a dim blue phosphorescent glow.

With a violent pounding my hearing returns. I’m flat on my back on the bed. Someone is beating my chest, punching my heart over and over. The pain is excruciating. I try to focus, to see who is doing this to me, but the figure has been crudely scratched out with heavy black scribbling, edited out of the world.

A voice as old as the stars and as black as the void between them speaks.

“Not. Yet.”