Little Monsters

He would never have believed the rumours had he not gone to see for himself. He had to go. Father’s life was at stake, after all. He didn’t have to travel far before he saw them. They were in a group, some no bigger than him, wearing disguises, it seemed, that were disquietingly similar to his own. From a safe distance, he’d watched them skulking about, causing mischief, terrorising their kin. He’d wanted to put it down to a one-off, an isolated incident; but by the time his journey had reached its end, such scenes were commonplace.

They weren’t the little angels he’d been led to believe.

Even at this hour, he half-expected to see them in the street below, but it was empty and quiet. He was glad as he went about his business.

In the land of nod it looked as if butterscotch wouldn’t melt in its mouth, but it was just as bad as all the rest. One of them would hurt father before the night was out. He couldn’t let that happen. Not after all father had done for him. Most of the others agreed when he recounted what he’d seen and heard, though few seemed prepared to do what needed to be done.

It would be quick and painless. They’d never even know. The birch maker showed him what to do.

Hearing father coming down the chimney, he rummaged through the bag of toys, withdrew the birch, and padded towards the bed.