Here's a preview of my first story; The Patter of Tiny Feet!
Holly Jackson was a simple woman. Her life consisted of simple pleasures; the most of which was going home to sleep. Whilst other people her age were out drinking with friends, getting pissed in Liverpool's many bars, she was working the night shift in Mayfield Court Residential Care Home (or MCRCH, as the orderlies called it); she'd already done about eight hours so far, with another three to go. Then she could go home and get some sleep.
The one good thing about the night shift is that it was, surprisingly, quiet; MRCH, where Holly was an orderly, provided accommodation with personal care for the physically and mentally disabled. The residents of the care home came from many sources. Most had been referred to the care home by professionals who deemed it the best for their futures, whilst others had been left by family who could no longer care for them. Others had simply been abandoned, by family members who had no wish to care for their handicapped relatives. Sometimes people repulsed Holly; there used to be honour in caring for your elders. It all went back to tribal times; the men gave their lives for the tribe and, when they could no longer hunt or fish or fight, they spent the rest of their lives cared for by the loved ones they had spent their lives feeding and protecting. It wasn't like that now; her generation, with flat-screens and fast cars left a lot to be desired when it came to humanity. The resident she was visiting now, Bridget Riley, was the best example of this; she had been left by her three adult children, none of whom particularly wanted to be burdened with the old woman. She suffered from short-term memory loss and needed constant supervision in order to keep her safe; Holly needed to check if she had woken up in the night and stumbled over. With that thought, she opened the door to Bridget's room.
As Holly turned to enter Bridget's room, she gasped in horror. Bridget was lying, in her nightgown, barely conscious on her bed; if it weren't for her chest slowly rising and falling, Holly would have thought she was dead. Holly noticed a long, deep cut on Bridget's arm, one of several along her arms and legs. Holly's eyes widened with horror. Had she woken up and, confused, fallen over and hurt herself? There was blood seeping from the cuts; they had to be recently made. Something that happened in the last few minutes, if that. Holly rushed in, concerned, when, suddenly, she noticed three small brown creatures crouched like gargoyles around Bridget's bed. She shone her torch at the nearest creature; it looked like a cross between a shrew and a rat, with a long snout and a long, bare tail. Suddenly, the nearest one latched onto Bridget's arm and eagerly lapped at her wound like a cat lapping milk; its two comrades joined it, drinking the blood that flowed out of her wounds. Holly screamed, as the nearest of the creatures turned round and hissed at her with gleaming red eyes, revealing fangs almost too big for its mouth. Holly Jackson ran down the hall, like her life depended on it; to both sound the alarm and call the police. Would they believe her?
What do you think? Guess what animals the little shrew-things are and you win a prize!