The first time, Royce Murdoch had tried to ignore the phenomenon. He pretended not to see the small, chittering bumps that appeared beneath the carpet. No matter how they roved around the living room, he simply acted as though nothing was amiss. Even at night, when his and his wife's sleep was interrupted by loud screeches and the sound of tiny claws, he forced himself to blame his imagination.
Things had, after a while, quieted down; Royce (and, indeed, the entire Murdoch family) had breathed a sigh of relief. Timmy and Jane had returned to their carefree games, Edith had smiled again, and life had returned to normal.
Two weeks passed, and it happened again.
Those darn kids, Royce reflected as he raised the chair like a lion tamer, a maniacal gleam in his eyes, had better to stop letting mice in.
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