It’s 3 a.m., and the world outside is dead quiet. You’re groggily half-awake, wrapped in your blanket burrito, when a faint clink echoes from the kitchen.

Your eyes snap open.

Was that the fridge?

You sit up, heart pounding, straining your ears. Another noise—a soft rustle, the sound of something being moved.

Shit, shit, shit.

You grab the closest thing you can use as a weapon (which happens to be a lamp), and tiptoe toward the kitchen, your socked feet barely making a sound on the floor. Every horror movie you’ve ever seen is now playing on loop in your brain.

As you round the corner, you see it: a shadow hunched over the open fridge, its head obscured by the door. Cold light spills across the kitchen floor, illuminating scattered leftovers.

You tighten your grip on the lamp and muster the courage to shout, “WHOEVER YOU ARE, I’M ARMED!”

The figure freezes. Then, slowly, it peeks out from behind the door.

“Jesus, relax!”

It’s Hans—your husband, mid-bite on a piece of cold pizza. Hair sticking up in every direction, and looking as groggy as you.