I have only been lying in bed for five minutes, when I hear a noise from downstairs. It was a very quiet noise, but I can hear it through the heater pipes which run behind my bed, from the first floor.

I inwardly shrug, thinking it's nothing. I have let myself become too spooked already, since I came home. I force myself to think nothing of it.

Moments later, I hear something which I don't need the pipes to hear. The floor is quite thin and not soundproof, which allows me to hear the unmistakable sound of drawers being pulled out of desks.

Stiffening, I think it might be burglars, and considor calling the police. Cursing, I remember I left my phone in my coat pocket, which is now in my closet.

So? Just get out of bed and grab your phone!, the sensible part of me says. But something keeps me in bed, maybe self-preservation, idiocy, terror, the scaredness I felt earlier downstairs or maybe a wild hope that nothing is wrong.

That hope is soon shattered, as a large crash emits from downstairs. My eyes become wide, and I pose ready to jump out of bed and grab my phone from my coat, to  call the police, or maybe to lock my door, I am not sure which is the priority.

But I do not do either of these: I suddenly hear rapid footsteps hastening up my staircase. I bury myself in my bedding and don't dare listen, praying I am imagining this all.