Conversations in our house

"David, tell me a bedtime story."

"Aren't you a little old for that?"

"No, tell me one."

"Very well...
'As they slept, the graveyard thing slipped through the open window. Rank it was, with a pale flabbiness which spoke of putrescence. It brought with it a chill air, and an odour of damp mold.
'It moved on all fours with a jittering speed before pausing by the bed and sniffing deeply once, twice. Some vestigial instinct told it to be pleased. The bodies would make it warm again, for a little while.'
*mwa* goodnight! Sweet dreams!"

"I HATE YOU."