By Anne Brison

Most people say monsters don’t exist. Guess they’ve never been to my house after midnight.

I wonder what they would say about the girl-ghost who rides the ceiling fan, or the gathering of undead in the basement.

You’d probably think I’m crazy if I told you the boogie man lives under my bed. But he does, believe me; old Barry snores loud enough to wake the dead. Not kidding. 

And then those skeletons in my closet. I’m pretty sure they used to be Vikings or something, since all they ever talk about is the ‘glory days of pillaging and chugging mead. (Annoying)

 Also there’s the ghost of Abraham Lincoln in the den, no clue what he’s doing there. Whatever he’s doing, I wish he’d quit having those long boring debates with that zombie Roman dude and the ghost of queen Elizabeth. 

  Oh, and I bet you didn’t know werewolves are addicted to caramel cappuccinos. Now those are my people! Or monsters, whatever. 

And that’s my house. Monsteropolis or something.

End