Late at night, when you're all alone, safely tucked away, and the floor creaks - it's not just the house settling down for the night. There are shadows that move.

There's a sad, sick man in a raincoat - hiding in the hallway, just out of sight of the door - waiting. Or maybe in the closet, just far enough back. An old coat hanging loosely, ready to fall.

And when your swollen eyes can no longer stay open - you barely drift off to sleep - softly, softly, to your beside he'll creep.

And from deep down in his pocket he'll pull out his razorblade - very long and very, very sharp - soft and sticky with blood.

Your eyes will open wide as he quietly laughs from behind his black and rotten teeth, with breath that smells like death. And you'll try running and screaming and fighting and crying, but you're bleeding and bleeding, and dying and dying and dying.

And you can't move and no one can hear you, because you're already dead.

So sit up straight and eat your peas. Be good little girls and boys - it's the only chance you have from sharp, sticky razorblades and mommy and daddy, early in the morning, saying, "Oh what a mess you've made."