The Recording Studio

Cass wanted a real recording studio for her birthday. The best I could do was cover her closet in cheap padding and lend her the microphone app on my phone. Thrilled, she went in there all the time.

I figured she was playing popstar. Imagine my surprise when I listened to her recordings and heard her narrating scary stories instead.

Good ones, too, about parasitic aliens who ate brains and colonized foreign planets in clumps that looked like cheap padding.

She ended each story differently:

"Help, Daddy, please."

"Don't worry, this story is fiction."

"Come into the recording studio, Daddy."