Mouse

The dirt floor of the tunnel was scalloped and uneven. He glanced back over his shoulder at the fading light of the basement and clutched the mop handle tightly. He’d tied the long knife in place with surgical tubing.

“Little mouse…” the voice hissed, reverberating through the narrow space, echoing all around him.

He swallowed and edged forward. A shining scale, the size of a dinner plate, crunched beneath his foot.

“Little mice never come into my burrow,” said the voice. “They know what happens to little mice who do not know its secrets.”

The light disappeared, blocked from behind.