I’ve never been a fan of horror movies.

Too much screaming, too many jump scares, and don’t even get me started on the gore. Unfortunately, life doesn’t always let you opt out of the genre. Sometimes it brings the horror film straight to your bed at 2am – in the form of a dead possum.

A couple of months ago, I was soundly asleep when my dog Agnes decided I needed a gift. Like the generous housemate she is, she dropped what I thought was one of her rain-soaked toys into my arms.

I lazily flicked it off the bed, heard it thud on the floor, and rolled over.

Agnes, delighted, bounded after it and leapt back up, dumping it on me once again.

Except this time, my hand brushed claws.

Adrenaline surged, my survival instincts kicked in, and I turned on the light to find a very much not alive,

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