My little home�s a cosy place. The door is blue, the windows bright, and fresh flowers always line the kitchen sill. The mat outside reads welcome. It�s not much different from any other on the street. A carbon copy, really. Yet passers by are seen to scurry. They wrap their coats around their shoulders as though a cold shudder sweeps their spine. They shiver, drop their gaze, and hurry onward.

Fact is, I�ve never told a soul about the atrocity below the ground. Come to think of it, no one�s ever asked. Perhaps they�re afraid. Perhaps they choose to turn a blind eye, thinking it�s none of their business. Perhaps they don�t really want to know.

A million souls writhe down there, trapped within the dungeon walls. Sometimes I hear their desperate fingernails clawing. The chains tend to click, and occasionally there�s a dull, wet thud when a defeated body hits the floor.

I even visited the dungeon once. I found the trapdoor and peered inside. Its dank walls dripped. The stagnant air smelled musty, and something squishy covered the floor. I searched every nook and cranny for the prisoners � the men and women surely trapped below my feet.

But I found none.

The dungeon was empty save for one small thing � a writing desk, blank paper, and a pen. A million ways to tease a scream. A million ways to make them beg. A million ways to drown them in the darkness. Nothing more �

Nowadays the nightmare sleeps, forgotten beneath the floorboards, but sometimes, when I�m safely tucked up at night, fresh screams come coiling through the walls. I hear the insane terror, accompanied by the scratch of a pen digging oozing gouges in their flesh.

Undisturbed, I snuggle in my bed, and hug the duvet tighter.

Let the haunting melody play.

      It�s the perfect lullaby.