You are seven. Perhaps nine, or even thirteen. In the earliest hours of a sleepless night-turned-morning, a figure you cannot see (but you can feel, their very existence heavy on your skin and you do not have to see, your bones howl that you are not alone) leans low, low, low over your bed.

Most people who are asking for recommendations for terrifying books are bound to be disappointed. Responses to these posts germinate an exhaustive discourse around the subjectivity of fear but—it’s intriguing—there are little gems that pop up sometimes.

Birds aren’t monsters. Then again, maybe? Every mammal, fish, or insect has the ability to stimulate our imaginations—I’ll give animalia that. But birds, something special about them has the ability to tap into the darker depths of our creative core.

For my tenth birthday, I had a slumber party. Half a dozen or so of my friends jigsawed their sleeping bags into place on the floor of our living room. Earlier, at Blockbuster, I’d picked out a movie, disregarding my mom’s gentle concern: Are you sure? It’s pretty scary.