Upstairs, down the hall and in the far back bedroom, the closet door sits ajar, allowing the musty smell of clothes long since worn, of ratty cardboard boxes filled with pictures of lives long forgotten, to fill the room. The pull-down blinds, yellowed and cracked with age, block any hope of sun or moonlight, leaving the room sentenced to a life of dark.
Mice wander the dusty floor, their pitter-patter in harmony with a lone cricket that sings from under one of the baseboards. Then, somewhere just outside, footsteps creak first on the stairs, then in the hall. As they near the door, the mice scatter to their hiding places, the cricket stops his tune.
The bedroom door scrapes open and the footsteps stop just inside. The light comes to life, its glow cutting an amber swath into the closet.
“As you can see, this is one of the larger bedrooms, and has a lot of potential.”
The footsteps resume, slowly crossing the room.
Deep in the closet, the monster ducks into the shadows.
Lunch has arrived.