In your fear you tied the handle of the door, thinking to trap me, I suppose. I sit here in the darkness and stillness of the attic. I see you watching, waiting for me to show myself to you, but that will never happen. You shine your light in your failed attempt to illuminate me. I hear your breathing laboured by your anxiety and feel the sweat on your brow. All this stress you put upon yourself when in reality I am simply a product of your imagination.