The desperation rose off the screen, hot fumes like tar smoking in ruthless sun. The scent of it stirred up the board, turned them restless and aggressive. They started jostling Pat: had he shown the skeletons to his wife? What did she think about the animal now? Did he know how dangerous wolverines were? Was he going to call in the specialist? Was he going to put down poison? Was he going to board up the hole under the eaves? What was he going to do next?

They—or, more likely, all the other things crowding in on his life—were getting to Pat: that level-headed ease was fraying at the edges. To answer your questions no my wife doesn’t know about the skeletons, I scheduled pest control guy for when she was going to the shops w the kids + he took them away. I don’t know about you but I believe its my job to take care of my wife not scare the shit out of her. Its one thing for her to hear scratching, totally other deal showing her skeletons w heads gone. Once I’ve got my hands on this thing then obviously I’ll tell her everything. Don’t exactly like her thinking I’m going mental meanwhile, but I’d rather that than have her petrified every time she has to be in the house on her own, hope that’s OK w you but if not basically tough shit.

About specialist etc: haven’t decided yet but no I’m not planning on boarding up the hole + I’m not planning on poison. Sorry if that’s not what you guys would advise but again tough, I’m the one living with this + I am GOING TO find out what it is + I’m going to teach it to fuck w my family, THEN it can bugger off + die wherever it wants but til then I’m not gonna risk losing it. If you have an actual helpful idea then yeah please feel free to contribute I’d be delighted to hear it, but if you’re just here to give me hassle for not having this under control then screw you. To everyone who isn’t being a shit thanks again + I’ll keep you updated.

At this point someone with a couple of thousand posts to his name said: Guys. Don’t feed the troll.

Richie asked, “What’s a troll?”

“Seriously? Jesus, have you never been on the internet? I thought you were the wired generation.”

He shrugged. “I buy music online. Looked stuff up a few times. Message boards, though: nah. Happier with real life.”

“The internet is real life, my friend. All those people on here, they’re as real as you and me. A troll is someone who posts bollix to stir up drama. This guy thinks Pat’s messing about.”

Once their suspicions were raised, none of the posters wanted to look like suckers: everyone had, apparently, been wondering all along if Pat-the-lad was a troll, an aspiring writer looking for inspiration (Remember that guy last year on the Structural Issues board with the walled-up room and the human skull? The short story showed up on his blog a month later? Piss off, troll), a scammer building towards a pitch for money. Within a couple of hours, the general consensus was that if Pat had been for real, he would have put down poison a long time ago, and that any day now he would be back to announce that the mysterious animal had eaten his imaginary kids and ask for help paying for their funerals.