I can always tell when it's a moth banging its head against my window late at night, as opposed to a randomly blown piece of debris. The sound is somehow meatier, more organic. I pulled up the blind last night to watch Moth-Ra, the Great Feather-Winged Lord himself trying to find his way into the room to eat my face, and I shivered slightly and quickly lowered the barrier, thankful that the glass was specially reinforced against these kinds of night time incursions.
This forested hilltop positively rustles with all manner of fearsome insects, who I assure you Gentle Reader, watch this bastion with envious eyes and slowly, surely, draw their plans against us. Occasionally one will break past our defences and all hell breaks loose as electrified tennis-racket style swatters are brought to bear, with screaming victims running past on fire in the background as I lay about the enemy, screaming unintelligible war cries.
I fear for my arachnophobic fiancée whenever she comes to this scuttling den of madness. Behind every wall there are surely legions of spiders watching and waiting, dancing on exposed foreheads and fingers in the dead of night, and trampling through our cornflakes as we sleep...
