Was it a knock that had woken her? She was groggy and disoriented, her head turned to the side on her bed, unwilling to get up. But something had jolted her awake and she couldn’t get right back to sleep. She sits up and rubbed her eyes, the room lit only by the glow of the full moon through the window.

WHOMP!

She gasps. There it was again, the sound that had pulled her from her sleep. Her skin goes cold, goose bumps running from her neck down to her legs. She pulls the blankets back and steps out onto her fuzzy red carpet. Slowly, she pulls open her door and sticks her head outside. She can hear a rhythmic whumpwhumpwhump coming from the living room and what sounds a lot like giggling.

Someone was in her house.

She quickly looks around her hallway, searching for some kind of weapon. Her eyes fall on her gold suede high heeled boots. She grabs them up, hands around the soles, the heels pointed outwards.  Not much as weapons go, but they were all she had to hand; they would have to do.

She tiptoes softly to the living room, the whumpwhumpwhump sound louder, someone cackling with glee. And is that…music?

With trembling fingers, she reaches for the light switch on the wall and flips it on.

“AAHHHH!” she screams.

“AAAHHH!” screams the thing in her living room.

There on her couch is a little green blob staring back at her. He is about as tall as a small dog and as round as a basketball. His big oval eyes, stretched wide in fear, have irises as yellow as sunflowers. He is as green as grass with purple polka dots all over and he has two round little cub-like ears resting right on top of his head. He is very fluffy.

In one of his tiny hands is a furry cushion, feathers puffing out of a big hole, in the other is a baby’s silver rattle and beside him is a tiny boom box playing “Boogie Fever” very, very quietly. On the floor is the lamp that usually stands on the side table; on the coffee table is the framed painting that usually hangs over the couch, lying on its face.

The thing standing on her couch is a cobblewobble but she does not know this. It looks from the lamp to the painting to the woman. Its cheeks turn bright pink with shame and guilt.

It had been doing the boogie on her couch, shaking its butt to the disco tune because that is what a cobblewobble is compelled to do: break into your house in the dead of night on a full moon when mercury is in retrograde on a Tuesday in a month that ends in ‘R’ and dance the boogie ‘til dawn, when it slogs its tired little body back to wherever cobblewobbles live.

But it is not supposed to wake you up.

Now it is staring at her with her high heeled weapons, quivering in fear.

She cannot believe her eyes. She blinks a few times. The cobblewobble blinks back. She nods her head; she knows what she needs to do.

Gently, she places her shoes on the floor. The cobblewobble watches her fearfully, unsure of her next move.

Slowly, she switches the light off and backs away back into her bedroom, back into her bed, back under the covers. She lays there wide awake for a while until she hears the rhythmic whumpwhumpwhump coming from the living room, the gentle sound of “Boogie Fever” playing gently from the boom box, and then she closes her eyes and goes and goes back to sleep.

 

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