Maybe a Fox

When Mary put the dog to bed, she didn’t notice the face behind the cat flap – and if she had, she’d have assumed it was the cat, or maybe a fox or rat. When she bolted the door, she did so out of habit, not fear.

When she unplugged the telly, she didn’t think to examine the sliver of darkness between her curtains, nor wonder if the sliver was examining her.

When she switched off her bedside light, she failed to see the disappointment reflected in her window, before it backed away, hovered briefly by her hedge, and slithered away down the street.




T Upchurch lives and writes on a big, wet rock overlooking the Atlantic. She tweets as @traceyupchurch and blogs at