The Gransolator lurked in the semi-darkness, between the small table and the sofa bed, just behind the tripod holding Ernie’s latest “work”, which was still breathing its last ounces of life. If Ernie had been there finishing off his treasure this afternoon rather than going for a shake round the corner, he would be now paralysed by fear, or likely already dead.
The Gransolator’s clicking noise was eerily light, but enough to scare away the cockroaches, which would usually congregate by the leg of the coffee table, nibbling at the filth. Instead they stayed hidden, feeling, rather than seeing, the abyss of evilness of the dark, hunched creature that was licking the fluids seeping slowly down the tripod’s leg.
Approaching steps from the outside world brought a halt to the Gransolator’s rhythmic movement. The key turned in the lock. Yet another easy meal.