Bridget

Bridget wakes to a noise she cannot reason about, and the bedroom she knows by day has rearranged itself into something sinister: a cold white arm with no body, a wardrobe taller than the ceiling. She lies frozen, certain that any movement will bring the silent figures toward her bed, and the terror is rendered with a child's terrible precision. Her helpless watchfulness is the whole story's nerve, making the ordinary dark of a nursery into a place where anything might step out.