I gently pushed at the inside of the wardrobe door.  It resisted, then opened a millimeter.  The creak it gave was out of all proportion to the distance it had moved.  I jerked my hand back.  It creaked the millimeter back.  Had she heard?  I couldn't hear anything from the darkened room.  They say you should listen to the rhythm of their breathing.  I thought maybe she had died, because I was hearing zip.

I counted to five, then I rocked the door again.  Creak, creak.  Wait, wait.  Count to eight this time.  It's important to make arhythmic noises.  Regular noises can be ignored, incorporated into their dreams, lulling them to sleep.

I had counted to six when the door flew open.  It took me totally by surprise.  The little minx must have been holding her breath as she crept up on me.  I had no time to merge back into the wall.  Not even to hide behind a dress on the rail.

For a moment we stood staring at each other.  Her with an angry glare.  Me with my mouth open and eyes popping.  Then the training kicked in.

"Waaaaaaahhhhh!" I shouted, waving my hands high and pulling a face.  That's what they train you to do.  Scare them senseless.  At least startle them.  Give you a chance to hide properly before Daddy comes in.

She stared at me with an expression that only worldly-wise grandmas and six-year-old girls can muster.

"Stop that."

I stopped that.  It didn't seem to be working, anyway.

"Stop creaking the door.  I'm trying to get to sleep."

"And I scared you so much you couldn't sleep?"

She gave me a 'yeah, right' look.  How did a six-year-old learn facial expressions like that?  I blame it on television.

"No, I couldn't sleep because you're creaking the door.  Be quiet."

They told me it would be simple.  A nice easy one to ease me into the job.  I began to have my suspicions.  What had happened to the previous occupant of the wardrobe?  You don't just give up a plum position for a probationer, do you?

"I am going to wait till you fall asleep, then I'm going to eat your brains, little girl."

"I've got a teddy!" she retorted, in a fashion that suggested that she knew how to use it.

I had no answer to that.  Scare them, they said.  They're little kids.  A creak here, a rattle there, and they'd wet the bed.  Loom in a shadow and they would scream for Mummy.  That's what had happened in the simulations.  I could role-play with the best of them.  But they had never role-played an angry six-year-old with a teddy and an attitude.

"I'll eat his brains, too."  Okay, it wasn't the best answer, but I was on my back foot.

"He's a teddy," she said.  "He doesn't have brains, just stuffing."  Boy, did I feel stupid.  "Where's the proper Boogie Man?"

I pulled myself up to my full height and said in my best injured tone, "I am a proper Boogie Man."  And then, because I felt that the statement was a little weak, I waved my hands high and waaaaaaahed again.

She gave an exaggerated sigh of impatience.  "I told you to stop that."

"Sorry."

"The proper Boogie Man used to tell me stories."

Stories!  Stories!  The b … bad Boogie Man.  What sort of insane Boogie Man told little girls stories?  What sort of mad world had I stumbled on?

"No, he didn't!" I said, shocked at the idea that any Boogie Man could stoop to that.

"Yes, he did!"

"No, he didn't!"  Okay, so it wasn't on a par with Sartre or Nietzsche.  The central thrust of my argument lacked a logical depth.  But talking to a six-year-old does that to you.

"Yes, he did, and you have to as well."

"No, I don't."  Look, don't judge me until you've been in an argument with a kid.

"Yes, you do, or I'm telling."

"Sure, tell on me, why don't you.  Go call for your Mummy.  See how far that gets you."  Well, they said the job was a success when they called for a parent.  The end justifies the means, and all that.

"Not my Mum.  You're stupid!  I'll tell the Grand Council, and they'll never let you into a bedroom again and you'll have to scare frogs and worms and stuff and you'll never ever be a boogie man ever again."

"What the … How the hell do you know about the Grand Council?"

"The proper Boogie Man told me."

"Look, I am a proper Boogie Man, and proper Boogie Men don't read stories to little girls, they rip off their arm and beat them to death with the soggy end."

"No you don't.  The proper Boogie Man told me you weren't allowed to hurt me."

"I am a proper … Listen, darling, the no hurting rule only goes so far.  Trust me, the way you're going, I'm willing to make an exception."

"Story!"

"No."

"I'm telling!"

"So tell."  Ha!  Six-year-olds are useless at bluffing.  I might not be able to scare her, but I was damned if I was going to tell her a night-time story.

She closed her eyes, and then to my horror she started to mutter the incantation.  Dammit, six-year-olds were useless at bluffing, so she wasn't even trying to bluff.

"Okay, okay, you win."

She opened her eyes and grinned.  "Tell me a story," she said, running back to her bed.

"Fine."  And they call us monsters.  "Once upon a time …"

"And make sure there's blood and guts and stuff," she interrupted, her eyes aglow with enthusiasm.

"It was a dark and stormy night …."  And it was going to be a long one, too.  I could tell.