**Foggy Morning**

Little Zhenya tosses and turns in his sleep, screaming and clutching the edge of the sheet with his sweaty little palms.

For a few moments, his mother watches her son with a sad look, then walks over to the window and lifts the curtain. Warm morning light floods the room. The boy shudders one last time, turns his face toward the light, and calms down. The woman gently pokes at his side.

“Good morning, sleepyhead!”

“Good morning,” mumbles the boy, trying to go back to sleep, but his mother resolutely pulls the blanket off him. “Hey, what are you doing?”

“It’s time to get up. You’ll be late for school.”

“I only have the second lesson!”

His mother wagged her finger, and Zhenya, resigned, gets up. He looks at his crumpled bed in confusion, then remembers something and glances at the window with fear.

“What’s wrong?” asks his mother.

“I had a nasty dream.”

“Tell me.”

“I dreamed… someone huge was crawling out there in the dark. Peeking into windows, eavesdropping, watching. And then it calls the ones who aren’t asleep and eats them right away. It’s so big… bigger than our house!”

His mother laughs and taps him lightly on the nose.

“That’s right, it’s Willy-Winky. He helps children fall asleep faster.”

“Not funny!” Zhenya cries hysterically, embarrassed by his own fear. “It looked… it looked like a giant caterpillar. Or a snail. Sticky… and it had legs.”

“We should give back your Achatina,” his mother sighs worriedly. “I didn’t know you had such phobias. But don’t worry, darling, no snail can harm you: first, you sleep soundly at night, it won’t find you; second, it’s daylight now, and snails and other slimy creatures can’t bear sunlight. They stayed in the dark. And I’ll buy you a special nightlight — darkness will never come to us. Deal?”

“Deal. Don’t take my snail away — it’s good.”

Once the door closes behind his mother, Zhenya jumps out of bed and runs to the window. A light morning mist stretches over the front gardens, pierced by sunlight. The street slowly comes alive: the jingle of bicycle bells, the rustle of tires on gravel, someone’s laughter, indistinct voices, footsteps. The boy grins, sticks his tongue at the street, and heads to the bathroom.

A few minutes later, he’s hastily chewing sweetened curd. From the yard comes a girl’s voice:

“Zhenya! Are you ready?”

The boy speeds up, devouring the curd.

“Zhenya! Come on, let’s go!”

The last spoonful gone, he grabs his backpack and bolts out the door.

---

The creature snaps its jaws, tightening its muscles to crush its prey’s bones, and crawls toward the neighboring house. Its belly rustles over the gravel like car tires. Its sharp steel hairs jingle like bicycle bells. Its breath emits a garbled mumble and laughter. The monster slithers along the empty street, undulating and pulsing. Its snout stretches almost to the doorstep. When its mouth opens, fragments of a backpack still glimmer inside.

“Petka! I’m here!” the creature calls in Zhenya’s clear voice. “Come out!”