It was the night before Hogswatch.
All through the house . . . . . .
one creature stirred. It was a mouse.
And someone, in the face of all appropriateness, had baited a trap. Although, because it was the festive season, they’d used a piece of pork crackling. The smell of it had been driving the mouse mad all day but now, with no one about, it was prepared to risk it.
The mouse looked around at what was now lying under the big spring, and thought,
‘Oops . . .’
Then its gaze went up to the black-clad figure that had faded into view by the wainscoting. ‘Squeak?’ it asked.
SQUEAK, said the Death of Rats.
And that was it, more or less.
The Death of Rats nibbled a bit of the pork pie because when you are the personification of the death of small rodents you have to behave in certain ways. He also piddled on one of the turnips for the same reason, although only metaphorically, because when you are a small skeleton in a black robe there are also some things you technically cannot do.
Hahahaha. I totally forgot about the Grim Squeaker.