Note: This was a children\’s story I wrote in my college creative writing class. I sent it to Ranger Rick and got some praise from the editor, but it was never published. At the time I could not see why, but when recently rereading it, I saw how in places the prose is choppy, and my metaphors not quite apt.
Two novels and an e-book later, I am itching to edit and revise the story — but usually when I try to rework anything I have done long ago, the result is a disaster. What I do like about this story is that, until this point, I\’d had a lot of unfinished projects; good resolutions are hard to do, and I was able to wrap this one up. Some of the ideas in it have also found their way into the novel I just finished. The story made me aware of how fiction is often not only a clash of wills, but perspectives.
In honor of the Halloween season, I have decided to share it.
The Monster Who Haunted By Lamplight
The monster clung to the bottom of the floor under the bed and waited. He couldn\’t disappear like most monsters of his type; he hoped nothing went wrong.
Voices drifted into the room from the hall — laughter and exchanges of good-nights. The monster tensed his muscles, un-tensed them, allowed them to relax.
The feet when they came were larger than he\’d expected. He extended his claws, then retracted them.
Not yet.
A barrage of creaks, squeaks, and groans assaulted him from above as the feet rose above his eye level and disappeared.
It was time to act, to make himself known, first with subtle hints and suggestions — then with a sudden leap of manifest horror.
He pushed up on the mattress just enough to make himself felt. He rolled around on the floor so that the floor would snap mysteriously. He started to moan, but wanted to be subtle.
He listened. There was no response.
Could his target have fallen asleep? Or was it merely paralyzed from fear? The monster extended and contracted his claws — shut them, closed them. Decided to wait.
The boy was eleven and too old to be afraid of the dark. But he believed in punishment, and that\’s why he was lying awake, his eyes wide, staring at the ceiling.
He had lied to his parents, lied to his friends — lied to everybody he\’d known. He would\’ve lied to his dog if his dog would\’ve listened.
He told his friends he\’d been abducted by aliens. He told his father that the cigarettes found in his room were not his. He told the small, moist-eyed girl who sat in front of him that Sherman Wafflebee liked her.
During the day he never felt guilty. He was only protecting himself when it came to the cigarettes. And the rest of the time he lied because lying was more interesting than telling the truth.
But at night, it was different. At night, he curled into a tight ball and wondered if Harris Sullivan, the bully, would say to him if he knew he was afraid there might be monsters under his bed waiting to rain justice upon him for his lies.
The bad guys, he observed, always died first in horror films.
Tonight, though, there was something even more different than usual. He could swear that he actually felt the bed move from underneath a couple of times. And the floor seemed to crack more audibly than usual with someone\’s weight.
There was only one cure, he knew. But the lamp on his desk was too far away to turn on without getting up.
He shifted around uncomfortably, then lay still. Then, releasing his breath slowly, he pulled back the sheet, as if afraid he would break it.
He sat up, almost soundlessly, and placed one foot on the floor at a time. The wooden floor made a cracking sound as he tiptoed through the shadowy void. The distance from the bed to the lamp seemed to have expanded. He finally found the desk, leaned toward the lamp switch, groped for it. Turned it.
The cold light swept over the room. The boy breathed again, relieved. Now he would begin to check the room, starting first with the closets — then behind doors, behind anything defining empty, hidden space.
He\’d save the bed for last.
The monster had crouched to spring when the feet descended, but he had delayed too long. The light was on now. Exposure of this sort was unthinkable.
If the elders had had their way, he wouldn\’t even be here. Patience, they said. You are young and small. Your powers will increase with time. Right now it is too dangerous. You cannot dematerialize at will.
He cursed his handicap. If he were exposed by the boy, he\’d be forced to attack immediately — without drama, without mystery.
The monster was tired. His stomach ached. He was tired of the cramped space under the bed, tired of the clutter of comic books that surrounded him.
If the boy discovered him, he\’d attack — without forewarning, without suspense, his first victim.
There were no monsters in the closet. The doors had hidden no goblins, no vampires — no hairy, disgusting creatures with flaming eyes condemning the boy in hoarse voices for his transgressions.
The bed was the only place left.
The boy stooped at a distance from the bed and squinted at its underside. He could see nothing through the shadows, except maybe part of a comic book. He wished he hadn\’t read so many of those things with all their inflated talk about justice, avenging people, and righteousness prevailing over the forces of evil.
On his hands and knees, he crawled closer.
He looked under the bed. Eyes glowed back at him.
It moved.
The monster growled and sprang. The boy gasped and fell back on his elbows. The monster hovered over the boy for a moment, his claws extended. Then he swiped at him, just enough to skim the surface of the skin. He growled again. As a single drop of blood surfaced, the boy screamed, \”Go ahead! Kill me! I won\’t obstruct justice!\”
The monster saw the boy\’s fear, which was what he wanted to see — but he also saw a wild victory in the boy\’s eyes that confused and disoriented him. The words were incomprehensible, strange. The monster tried to pull his claws away from the boy\’s pajama top, ready to launch another attack — one that would erase the victory from the boy\’s face, cause the fear to engulf him.
But his claws were ensnared in the top, stuck. He had forgotten to extend his claws again before pulling them out. An unthinkable mistake. He growled, but his momentum was lost.
\”I won\’t obstruct justice! Let justice prevail!\” repeated the boy, his eyes wild. \”Yes, the cigarettes really were mine! Go ahead, kill me! I\’m not really a member of NASA! And I don\’t really have a pony!\”
The monster finally managed to get his claws un-mired from the pajama top. Justice. Justice. The monster did not know the word.
He sat back, dazed. \”Justice?\” asked the monster.
The boy continued his ranting as if oblivious to the monster. \”I didn\’t really skip four grades! I don\’t really have a pet walrus! And I\’ve never even seen an igloo or an asteroid! At least not up close … I mean, okay! Not even up close … And I … huh? What … what did you say?\”
\”What is justice?\” said the monster. He was embarrassed, defeated, but fascinated by the boy\’s words.
The boy took a deep, trembling breath, cleared his throat, and looked at the thing at last. Its claws were still unsheathed, but it was if it didn\’t know what to do with them. Its eyes were huge, curious, and un-scary. They were colorful without being any particular color. They kept changing, depending on the way the light hit them, like a prism.
The boy sat up slowly. \”You mean … you don\’t know? You aren\’t here to … punish me … for all my lies? Then why are you — why did you …?
Punish. The monster didn\’t understand. He wanted to scare people because he enjoyed it and because it made him feel important and because he was a monster and it was what he did. Lie … he wasn\’t sure. No one had ever lied to him.
He shook his head, never taking his eyes from the boy.
\”Well,\” said the boy, eyeing the monster skeptically, but surprised at how calm he suddenly sounded. The hand which covered the scratch on his stomach shook slightly, but the monster\’s confused expression gave him confidence. \”Justice is when someone does something wrong and gets what he deserves. Like lying.\”
He paused for a long time, as if thinking deeply. \”It\’s like not being able to watch T.V. when you don\’t clean your room, only justice is usually something much, much worse. Like if someone kills another person and they get hung at the gallows. Or they rob somebody and they go to the guillotine and it chops off their head.\” The boy swept his index finger across his neck to demonstrate.
The monster looked tired. His stiff, spiked hair drooped. His head sagged. His expression was uncomprehending, almost sad. His fascination with the boy\’s speech had distracted him from the fact that the boy was no longer really afraid of him. His whole plan had been a total failure. It was time to go. The boy\’s talk about gallows and hanging and justice had left him numb with incomprehension. He had the impression that they might be the names of older monsters, scarier and more experienced than he was. If so, he was awed by their power. He began to back away.
\”Hey, don\’t go now,\” said the boy, surprised to hear himself say this. \”I\’ve never seen a monster in the light before.\” The boy\’s fear had changed into something else during the conversation. This was a good kind of fear, something completely different.
The monster continued sidling away. The lamp plug seemed so far away. Maybe if he could reach it, he could salvage a little dignity
\”Stay here and talk awhile. Please. I\’ll tell you about other monsters I\’ve met. Just like you except these were from outer space. Green, ugly monsters. Please stay.\”
With a pull and a thump, the light was out. The boy\’s heart jumped and he scrambled to the overhead switch. The monster was gone.
Later that night the boy was awake, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling. He wasn\’t afraid of the dark, of course. He was eleven, and too old for that. He was excited. Maybe the monster would come back. Eventually anyway. He wondered if he should tell his friends about this. They\’d never believe him. It was strange: tonight the truth had been more interesting than any lie he\’d ever told — and chances were good he\’d keep it to himself.