[ Dictated ]
[ There's tapping. Tap, tap, tapping. A finger on word, hard. Harder still. Scrrrrritch. Scratch. Tap. ]
Fi, fie, foe, fum.
[ The voice is low and saturnine, barely registering above a whisper. More tapping. Scratch. ]
Oh, how I long for the blood of an English Mum.
[ A laugh, low and dull. Tap. There's a pause, as if whomever is making the sound is considering something. ]
Hell~o out there, Ci-ti-zens. [ A gentle chuckle ] I've been watching you. [ A beat ] All of you. From within the ceilings and the walls of the stronghold, fettering about in the dead of night to loom over you while you slept, while you dreamt. I did not disturb any of you, of course -- that would have been rather rude on my part, wouldn't it? -- but I've been watching the lot of nonetheless. Some of you tossed, some of you turned; you're all quite interesting when you sleep; the most pure of blood tend to crawl into a fetal position sometime between one and four am. Or wake up entirely before five.
Why is that, you wonder? And such a thing to call it: the fetal position. [ A low chuckle. ] It implies helplessness. Weakness. Fear. How strange a turn of phrase.
Hm~
...Have any of you seen my dog about? Baskerville gets so terribly hungry when he's left off his leash.