I am still half dreaming as I open my eyes against the night. The alarm hasn't gone off yet, shaking me awake with its awful, soul grating shriek, and it is not yet morning. I glance at the slime green display on the clock - 2.18am. Not good. Something has disturbed my sleep at this usually, thankfully, unknown hour and I just hope that I can ignore it and drift back down into my rest.

I try, but there is a sound, or some movement, or maybe it's both things, and my eyes are open again even though I wish they weren't. And there is definitely something at the bottom of my bed, a small, dark shape that sits hunched up against the rumpled duvet.

My heart does a spin and my head copies, my fear of this thing, this gargoyle thing, setting like concrete in my throat. I cannot speak. I can hardly breathe.

Then it leaps, all grinning teeth and shining eyes; "It's my birthday, Mummy! Can I open my presents now?"