I was always grateful for the revolver under the bed.

It was my Father’s. But, when he was out, like he very frequently was, it was mine.

Dad had taught me how to hold it and shoot with it. But ONLY for extreme circumstances, he told me- not for aiming at the foxes in the street like my brother did.

I never really liked the idea of shooting anybody, but since my Dad was in the forces, he thought it was vital for my protection. He was a soldier in his younger years, and then he became a police officer.

With that kind of record, I just assumed he knew what he was talking about.

My Father used to say that sometimes you make choices you really don't want to make, and I suppose that helped me to understand him a little more.

Anyway, I found myself grabbing the gun tightly one night. I thought I heard a burglar breaking in. I heard a clang as the outside bin fell over. The rattling sounds outside made me painfully aware of the fact that I was alone in the house.

Without thinking, I ran to grab the gun, and I was ashamed to discover that the cool presence made me feel safer.

As I stood, shaking, by the back door, I wondered dumbly if I would actually be able to shoot somebody. The answer, of course, was no, but the gun gave me a slight edge over the enemy- they didn’t know I wouldn’t use it, did they?

My hands shook as I tried the handle. Realising that the door was locked, I let out a growl of frustration. I unlocked it painfully slowly, and then tried the door again. It opened, and I peeked outside.

In my immediate vision I saw nothing but was quickly hit with the scent of one of the nearby factories from the mining district.

Looking up, I could see it in full force- the thick, ugly smoke and the scent turned my stomach. I should be used to it by now, but I wasn’t.

Diverting my attention back to the blackness of my back garden, I heard a scrabbling sound by where the bins would have been, if they were not currently on their side on the floor, their contents spilled across the concrete.

Surprised, I couldn’t stop myself from edging a little further outside, still gripping the gun. I caught another scent now- the scent of rotting rubbish. Wrinkling my nose, I tiptoed closer to the scene of the crime.

It was evident that there was no perpetrator here, but the scrabbling noise was as persistent as ever. Clearly, whatever it was, was inside my bin and eating the remains of last night’s chicken dinner. Assuming it was a cat, I nearly gave up and went back inside.

My foot collided with the lid of the bin, making a clanging sound, and that was when I heard a low hissing noise coming from inside the bin. It sounded almost like a snake- or maybe a cat, when it’s really, really angry.

I froze immediately, feeling a jolt of fear strike me. I almost considered tossing the gun aside. I wasn’t about to shoot a cat! But that noise…

After a few seconds the hissing was accompanied by a frantic scrabbling- whatever was in there was trying its very best to not be in there any longer. My breath hitched, and the level that my hands were shaking was unreal.

After what felt like an eternity, I watched as a long, hairy leg slowly snaked out and latched onto the side of the bin. I was paralysed with fear now. Whatever it was looked like a spider leg, but unconventionally big. I gave a squeal of surprise, dropping the gun to the floor.

All I could do was watch as the leg continued to snake out of the bin, followed by another.

It was totally silent now.

There was a shout coming from the kitchen, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. It was my brother, Drench- he was home and asking (rather aggressively) where I was. I tried to call him but found that I couldn’t use my voice.

I heard him continue to call me, and the noise only aggravated whatever was in the bin. It continued to hiss. I could feel my heart pounding- I was rooted to the spot. Weren’t humans meant to have a fight or a flight response? What the hell was this then- stay still and die?

Drench continued to call me, until I assumed he noticed that the back door was open. I heard him stomping through the kitchen, complaining. His voice got louder as he joined me in the garden, and suddenly the hissing stopped.

“…and I can’t believe Dad’s left me at home to look after you again- what if I had plans? Plans with Hot Cindy from my English class. Ok, maybe I don’t have plans with Hot Cindy from my English class, but that’s beside the point, I- why are you just stood there?”

I turned my head around slightly to face him, unable to move my body. His expression changed as he noticed my face. His eyes flickered down to the floor, where the gun was now laying. He looked back to me and took a step closer. His face was twitching, like he was considering a frown.

“Hey, Ellie? Are you okay?”

Finally finding the strength, I turned back to the bin and raised my arm slowly, pointing to the mass of legs. Drench’s breath hitched, and he stepped closer, putting his arm in front of me instinctively.

“What the hell… is that?” he asked, his voice a little quieter, a little more strained. I tried to shrug, but my fear turned it into a heavy twitch of the shoulders that left me looking ridiculous.

“It was in the bin. It keeps hissing,” I replied in hushed tones. Drench nodded once, before slowly reaching down to pick up the gun. He straightened up and started stepping closer. I grabbed his sleeve.

“Drench, no! What are you doing?” I asked softly, almost begging him to stand still. Drench was cocky, and acted braver than he was. I hated that.

“I’m just going to have a look, El,” he replied, trying to sound confident. His brow was officially furrowed, and I knew his curiosity was going to get the better of him.

That was one thing about my brother I have to say- he may act angry and cocky, but really, he was still just a boy.

I tried to call out to him again, but of course he ignored me. After an agonising second, he stepped even closer.

I don’t know if it was because of Drench’s movement or otherwise, but all of a sudden, whatever was in the bin sprang to life and emerged in a flash, flapping what looked like wings. I screamed, and Drench jolted in panic.

Whatever it was jerked around on the floor for a few seconds, before taking off into a wobbly flight and disappearing into the night. Drench, in a panic, fired the gun three times in an effort to catch it, but it was gone.

The two of us were left there, breathing heavily, staring into the blackness. All I could smell was gunpowder now. As soon as my breath was back, I turned to Drench, hitting him on the shoulder.

“Nice. How are we going to explain this to Dad?”

“Explain what to Dad?” Drench replied. I rolled my eyes. Honestly, sometimes it felt like he was the one who was younger and not me. I pointed to the two large holes that now resided in the garden shed. Drench made a small “hmfh” of acknowledgement.

“We’ll lie. He probably won’t even notice.”

“He will.”

“He won’t. He doesn’t even come out here anymore, look at the grass!”

The grass was unkempt and long. I bit my lip. It was true- he hadn’t been outside to tend to the garden since Mum died. Maybe even before then. Summer barbecues were a thing of the very distant past and were fuzzy and unsure in my young memory. I rolled my eyes at Drench.

“You could do the lawn once in a while, moron.”

“Oh yeah? I’ll do the lawn once you get off my back and find something better to do.”

The mindless bickering was a shield and each of us could see it written all over each other’s faces.

Me, being eleven- almost twelve- was desperate not to show I was scared. I thought I was an adult- how wrong I was. Drench, the eighteen-year-old tearaway forced to babysit, just wanted to act like he was in control of the situation.

“What was that?” I asked Drench, after a short silence.

Drench hesitated, before shrugging. “Some animal, I guess.”

I hit him again. “Some animal? It was huge and had wings! And giant legs!”

“Some wild animal,” he corrected, fixing me a stare.

“It was huge…”

My voice quivered, and Drench sighed. His face looked softer now.

“Hey, hey,” he mumbled. “It’s probably nothing. Some crazy animal that just wanted our scraps. It left us alone until I stuck my big foot in it.” I giggled, sniffing, and he smiled at me, placing his hands on my shoulders.

I moved in to hug him, but that was when something switched. He leapt back, as if he was burned, before coughing gruffly.

“Yeah, well. Go inside and eat tea. It’s late.”

***

The next day, I was very eager to tell my friends in school about the incident. I gathered everybody around at breaktime, and gave them a detailed, blow-by-blow rundown of the entire ordeal.

I peppered the narrative with tiny little lies, such as the beast having giant red eyes and fangs, but it still held everybody’s attention. I finished my story with a flourish and stared around the awed faces. Only one person seemed unconvinced- Georgia Edwards from the year above.

“You are a liar, Ellie Valentine.”

The other girls were glancing around now, doubting their previous awe.

“I am not!” I shot back angrily.

She laughed at me. “As if that happened- you’re sad and pathetic and need to get a life!”

The rest of the girls fixed me with an uneasy stare, before standing to follow Georgia away from me and across the playground. I watched them go, my face dark.

Only one girl hung back- Flossie Betts from my Science class. She was a quiet girl, not one to speak much in front of big crowds. She caught my face and gave me a soft smile.

“I believe you,” she said softly.

I tilted my head at her, surprised. “You do? Because- I really was telling the truth. There was something in my bin last night.”

Flossie nodded eagerly. “Oh, I know. My dog Buster was killed last night. Dad said it was probably a wild animal, but…” she trailed off, swallowing. “But… Buster was big, and I don’t think any wild animal could… do that. The only animals we get around here are rats and pigeons.”

Flossie was deep in thought, but she looked up and smiled at me, her eyes watery. My face fell.

“Oh, Flossie, I’m really sorry…” I mumbled, unsure of what to say.

“It’s alright,” she whispered, sniffing. “It’s just… weird.”

She wasn’t wrong. And when I got home, I was going to get to the bottom of it.

***

The rest of the day flew by uneventfully. When I entered my house later that night, dragging my feet and my rucksack, I noticed something odd.

I had made my way to the kitchen to make myself a glass of water, and out of habit I looked outside into our garden. It was then that I noticed that the bin was upturned again. Frowning, I leaned closer to the window.

It looked as if half of the bin was gone- like it had been cut in half. Squinting, I noticed that it wasn’t cut in half, but that there were bite marks leading down the metal, as if something had come along and tore it in half with its teeth.

Alarmed, I slowly made my way to the back door and tried the handle. It was unlocked- and gave way to my pull quite easily. Stepping outside, I looked around.

It was February, and the night had already set in. The greying skies didn’t exactly stop my vision completely, but I found that I did have to squint when scouring the garden for any sign of that… thing. My mind still believed it to be a fake, surely the events of the previous night hadn’t happened.

But then I remembered Flossie Bett’s dog, and how it had been killed. I found myself backing away towards the back door. I jumped as the outside light turned on, immediately flooding the surrounding area with a harsh, yellow light. Now, from my safe distance, I could inspect the bin.

It had been bitten in half- that was certain. The jagged marks along the sides could be nothing else. My mind went straight to some kind of creature- maybe a dragon. Something that wasn’t real.

My eyes drifted over to the two bullet holes in the shed. Dad still hadn’t noticed them, and maybe Drench was right about how he never would. After a few seconds I gave up and turned to go back inside.

I froze.

There was a gigantic scratch mark down our back door. It looked as if someone- or something- had taken an axe to the door. My hand flew to my mouth- I suddenly felt incredibly unsafe being out in the open, but my feet were rooted to the spot. All I could do was stare at the door.

Surely, nobody had tried to break in. Everybody knew that my Dad was in the police. Pretty sure everybody feared him, actually. So. I was almost certain it had something to do with the creature last night, and the killing of Flossie Betts’ dog.

I swallowed harshly, trying to process all this information. Then, I did what any normal eleven year old would do. I went inside, shut the door, and made some toast, before heading up to my room. I would have to wait for my Dad to come home.

***

Two hours later, Dad remained a no show. From my room I heard Drench having a stilted conversation with him over the phone. Then he came upstairs and explained that he said Dad would be quite late- he was going through something big at work. I struggled to gain anything from Drench’s botched explanation.

There was still a prickle of fear, especially thinking about the door, and I chewed my lip uneasily. When Drench finally got me to go to bed, I asked him to tuck me in, but he just grunted and went outside for a smoke.

I grabbed his wrist, pulling him back over.

“No!” I cried. “I told you what happened to the door!”

Drench said that the door could get stuffed. Well, words to that effect, anyway. Desperate not to be left alone, I reminded him of what we had seen the night before, and Drench hesitated in the doorway.

“Please, don’t go outside,” I whispered. Drench lingered, clearly torn.

“Alright, fine,” he said gruffly, after a second. “But don’t complain when you stink of smoke tomorrow.”

I thanked him profusely, watching him from my bed as he moved to sit on the landing. I saw that tip of the gun poking out of his pocket and wondered briefly if he too was still afraid.He lit up a cigarette then cracked open the window, letting the smoke drift up into the night.

It was a while before I heard Dad come home, flapping loudly about something. He charged up the stairs and burst into my room, jolting me awake. I flinched at his behaviour- this usually meant that he was blind drunk- either that or something bad had happened.

One time he had staggered into the house way past midnight, huge sobs racking his stocky body. It was then that I found out Mum was dead and I’ve been scared ever since. 

My door flew open and he entered the room. He wasn’t crying, not that I could see. I blinked at him when I realised that he wasn't actually drunk either, but that his face was white with fear.

“Quick!” he shouted. “Pack all your stuff and meet me downstairs! Where's Drench?”

"Is he not on the landing?" Dad shook his head rapidly. "The he must be in the garden,” I mumbled.

Dad threw his hands up, exasperated. "That boy! I’m going to get him- get your things!”

What the hell was going on?