I Didn't See You There

Once upon a time, a father tucked his young daughter into bed. This in itself was not unusual. He did this every night. The unusual part was, perhaps, the daughter waiting patiently at the door of her bedroom, rocking backwards and forwards on the balls of her feet, as her father carefully performed his nightly ritual.

The father slowly entered the pink-riddled room, stepping carefully around the bed. Trademark pink posters featuring Barbie and her brightly coloured friends stared down at him as he carefully lifted the corners of the curtains (again, pink). 

Nothing. 

The father breathed in, out, in, pause, out, then dropped to the floor to explore the bed’s underside. 

Dust bunnies.

He stared. Still dust bunnies. He started… harder. A flicker of movement? Even more nothing moved in bed’s underbelly. If there ever was a picture that described “absolute stillness” then this was it. With one last intense glare, he raised himself from the floor. With practiced ease, almost too fast for the eye to follow, he dropped to the floor again, hoping to be extra-extra sure.

Nothing.

“Daddy?” 

The smacking sound of bone against metal and a few inarticulate mumblings followed the question. The father picked himself off the floor, rubbing the crown of his head as he did so. He replied, “Nearly finished, Pumpkin.” 

On to the closet. Unlike the curtains and bed, the closet overflowed with boxes, clothes, assorted toys, and dark corners for anything to hide in. A single unexplored corner would make a difference. 

What if he missed something? What if he failed? It wouldn’t take much. A moment of distraction, maybe less, maybe less than whatever was less than a moment, then everything would change. 

The father braced himself as he let out a blood-curdling scream and launched himself at the closet. The father hurled the door open, almost ripping it from its hinges. 

Not even tending to his now sprained back, his eyes scanned the interior with an intense fury not seen since the previous night. A night where he did exactly the same thing (minus the sprained back). 

Clothes, shoes, toys, and boxes, clothes, shoes, toys, and boxes. 

For what was likely the millionth time, the father wondered what life was like before the pink atom bomb had exploded. Unlike dinosaurs or refusing to wash her hands before meals, pink was an enduring obsession.The father analysed every nook and cranny. 

Again… nothing. 

The father closed the wardrobe with a dull thunk, taking care to not damage it further. 

“Hop into bed, Bunny.”

The daughter made cute bunny noises as she bounced from the doorway to the bed. The father pulled back the covers as the daughter made the last leap.

“Silly, Daddy. Monsters aren’t real. I mean, not really real. There are story-monsters but not real-monsters. Real monsters aren’t,” she paused, her tongue stretching towards the corners of her mouth as she searched for the right word, “real-real.”

“Of course monsters aren’t real, Sweet Pea.” 

Following the nightly routine, the father rolled his daughter one way, tucked a portion of bed sheet underneath her, then the other way, repeating the process several times. The word “burrito” broke surface from the interior of his subconsciousness. His daughter’s eyes glowed with love and adoration.

Kissing her on the forehead, the father moved towards the door, turning off the lights as he did so. The nightlight on his daughter’s bedside table washed over his pride and joy like a warm, comforting hug.

Protect my daughter. Please God, please keep her safe. 

Yet again, like every other night, nothing emerged from the shadows. No flicker of movement erupted out of thin air. Everything was exactly as it should be. 

“Love you, Love-bug.”  

“Love you more, Daddy.” 

The shadows turned deeper and darker as the father retired to his own bedroom. Some nights, he was strong. He could take his time, brush his teeth, maybe even read a couple of pages of the latest best-seller.

Other nights, like tonight, it was all about getting it over and done with. Shadows bled black-ink as reality itself chaffed against the seams. 

He didn’t bother checking the closet, bed, or curtains. It didn’t matter. It was there. He could always tell. 

Pushing aside any thoughts of brushing his teeth, he climbed into the coolness of an empty bed. 

Monsters aren’t real, monsters aren’t real. 

Had it been a good night, his mantra could almost comfort him. Tonight, it made him feel like a liar. 

Here be monsters, burning bright, here be monsters in the dark, dark night.

Never move, pray, wait, they come at night, it is your fate. 

The father closed his eyes. Leaving nothing to chance, he covered his face with his hands.

Maybe they won’t come.

The sound of the creaking floorboards interrupted his thoughts. From the sounds of hooves against wood, the father knew it had been behind the curtains. 

He held his breath. Its smell always reminded him of grass before rain. Except wrong. Not unpleasant, just wrong. Real grass was sweet, like feathers and moonshine. This smell was sticky like a cleaning chemical. He didn’t know why monsters were sticky. They never explained anything.

An electrical whine sounded somewhere, only to die when the electrical current radiated outwards from the monster. Besides being sticky, monsters emitted an electrical charge strong enough to give him goosebumps. Sometimes it hovered close, making him feel like he was standing next to lightning. Tonight, thankfully, it took a seat on the chair beside his bed. 

Breath, you’ve forgotten to breathe. 

The father risked a few quick breaths. It was something he did only when they weren’t too close. It was repulsive to breathe in oxygen that shared the same space.

Had people known, they’d have called him strong for enduring an unendurable hell. Somehow, in the morning’s safety, he always found the strength to continue. The monster stared with inky black eyes from the darkness. With a wet hocking sound, it cleared its throat like getting ready for a performance. One day it’s going to be different. They won’t come. Maybe they’ll forget. Or move on (not to my daughter, never that), or go back to whatever existence they came from. He’d paid his dues. What more did they want? Somehow, someday, he’d be free.

Story, said the monster, its voice like sandpaper rubbing against polished glass. 

Story? Did it say story? Oh no, not that. Not again —

With a deep, shadowy voice, the monster said, “Once upon a time, a father tucked his young daughter into bed…”