“Dark, toothy things.” She said it matter-of-factly, not looking up from her reading. “You should write about dark, toothy things. Things that go bump in the night, winged horrors… night terrors.”

I chuckled nervously and waved my hand as if to shoo away the idea. “What do I know of things that go bump in the night? I can barely sit through a spooky movie without getting jittery.”

She closed her book, and looked thoughtfully out the window. The coffee shop was well-lit and warm, a distinct juxtaposition to the cold, gloomy street outside. “We all know that there is something to be feared in the night. Everyone is at least a little afraid of the dark. It is instinctive, to be wary of the shadows. Isn’t that inspiration enough?”