I overslept badly this morning. I’m hoping it’s rats. Even though I've never heard their disgusting scampering in the ceiling before or after.

I had finally put my book down, switched off the light and curled up under the duvet. It was late and I had an early start. I could just see the red glow of the fire in the grate across the passage. The outline of furry doglet bodies curled up in front of it. I closed my eyes and snuggled further into my cozy nest of Egyptian linen.

Then I heard it.

Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.

“Bloody dog”, I thought as I flung the duvet back and sat up. The cold air caressed my skin taking my instantly from almost asleep to wide awake. Boy Dog has an infuriating habit of saving burning logs from the fire. Considering the solid timber flooring throughout my house, he is a constant fire hazard.

I have invested in a sturdy fire screen and a portable fire extinguisher; I thought I had solved the problem. And yet I’m striding angrily across the passage in the wee hours of the morning, flicking on the light and hissing ”Stop it. Put that down”. Two furry little faces blink at me from the depths of their baskets. The fire screen is in place. All logs still safely in the grate.

Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.

Sweet Jesus! It’s coming from behind me. The irritation drains away, terror bubbles up in its place. There is something in the house with me and I’m not dressed for the inevitable confrontation. In fact I’m not dressed at all. I take a couple of deep breaths and try to pinpoint where the noise is coming from. The passageway? The lounge? I’m going to have to cross through both of them to get my dressing gown hanging on the back of the bathroom door.

Shitshitshit.

I shoot across the passage, through the lounge and into the bathroom, rip the dressing gown from its hook and take refuge in its heavy warmth. At least now I’m dressed for battle. I make my way slowly through the house, heart pounding, flicking on light switches as I go. Listening. Doglets padding slowly behind me, showing absolutely no interest in the scritching. It’s like they can’t even hear it. I’m starting to think I’m losing it completely when I hear it again and Boy Dog peers intently at the wall, cocking his head to the side.

You’re shitting me. There is something in my walls and by the sounds of it it’s trying to break out. My house is going to be 100 years old soon, the walls are thick. They could accommodate quite a big thing. Whatever that thing is. I don’t really want to know.

I tentatively tap on the wall and jump back in case the scritching thing bursts from the wall, fangs bared. The scritching stops. I wait, peering at the spot on the wall as if I had X-ray vision.

Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.

More vigorous banging on my part. Silence.

I climb back into bed and lie awake for hours, waiting for the scritching to start up again. When I finally fall asleep my dreams are filled with monsters under the bed and ghosts in the walls.