Little Stevie lay in his bed, sobbing. He was five years old and his mother had died, two years ago, in a car accident and there hasn't been one night he hasn't dreamt of her since.
He missed her gentle touch, her soft comfortable bosom that she held him to when he was distressed, her beautiful golden hair, the lovely smell about her and the sing-song voice she used when she read him a bedtime story.
Not like the evil monster that now lay in his father's bed. He hated her, for stealing the affection of his father. He paid more attention to her than he did to him. He feared her because she might force him to forget his mother and make him like her. He hated her ugly brown hair, the way she touched him, her smell, that strange voice she spoke to him with and she did not have a soft comfortable bosom to comfort him with but most of all, he hated those footsteps coming down the hall.
He instinctively ducked under the covers. The door hinges squeaked as the monster entered the room, the mattress springs groaned as the monster sat down beside him and Stevie jumped when the monster touched his shoulder through the bedclothes.
"Sweet dreams, little one," the monster said in her soft French accent, "I know you don't like me but I give you all my love anyway."
The monster leant over and gently kissed him on the head and left.
The end