The world was wrapped in a thick cotton blanket. Silent. Cold, and stale, with stagnant air drifting across the room in random patterns. It was hot now, cross heat slipping around her legs. Sweat tickled down her spine, gelling to her twisted hair. The quilt was thick, warm and heavy. She could hardly breathe; stifled by the light sheet that surrounded her. It would have been sensible to just move that little centimetre, to just poke her head out from under her covers. Sensible for an adult. She knew, though, she knew it was never safe to look out and over her huddled mount at night, least of all on this night.
All Hallows Eve.
How that one name shredded her heart to pieces. This was the one night that they all came out. Throughout every bedroom in every house of every country in the whole wide world the monsters stirred. The harsh gushes of mouldy breath broke the silence. The blanket had lifted and they were out.
Normally, on any given night, she could feel the scuffles and hear the bumps that came from under her bed, where her monster resided. Tonight, however, she heard more; they clambered through her closet, scampered between the hallways, flicking their horned tails against the walls. They spoke to one another, harsh grunts and shrill cries darting over her head in rapid succession. Hearing the window slide open only increased her fear, more could enter now. They seemed to be ignoring her though, crashing through her room with no regard for her existence. That is until they heard her squeak. It was an accident, a small creature… or a large limb… had flipped down and thumped against her stomach, pushing the air from her lungs. In a last ditch effort not to make any noise she tightened her vocal chords, to no avail. She could hear them turn, dozens on clawed feet clicking on her wooden floor as they moved her way.
Balling herself tighter she huddled under the blankets, long hair curling around her arms and waist, almost suffocating her. Her mother always said that the monsters were not real, even after father had cleared her room of them. Her mother would look stern and yell at him for encouraging her only daughter, “They don’t exist, Wilbur, why you insist on…” She always trailed away in that exact way, with that tone of disgusted confusion in her voice. She’d turn around and look down at her, couched atop her mussed blankets, tell her that she should grow up, and then turn around and click the door shut after.
Her mother was right.
Eyes closed and lips moving quickly she repeated the mantra, “mother is right. Too old now. Not real.” Over and over again she muttered her phrases, trying to ignore the clicking of claws and rustling of her blankets. It was too hard, the clicking had stopped, she could no longer feel the putrid breath of the monster she knew lived under her bed, and she could only hope they had gone forever. A quick jerk stopped her from giggling; her ankle was caught in a spindly grasp. It felt as though a little twig had wound itself around her foot and tugged on it. There was no tree outside her window, and certainly no tree in her room.
Oh dear.
She gasped for air, trying not to hyperventilate while struggling under her covers. That would be very bad indeed. The tugging began again, in five second intervals. She counted while holding her breath, until on the tenth tug the spindly fingers were gone. She allowed herself one great gasp of breath, struggling to move her hands to the blanket edge with as little movement as possible. Her hair had wound its way around her chest now making it hard to breathe, let alone move. It took great effort and more than one stifled sneeze before she was able to curl her index finger against the rim of her blankets.
The blanket moved.
Her finger was now exposed to the humid air beyond the safety of the blankets. The was no response from the outside. Taking this as a positive sign she slipped four more fingers over the rim. The cool air flickered against the exposed fingers. It was lovely. Growing bolder she began to pull the blanket down over her face, excited to look about her room in safety. Just as she reached her eye line the third finger on her right was scratched lightly. It was a fleeting touch, hardly enough to be a threat. So she continued, there was another scratch, harder this time. The slippery texture of drool plopped against her painted nail, a sharp line being drawn on her skin as she fought for inner control.
They were still there.
The blanket was just clear of her eyes, yet she kept them wrinkled with pressure. To open her eyes was to be eaten, she was sure. A tiny tear crawled out from beneath her tightened lids, slowly trailing down her cheek, to die against the blankets thick surface. There was a rush of clean air.
It was surprise, she later reasoned, that led her to snap her eyes open so quickly as to make her head spin. It was surprise that made her gasp when she saw no monsters before her. It was not, however much she reasoned, surprise that made her fling her blankets from her body, thudding her feet against the bare floor boards. She dropped to her knees, gazing under the bed in apprehension. There was nothing there. She could see her converse shoes, her broken schoolbag and her stuffed elephant, Cornelius.
There were no monsters.
Heart thudding in her chest she moved to her widow, revelling in the cool morning air. Her mother had been right. She had imagined every little bit of the night’s terrors and she was really too old to believe anymore. In her mind, and heart, she mourned the loss of the monster under her bed, of the faeries that lived in the dew drops. She braced herself against the window pane as she whimpered her sorrow. The horizon sparked with new light.
It was morning. Her eyes slowly lit up. It was morning. Morning meant the monsters hid. No self-respecting monster could possibly go out in the day-time that was human time. She was bursting with happiness, her mother was wrong. It was hardly surprising, her mother was often wrong about such things. Grinning into the morning air she marvelled at her gullibility. The monsters never would disappear, and she would never be too old, because they were real. She knew it.
Turning from her open window she padded to her closet to pick her outfit for the day. It was going to be a fabulous day indeed. Quietly she hummed to herself, a smile gracing her features.
Lsitening to the thump of a tail in time.
