The thunder cracked again.
The floorboards creaked downstairs.
Mrs Appletree was clearly oblivious to the brewing storm outside, her snoring reaching Pheobe from the other end of the hallway. That left Sir Timothy. Scanning the room, she found him wide-awake, hiding beneath the oak desk, his large cat eyes shining wide with fear and trepidation. There was no one else in the house.
The floorboards creaked again.
"Don't be silly Phe," she whispered to herself. "This is an old house, it's bound to creak and go." But the reassurance did nothing to ease the troubled feeling that settled low in her gut.
The thunder cracked again.
So did the floorboards…
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