He listened hard into the silence. But nothing happened. He didn’t hear his name,
he didn’t hear the creak of wood. Maybe it wasn’t going to come tonight.
12.08, read the clock. 12.09. Feeling vaguely angry, Conor got up and went into the kitchen.
He looked out of the window. The monster was standing in his back garden.
“What took you so long?” it asked. “It is time for me to tell you the first story,” the monster said.
Conor didn’t move from the garden chair, where he’d sat himself after he’d gone outside.
He had his legs pulled up to his chest and his face pressed into his knees.
“Are you listening?” the monster asked. “No,” Conor said. He felt the air swirl around him violently again.
“I will be listened to!” started the monster. “I have been alive as long as this land and you will pay the respect owed to me–”
Conor got up from the chair and headed back towards the kitchen door. “Where do you think you’re going?” demanded the monster.
Conor whirled round, and his face looked so furious, so pained,
that the monster actually stood up straight, its huge, leafy eyebrows raising in surprise.
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