I Use Butter in This Post Three Times

Last night I happened to pick up a Ray Bradbury collection of short stories I had bought a while ago titled The Toynbee Convector. I read the first four, among which was an odd piece about an older woman living in a house by herself when she one day notices a trap door in the ceiling. From then on, she hears odd noises, scurrying, like mice or rats, in the attic that she never knew existed.

By the end of the story, she finally gathers the courage to stick her head into the attic, and like magic, the rest of her body promptly follows--sucked up into the attic, then the trap door shuts ominously after her.

As if I would learn.

This morning--or rather, this afternoon--I strolled into the kitchen intent on making myself a peanut butter sandwich and was digging for a butter knife when I heard noises, like scurrying. It was coming from the toaster.

I frowned, looking around for the joke, but no one was there.

Finally I leaned forward, tipped the edge of the toaster and peered into the metallic teeth inside. Nothing but crumbs.

The scurrying stopped. I jiggled the handle, hoping to mimic the noise, when suddenly a flutter of black and orange wings escaped, flying straight up into my face and darting towards the freedom offered by the window.

Yes. My personal horror story had a butterfly as an antagonist.