It was a dark and foggy night as we pulled into the driveway after a lovely dinner out. I stepped out of the car and shivered in the eerie quiet. The porch light cut a faint orange cone through the fog – all else was damp and grey.
“Hurry and open the door,” I said to my husband. “I don’t want to be stuck out here with all the scary creatures in the mist.” I held my leftover French dip sandwich a little tighter in its paper bag.
“You mean Werewolves and such?” He looked up and down our silent street. “Don’t they live on the moors?”
“Aren’t there werewolves in London? They can totally live in cities. The important part is the mist. Werewolves live in the mist.” I paused. “With the gorillas.”