“Don’t let him know you’re scared,” she whispered. “If he knows, then he won’t stop,”
That was the last words Betty heard before she was dragged into the locked room. It was dark and it smelled like rotten eggs. She reached out with her shaking hands and traced the rough stone walls surrounding her. Her eyes hadn’t adjusted yet, but she could feel that the room was nothing more than a small closet. She inched her foot slowly forward until the tip of her bare foot hit the wooden door. She barely had enough room to stretch her legs.
When she heard the first scratch, she decided that it wasn’t real. That she was making it up. But she couldn’t ignore the reality of itchy fur scuffling over her thigh or the sharp pinch of strong teeth biting at her arms. She didn’t scream until she felt the one nearest to her neck move its tail against her cheek.
In the main house, a middle aged man sat in front of an old screen. He wrote quickly, not wanting to miss a single moment, before closing the book and leaning backwards in his chair to enjoy the show.
Musophobia – a fear of mice and rats.