Last Stop

O it was a moonless night suddenly filled with dark foreboding. The invisible  birds had begun their metallic piping, the bats were squeaking among our ripe mangos and a thousand supplicants in a distant evangelical hangar were laying down a keening back beat. Then, like a solo singer to this orchestra of sound, there was a noise we had never heard. A grunting. A flapping. A scraping. Somewhere, close to the house, was a terrible manifestation. It had surfaced from the depths of our ancient fears. And it was working its way around our house.

Not given to craven submission to the agents of hell my wife opened the main door, fearless and intrepid. No weapon in her hand. Just vulnerable flesh and blood.
She disappeared into the Ghanaian night, submerging herself in its hot, thick embrace.
The malevolent sound reached a crescendo and then stopped abruptly and I heard her in-drawn gasp as clearly as if she was sitting beside me. It was followed by a terrible silence as if an unspeakable act had eradicated the very signature of life itself.
The door opened and there she stood like a female Beowulf carrying the gory trophy in her hands, a piece of folded card with thick glue on one surface. It was Last Stop, a trap for black mice the size of British rodents.
Our big but gentle Doberman, Sirius, had had it stuck to his paws.

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