Mr Bongo

[Lynchenberg]

Matt immediately knew there was something wrong with the house. He knew it from the moment his parents first showed him a photograph of their new home, as it sat glowering upon stones from forgotten centuries. It was only an uneasy feeling then; a perilous notion that almost did not exist, save for the boy’s vaguest contemplation. The reality only dawned upon Matt the day that he arrived at his new dwelling place. It was sunset when his parents stood proudly behind the wheel of their car. They sat there happily, briefly admiring the house from the curb before rushing indoors. Matt carefully studied each inch of the edifice, from its winding gables to the clamorous gardens that lay at its hilt. Matt found his eyes drawn to an upstairs window; a window that he would shortly discover belonged to his bedroom. He glanced upwards and saw Mr. Bongo for the first time, dimly lit from below as the red sun melted away behind the clouds. Mr. Bongo stood poised above him like a primordial spectre. He remained silhouetted against the sun’s last flickering glints of light, yet Matt could just barely register him clearly, save for his features. The child’s expression bore no surprise, for the boy was very experienced at recognizing monsters. After all, there were monsters in every house they had ever called home. His father boasted superior employment, or so he assured the lad, so he earned a great deal of income.

Nevertheless, the reality that loomed over that situation was that was every year or two, the family had to move into a new house in a new city. That was not the worst of it either, for every house had its own monsters. They were all worrisome, yet Matt knew Mr. Bongo would be the worst of the lot. For at least most monsters were eager to reveal their presence to him. Their hideous faces quickly appeared in all their gruesome glory within even the shallowest canals of the sleeping mind of Matt. Yet Mr. Bongo was in no hurry to disclose his features. Matt only ever saw his glowing yellow eyes. That would be all that he would see of him that day, as Mr. Bongo's vague form left the windowpane and submerged deep into the dense darkness within.

In other ways, Mr. Bongo was akin to any other monster, which only came out at night and most often took residence within Matt’s bedroom closet. Therefore, Matt reminded himself to make sure that he prevented that area from becoming squalid during his daylight hours. Monsters are less inclined to haunt clean crevices, after all. Nevertheless, during the very first night he spent in his new room, Mr. Bongo’s glaring sneer confronted him. The scornful stare burned profoundly into the paralysed eyes of poor Matt, for Bongo’s pale, moss-covered pupils betrayed an insatiable hunger within their owner. Matt knew Mr. Bongo did not hunger for child-flesh like Flop, the monster that lived under his bed back in his old house. Mr. Bongo wanted something more. Matt was never sure what it was, but feared it might somehow be worse. Matt never told his parents about Mr. Bongo. They never believed him when he warned them about the other monsters, and certainly would not care to take heed of a recent horror, especially one even he could scarcely describe. When Matt told them about Wimpy, the monster who made the creaking sounds in the attic of their last house, they merely laughed. Their solution was simply to give him a night-light. To Matt’s surprise, the night-light actually worked on the monsters in that house; it kept them at bay. He tried to use it on Mr. Bongo as well, but it did no good. In fact, Matt got rid of the night-light soon after meeting Mr. Bongo for the first time. It was too disturbing to have a light on when it did nothing to prevent Mr. Bongo from creeping out of the closet each night, and instead it illuminated his presence.

In fact, the light only made matters worse. Matt cringed at the spectacle of the slimy, squealing rats scurrying over Bongo's placid form. The filthy sight was at odds with his spotless white gloves, and prim, unwrinkled suit and tie. Somehow, this cartoon-like cleanliness served to amplify the fetid forms that scrambled over his garments, like a painter enhancing a stroke of green with a stroke of red. Indeed, Mr. Bongo was a strangely well-dressed monster. However, his ominous eyes always betrayed his true character. It was common to see Mr. Bongo's gloved hands stroke the rats as they writhed in response, for his touch was rarely gentle. Once, one of the small creatures attempted to warn Matt not to accept any of Mr. Bongo's treats. This marked the first time that Mr. Bongo ever spoke to Matt. It was a sibilant whisper, coaxing, and almost friendly, as it rasped out an offer for a treat. Matt was not about to accept, nor even reply. For the boy remained far too astonished by the impossibility of a rat speaking. Before the creature had quite finished squeaking out its warning, Mr. Bongo smugly slipped the rat into his pocket by its tail, in mid-sentence. Matt heard it squeal woefully as it entered into captivity, and he expelled his bodily fluids onto his bed-sheets. The only feeling more terrifying was the one that clutched at his heart as his father berated him for the mess he had made, early the next morning.

A moment later, Mr. Bongo arduously withdrew into the cramped interior of Matt’s closet. Yet this was not before promising to bring Matt a superior surprise the next night. Matt shuddered to himself, as that was hardly something to wait on with anticipation. The monsters in his old closet never spoke to him. They waited until Matt fell asleep before venturing forward, intending to suck the marrow from his bones. Matt was always able to stop them; waking up chased them away. He never saw the old monsters; he only reasoned that they had been there. On the other hand, Mr. Bongo could not be frightened away so easily. Every night now, he heard him say, “Come into my closet little friend,” in an eerily alluring tone. “We have beautiful toys and cakes! You know you want to.”

Yet Bongo's perverse presence in this new abode proved strenuous not only for the child, but for his parents as well. They grew progressively wearier of Matt’s fanciful complaints. “Go to bed!” screamed Matt's father, after they had been in that house for two months and three days. “But Daddy, Mr. Bongo will be up there,” Matt sobbed in response. “He’ll show me some candy or a movie and try to get me! Please Daddy, it’s getting harder to resist him every night. He just won't never give up.”

“Matt, your obsession with monsters is growing increasingly tiresome,” sighed his father contemptuously. “It's those stupid horror comics you always read. Those vile things make you go around thinking there's a monster everywhere! If it weren't for your mother, I'd have burned the lot to ash by now. That’s another thing..."


Matt sighed; his father was giving his anti-horror sermon once again. Matt listened for a moment, almost mouthing the speech word-for-word, as he had it memorized. It was nearly time for the part where his father would maliciously deem him a future serial killer. However, that portion of the rant never came to fruition. The basketball game his father had been waiting for was now flickering across the television screen. He abruptly turned away from his son to enjoy it. Matt hated sports. He never could understand why such a large portion of the populace made such a fuss over something so pointless. There were matters of greater importance at hand, such as the looming threat of monsters.

Matt turned upstairs to get ready for bed. As the small frame of the boy departed, his father swallowed a large gulp of beer and hollered up after him, “Don't forget to brush your teeth!”

“I won't,” Matt called back. After two or three steps, Matt studied the stairs and wondered about the creaking noise. In an earlier house, Lady Swoon-Moon made such creaks. As he hovered over the flight of steps, he remembered her long, yellow teeth. They were painted like candy canes with the blood of past children who climbed that accursed flight. To Matt’s ears, each creak betrayed the munching of her jaws over the bones of innocent victims. Matt quaked in fear, and ran the rest of the way up the stairs. Matt saw the door to the bathroom at the end of the hall, a few feet from the door to his bedroom. He quickly realized he had to relieve himself, but the bathroom seemed a mile away. Matt took a step forward when he heard a creak coming from behind the cusp of his door. A second ago, the door remained sealed shut. Yet currently, it was open, albeit just a crack. It provided just enough room for a rat to scurry into the hallway and face Matt.


“Don't listen to him,” squeaked the rat. It spoke in a tone that was reminiscent of the characters in the cartoon Matt treasured most, Alvin and the Chipmunks. “He told me there'd be a dollhouse, Matt. There wasn't. He doesn't keep any of his promises. He's a liar. Don't trust him.” The rat did not have time to complete its warning however. The door opened wider and the hand of Mr. Bongo extended forward, covered by his white Mickey Mouse glove as was customary. He clutched the rat and pulled it back into Matt's bedroom as it screamed in the voice of a young girl. The clicking of the door smothered the rodent’s cry. Then, Mr. Bongo's yellow eye slowly materialized in the keyhole. It stared at Matt lustfully, causing him to bolt across the room, insecure in the knowledge that Mr. Bongo's eyes never left him until he slammed the bathroom door shut.


Matt knew he could not stay in the bathroom all night, but an hour went by before he dared to open the door to his bedroom. When he finally switched on the light, no horrors awaited there to greet him. He breathed a heavy sigh of relief, and changed into his pyjamas and turned off the overhead light. Matt pulled his covers over his head, and then crawled to the end of his bed to make certain that the lamp on his bedside table remained snuffed as well. He now lay safely tucked away under his covers. Matt closed his eyes tight, grateful to avoid the sight of the rich shadows that draped across his blanket in the moonlight. On nights where he gave into temptation and did peek, they seemed like grasping claws and gaping maws. After a minute or two following his decent into slumber, the door to Matt’s closet crept open ever so slightly. Mr. Bongo kept his phosphorous eyes transfixed on Matt all night long, yet never uttered a word. Bongo's eyes followed every twitch and turn of the sleeping child from across the room. They continued stalking him the way a hungry cat stalks a bird with a broken wing. His yellow eyes sparkled with anticipation, and a cold sort of pleasure. “Soon,” he whispered under his breath, his worm-like tongue licking his lips sensually. “Soon…”

Matt did not remember falling asleep that night, but when he awoke, he felt rested. School was not difficult the next day, he merely had one small test in spelling and received no homework. Matt had always prided himself upon his spelling. He learned many of the words on the list before anyone else in his class. Matt entertained dreams of becoming a comic book writer and artist. Yet he secretly harboured doubts over whether he would succeed. It was not that he performed poorly in art class; he knew that he drew fairly well. However, he could not draw for very long. When he did so, his pictures gradually became less convincing. Furthermore, even if he could draw for longer periods, he knew that there were a number of artists more skilled. Artists like Nancy for instance. Matt made several friends at his new school, but she was the most gifted. Her work was akin to something out of one of the art books his mother read. In a few years, Matt was sure her etchings would be even more accurate than photography. He never understood why she did not want to become an artist. She said it was only a hobby to her, that her heart pulled her in other directions. Matt had mixed feelings when he heard her say this. He was frustrated that she would let her talent go to waste, but he was also relieved that she would not offer competition when he was old enough to pursue his own dreams.

Matt also felt a trifle angry about the whole situation. He often wondered why she should have so much talent and not utilize it, when he had the courage to work towards his goal, yet the Almighty saw fit to grace him with less-gifted hands. His frustration turned to puzzlement when she confessed her dream to star in the movies. Matt praised her performances; he had even defended her on more than one occasion when bullies mocked her abilities. Even though all he had to show for his troubles was a bloody nose and black eye. Yet deep down in his heart, Matt knew the unvarnished truth. The poor girl simply lacked talent in regards to theatre. He thought sometimes of telling her that her dreams could never come true, but he was sure it would only make him lose her as a friend. Friends were the only thing that made him feel normal. At home, his parents treated him as an outcast. The boy never claimed parental abuse, but he remained given to neglect by his mother and contempt by his father.

These were the thoughts that lingered in Matt’s mind as he tapped the tip of his pencil on his desk, while school came to and end. Although the noisy and numerous crowds of schoolchildren thinned once the dismissal bell sounded, Matt remained poised alone at his desk. He began reading the new issue of Tales to Shiver Your Soul, when the graceful figure of Nancy appeared above him, peering at his periodical curiously. “Care to walk me home this evening, Matt?” she inquired with a warm smile. “Of course,” replied Matt, returning her soft grin.

“Are you going to pick up the new special edition DVD of The Dog and Cat?” Nancy asked as the pair trod the along the sidewalk together.


“Is it out already?”

“Yep; I just loved it when I watched it in the theatre with my mom, didn't you?”

“I sure did. I just hope I can afford it,” replied Matt, a hint of regret upon his tongue.


“Do you mean you hope your parents can afford it?” Nancy offered, with a mischievous, yet playful grin.

Matt placed his hands in his pockets, irately. “You don't have to be like that about it.”

“Oh come on Matt,” laughed Nancy. “It wouldn't hurt to get a paper route or something to help chip in to pay for the things you want. Maybe then your folks wouldn't be so sore at you all the time.”

Matt peered up at Nancy angrily, yet as mightily as he strived, he could not bring himself to feel scorn at her words. The smile that played across her lips was warm, and the flesh that surrounded it was soft and white; almost velveteen. If the lad had been a few years older, he just may have seen something more in the young woman than a playmate. Yet Matt was too young for that; he only fidgeted his hands restlessly within his pockets and changed the subject. Avoiding conflict had almost grown into an art to the boy. “Do you go online much?” he asked.

“Nah,” Nancy replied. “My parents don’t let me, why?”

“The Supernatural Inquirer said there was another monster sighting recently,” Matt pointed out.

Nancy laughed at that. “I can’t believe your parents let you use the computer alone, mine never would.”

“Yeah, but, well, I just heard about this thing, see. It seemed awful shmooky,” said Matt. He always pronounced the word “spooky” as “shmooky” by mistake. This was a lingering reminder of his failure to master linguistics fully. In spite of the long period his father paid for his speech-therapy sessions, he never quite mastered it. Nancy thought it was endearing however, and had to stifle a giggle, not wishing to embarrass her friend.

“You’re lucky,” said Nancy, attempting to hurry the conversation along before Matt could fully register her thinly masked laughter. “My parents only let me go on for fifteen minutes a day and they hafta be sitting beside me.”

“I bet I could be online all day and my mom ‘n dad wouldn’t care at all,” replied Matt.

“You’d think with all the grief you give them about monsters, they’d be more hard-assed about you doing whatever you want online,” said Nancy.

“Hey! That’s a dirty word,” cried Matt, taken aback.

“Oh, don’t be such a wuss Matt,” teased Nancy. “I swear, you’re more of a girl than I am! So, are ya gonna tell me what you read about online, or what?”

“Well, I heard these two l’il girls, about our age, stabbed this other girl to death see, as sort of a sacrifice to The Gentle-Man.”

“The Gentle-Man?” asked Nancy, amused. “That’s a…strangely generic monster name for you.”

“Well, I didn’t name him myself like I do with the monsters at home,” said Matt. “He’s been a big buzz on the internet for quite some time now.”

“Oh, I think I’ve heard of him,” mused Nancy. “People draw him on Defiant Art a whole lot.”

“It’s difficult not to hear about him,” Matt said. “He’s everywhere.”

“Its funny how that stuff blows up,” pointed out Nancy. “Didn’t the Gentle-Man start off as some joke on an internet forum somewhere?”

“No!” cried Matt. “He’s real, those two girls had to make a sacrifice to the Gentle-Man or he woulda stolen them all away!”

Nancy appeared unconvinced, her mature expression betraying the banality in Matt’s commitment to the notion that monsters exist. “So was this a sighting of the Gentle-Man himself, or did these two girls just claim to see him?” She inquired, in a voice far more mature than her mere twelve years on Earth would suggest.

“The girls claimed they saw him,” said Matt, avoiding eye contact with Nancy. “Dunno if they did.”

“This is probably why my parents don’t let me go online so much, and instead insist I spend most of my time at the library,” replied Nancy, her intelligence seizing hold of Matt’s attention. “I learn a lot more useful things in the books I read there.”

“Like what?”

“Well, for one thing, like sometimes if something isn’t real, we go to great lengths to make it real, just because we want to believe in something.”

“Why would anyone want to believe in monsters?” asked Matt, his brow furrowing with irate puzzlement.

“Cause,” continued Nancy. “Think of how boring life would be if you didn’t see monsters in every home you’re in or why you keep reading those comics even through they terrify you.”

“But the Gentle-Man almost killed this girl Nancy,” said Matt. “Are you denying that?”

“Not quite,” said Nancy with slight trepidation. “He inspired those girls, and I suppose you don’t have to exist to inspire people.”

“That don’t make no sense,” shrugged Matt.

“Perhaps not,” continued Nancy. “But think of it like this. The idea of the Gentle-Man existing was so…” she paused, collecting her words. “…powerful, these two girls sort of, took on his role. So whether he existed or not in a physical sense doesn’t really matter, he still attacked that girl.”

“I think I understand,” said Matt. “Do you think…other people could take on the role of a monster, so that it becomes real too?”

“What are you asking, Matt?”

“Well, it’s just…” he paused for a beat. “I haven’t told you about the monster in my new house.”

“You don’t have to be embarrassed,” smiled Nancy. “You can tell me anything, I’d never make fun of you.”

“I dunno, he’s just…he’s different somehow. I first brought up the Gentle-Man because they’re kinda similar and stuff but… I named him Mr. Bongo, but I did a little research on the Gentle-Man online, and I thought it might be him. And now I wonder if it’s similar to what you explained.”

“Do you mean how sometimes we create the very things that scare us?” Nancy asked.

“Something like that,” said Matt. “Or maybe if we’re scared of something enough, someone else takes advantage of that.”

Nancy proudly placed a hand on Matt’s shoulder, as they arrived outside her house. “You’re growing up, l’il buddy,” she smiled at him. “Anyway, this is my stop. Take it easy, okay dude?” With that, Nancy disappeared indoors. Afterwards, Matt took a brief moment to place a hand to his shoulder, and stare at the door to Nancy’s house while a small grin appeared on his face. The feeling Matt experienced was not love, but his heart felt the slightest touch of infatuation for the girl. Infatuation and regret remained swathed over him, as he continued his journey homeward. As he walked, he turned his head constantly, observing her house recede from sight. His cheeks flushed bashfully, and he broke into a jog.

At home that night, it was Matt’s father whose cheeks flushed. “Those new releases are excessively pricey!" he roared, after the boy failed extricating an advance on his allowance from him.

“But Daddy, you buy movies for yourself all the time,” said Matt. “I'll help ya pay for it.”

“Don't give me any back chat,” replied Matt's father. “I’m your father; I earn the money in this household. I provide you with a generous allowance, and I’m not going to have you squeezing more money out of me. I will especially not have you guilt-trip me because I enjoy a good DVD now and then. I work hard.”

“Aw, don’t be such a…a hard-ass Dad…,” Matt muttered under his breath.

“That’s it, in bed now,” stated Matt’s father flatly. “This instant, go.”

“But it's not time yet…” whined Matt. in surprise.

“I heard what you said Matt, and that kind of language is not acceptable under this roof. This will teach you a good lesson," retorted Matt's father.


Matt sulked with every step to his bedroom. He crawled into bed with a mounting desire to weep filling his eyes. The sentiment did not find motivation in his father’s discipline, yet in his desire to see The Dog and the Cat. Despite his young age, he was aware it was selfish to cry over a something as frivolous as a DVD, but Matt was soon sobbing into his pillow profusely. The lad was so upset that he forgot all about Mr. Bongo as he changed into his pyjamas. He did not even notice the rats scratching at the door to his closet, in their attempt to issue a warning to him. Instead, Matt obliviously slipped into the world of dreams while the closet door slowly slipped open. Matt only woke when he heard weeping. As he expected, the cries came from within his closet. Matt was by no means a thick-witted child, so he was aware this might be a ruse. Nevertheless, he simply could not return to bed without knowing who was crying inside his closet. Could it possibly be Mr. Bongo? What would spur a monster to cry? Furthermore, Mr. Bongo was always in a good mood, particularly while revelling in that hunger Matt could not explain. However, someone within that dank crevice cried, that was certain. Matt slipped out of his bed, irresistibly drawn to the sound. Despite that, Matt still felt sorely anxious thanks to the memory of Bongo’s eyes. He could not shake off his suspicions; Matt did not want to take a chance, only to discover Mr. Bongo had planned something nasty for him. Matt had crawled half way back into bed when the feeble cries from behind the closet, transmogrified into thunderous sobs. Matt could not ignore it any longer. Despite his reservations, he turned his head toward the closet door, and reluctantly opened his eyes, which he had firmly shut in spite of himself. He hesitated once before arising from bed and placing his palm over the handle of the closet. Maybe if he had not heard a final sob he would not have opened the door at all. However, the noise did sound in his eardrums; he did open the door.

Mr. Bongo sat in a chair with his back to Matt, watching a huge TV set. Playing onscreen was The Dog and the Cat. The sight had Matt so transfixed that he did not even realize how large his closet had suddenly grown. On the screen played the film's most heart-breaking moment. The dog told the cat that they could no longer be friends because of his master's contempt for cats. Matt felt a tear roll down his cheek. Suddenly a very inviting chair appeared out of thin air beside Mr. Bongo. It was just 
the right size for Matt. Alongside the chair was a table full of popcorn and soft drinks. Mr. Bongo gestured Matt to take a seat. Matt nearly took a step into the closet when a voice stopped him. “Please Matt,” squeaked the voice. “Please don’t.”
 Matt looked down and before him stood an entire army of rats. The fattest of the rats declared, “I lost my favourite Batman toy when I was six. He told me he had one just like it. But I never got it.” Another said, "He offered me pizza, but it caught fire once I stepped in.” Then the tallest and skinniest of the rat spoke. This rat was different somehow, yet Matt could not put his finger upon exactly how. “Matt, I know a lot about you,” the rat said, in a queerly deep and developed tone that reminded the boy of a father, though not his own. “I know about what Nancy told you. It’s true Matt, when you believe in something, when you want it to be real, sometimes the wrong person steps up to make it real.”

“They're lying, Matt,” Mr. Bongo interrupted. “You trust me don’t you?” Bongo’s tone was that of a wounded woman. It reminded him of his mother's voice. Matt looked back at the rats. Curiously, the tall and thin one had disappeared. The other rats remained however, and hastened their pleading. “Please Matt, don’t do this to yourself,” one rat begged. However, the rat only looked like a rat. Matt turned to look at Mr. Bongo once more, and ascertained that he looked like a friend. Matt squinted, and realized that Mr. Bongo looked like his mother. The yellow eyes he had exhibited previously had disappeared. “Maybe they were just for seeing in the dark, like a cat or something…” Matt reasoned to himself silently, as the curious notion that Bongo also looked quite a bit like his mother flashed briefly within his mind.

“God hates you, but I love you,” Mr. Bongo whispered soothingly. “Jesus Christ molested you when you were but a babe, while it was my hand that fed and clothed you. Give your heart to me and you never will be alone or lost again.”

Matt shut his eyes tightly, trying to think. Meanwhile, the closet door opened a little wider, without any visible hands inching it forward.
 Matt remembered a time long ago when his father disciplined him for an incident in school. Matt could not exactly remember what mischief he had wrought, yet he felt guilty just the same. However, later that night, all his guilt and pain vanished as if it never was. For in those days, Matt always slept with a beloved teddy bear. There were no monsters when he slept with Teddy. They would not dare come while Teddy was protecting him. His father did not know that, it was Matt’s secret. However, his father visited Matt’s room later that night and found him with Teddy. “What are you?” he bellowed. “Some kind of little faggot? Boys don’t have s*** like this!” Matt hugged Teddy tighter for comfort, yet that comfort turned into fear when his father began to pull at Teddy's head. Matt rushed forward to save Teddy but it was too late. All he could do afterward was clutch his dismembered bear and weep. Matt then knew Teddy could not keep all the monsters away, the biggest monster of all was standing over him now.
 He opened his eyes upon hearing Mr. Bongo coo; "He destroyed your only friend, didn't he? Well, you still have friends. I'm your friend Matt. I love you. The rats love you, too. They can't wait for you to come in. They perform dandy tricks and play wonderful games. And you should taste their ice cream. It's simply delicious! Please Matt, we're so lonely. We're your only friends; 
don't you love us as well?'”

“I have Nancy,'' said Matt. "She's my best friend!” 


“Oh come now my darling, a smart, brilliant boy such as yourself can't honestly believe that stuck-up little tramp. She's nothing but a liar! She's in league with your father. She hates you. Why, she only told you about the movie so that your father could say no! She knew it all along; she just wants to see you suffer. Why else does she laugh at you and speak with those big words, other than to make you feel small?”

“You're the liar!” wept Matt, tears rolling down his face.


“Am I?” replied Mr. Bongo sadly. “I don’t think you really believe that. I think you know what I say is true. Please Matt, won't you come in? I have all kinds of lovely horror comics. Just the ones you like to read.”

“No!” hollered Matt, covering his ears with his hands. “You're just trying to trick me!”

Mr. Bongo slowly recoiled back into the closet. For one second Matt thought 
he might leave him alone. Then Mr. Bongo's arm withdrew again, holding 
someone who made Matt forget his terror, and take a single step forward. “Teddy,” Matt whispered with enchantment, as if he was hypnotized. “Teddy and I will just have to watch The Dog and the Cat by ourselves,” smiled Mr. Bongo. “Teddy,” repeated Matt, before fully entering the closet.



Little boys do not simply disappear. When the usual suspects become cleared, 
the crime usually leads to family. The police escorted Matt's parents from their home, but not before Matt's father took one last glance at the house. He glanced upwards, his gaze drawn to the window of Matt's bedroom. Before the police car departed, Matt's father was sure he saw a little rat on the windowsill. For some reason the sight disturbed him. It was just as well that his hearing was only average. For had he keen ears, he would have heard a tiny voice squeak, "Daddy, help me. Please, Daddy."




The End

[Lynchenberg]

Matt always knew there was something wrong with the house, even when he saw its photograph. It was only unease then. It almost did not exist, save for his vaguest contemplation. The fear only appeared when he arrived in person. It was sunset. His father stood outside the car. He admired the house from the curb before rushing indoors. Matt studied each inch. He gazed from the gables to the garden. He eyes found an upstairs window, soon to be his bedroom. There he saw Mr. Bongo, dimly lit from below as the sun melted behind the clouds. His form was visible in the dying light, yet his features remained hidden. Matt’s expression bore no surprise. The boy was experienced recognizing monsters. He and his father often relocated due to business. Each new home had its monsters. They were all worrisome, yet Matt knew Mr. Bongo would be the worst. Most monsters were eager to reveal their presence. Their hideous faces quickly appeared in his nightmares. That day, Matt only saw Mr. Bongo’s moss-coloured eyes. Then he left the windowpane and submerged into darkness.

In other ways, Mr. Bongo was like any monster. He appeared only at night. He resided within the bedroom closet. Matt took care to keep it spotless. Monsters are less inclined to haunt clean crevices. During the first night, Mr. Bongo’s stare confronted him. His mossy eyes betrayed an insatiable hunger. Matt knew that Mr. Bongo did not care for flesh. He wanted something more. Matt was never sure what it was. However, he feared it was worse. Matt never told his father about Mr. Bongo. He never believed the detailed accounts of other monsters. He would not acknowledge one the boy could scarcely describe. When she was alive, his mother gave him a night-light. To Matt’s surprise, the night-light worked then. He tried to use it on Mr. Bongo as well. It did no good. Matt disposed of it. It was disturbing to have a light illuminating Mr. Bongo. Matt cringed at the sight of the slimy rats. They scurried over Bongo’s suit. It clashed with his unwrinkled tie and spotless white gloves. This cleanliness amplified the rats’ repulsiveness. Like a painter enhancing a stroke of green with red.

Mr. Bongo's gloved hands stroked the rats. They writhed in response. His touch was never gentle. Once, a rat attempted to issue a warning. He told Matt not to accept Mr. Bongo's treats. Before it finished, Mr. Bongo pulled the rat away. He dropped in into his pocket by its tail. Matt heard it squeal as it disappeared. Then Mr. Bongo spoke to Matt for the first time. His whisper was coaxing, almost friendly. He offered Matt a treat. Matt did not accept. A moment later, Mr. Bongo disappeared. His voice promised to bring Matt another surprise tomorrow. Matt shuddered to himself. Other monsters never spoke. They waited until Matt fell asleep. Then they ventured forward. Waking chased them away. Mr. Bongo could not be frightened so easily. Every night Matt heard him beckon.

Mr. Bongo proved strenuous for Matt’s father as well. “Go to bed!” he often ordered. “But Daddy, Mr. Bongo will be up there,” Matt sobbed. “He’ll show me some candy or a movie. He’ll try to get me! Please Daddy. It’s getting harder to resist him every night. He just won't never give up.”

“Your obsession with monsters is tiresome,” sighed his father. “It's those horror comics you always read. If they hadn't belonged to your mother, I'd have burned the lot to ash by now." Matt listened for a moment as his father went on. Soon the basket ball game his father was watching returned. The man turned away from the boy to enjoy it. Matt hated sports. He never understood why his father fussed over them. There were matters of greater importance at hand, such as the threat of monsters. Matt went upstairs for bed. As he departed, his father called after him. “Remember to brush your teeth!”

After three steps, Matt stopped. He studied the stairs. He wondered about the creaking. In an earlier house, Lady Swoon-Moon made such creaks. He remembered her long teeth. She painted them like candy canes with the blood of children. To Matt, each creak was the sound of munching. He visualized her over the bones of innocent victims. Matt quaked in fear. He ran up the stairs. Once he arrived, Matt saw the bathroom door. It was at the end of the hall, a foot from his bedroom. Matt had to relieve himself. The bathroom seemed miles away. Matt stepped forward. He heard a creak. His bedroom door was open. He knew it remained shut before. A rat scurried out into the hallway.

“Don't listen to him Matt,” it squeaked. “He told me there'd be a dollhouse, there wasn't.” The rat had little time. The door opened wider. Mr. Bongo’s hand extended forward. He clutched the rat. He retracted it into the bedroom. It screamed in the voice of a young girl. The door shut. Mr. Bongo's eye materialized in the keyhole. It stared at Matt lustfully. The boy bolted into the bathroom. He slammed the door.


Matt could not stay all night. He entered his bedroom within the hour. He switched on the light. No horrors appeared. He sighed in relief. He changed into his pajamas. He turned off the overhead light. Matt pulled the covers over his head. He laid there, his eyes shut tight. Soon he fell asleep. The closet door crept open. Mr. Bongo stared. He studied Matt. It was the way a lion eyes an antelope. His expression sparkled with anticipation. “Soon,” he whispered. His tongue massaged his lips.

Matt forgot he fell asleep. A noise sounded. Alarmed, he awoke. He silently cursed his foolishness. What could have happened? The noise reappeared. Flooding fear washed over him. Matt sat up in bed. The noise echoed again. It came from the closet. It was not rats scurrying. It was not children moaning. It was a human voice. It was distinctly mature. Matt craned his neck closer. Matt stared across the room. He studied the darkness. He listened patiently. It seemed like hours. He was still, corpse-like. The noise broke the silence. Like a crack on ice. Matt drew a silent breath. He listened closer. There was silence. There was a whine. There was a long sob. The silence returned. Matt turned his head. The room was nearly black. His room’s faint outline registered. The moon outside had disappeared. One could hear a pin drop. Another murmur emanated. Matt was surprised. He returned his gaze to the closet. He found it ajar. There was no mistake. Someone was weeping.

Matt questioned if this was Mr. Bongo. He never heard a monster cry. Not even as a trick. A wet sound followed, like a bucket collecting rain. Matt visualized tears streaming down a woman’s face. It was nearer now, as though some invisible entity approached. The dripping continued, accentuated by occasional moans. The sound was feminine. Matt remembered his mother. His eyes watered. Mr. Bongo would have offered a treat by now. Matt debated turning on his lamp. What would happen if it were Mr. Bongo?

Matt reached toward the lamp. There was a fumbling, then a sob near Matt’s ear. Matt retracted his hand. The noises ceased. Matt did not lie down. He feared the presence would hear his mattress. In the dark, something slithered. Matt sensed the presence under his bed. Matt felt beads of sweat. They dripped down his face. They tickled his chin. He was too frightened to wipe them away. The voice returned. It was under the bed, no mistake. It resumed weeping, now in a constant stream. Did it want his attention? Matt ventured a question. “Why are you crying?” he asked.

Little boys do not simply disappear. The crime usually leads to the family. The police escorted Matt's father from his home. From the car, he had one glance at his home. He looked upwards. He gazed at the window to Matt's bedroom. Before the police car departed, Matt's father saw a rat on the windowsill. For some reason, the sight disturbed him. It was just as well that his hearing was only average. Had he keen ears, he would have heard a voice. "Daddy, help me. Please, Daddy."




The End

[Lynchenberg]

“Daddy, why is mommy so cold?”

She was dead. Matt knew that much, but why was she so cold? His father was silent. Everyone knows we die. Not even children deny this fact. Yet knowing a fact and believing it are different. Matt knew his mother lay dead in her casket. His father explained the custom of a wake to him in advance. Yet while Matt was old enough to acknowledge death, he was too young to believe his mother could die. What does a father say in the face of faith?

They did not speak on the drive home. As they passed between houses, Matt thought the vacant windows resembled his mother’s empty eyes. Matt hardly breathed, and his father dared not look at him. To this day, they have never spoken of her in depth. Matt’s father refused to think about her. They moved not long after. That was when Matt began seeing monsters.

Matt’s father made his living as an event coordinator. He originally focused on local events, mainly weddings. After his wife’s death, he began coordinating large-scale festivals and trade shows. This required him to travel across the country. Often he would purchase a new house, but never spent enough time in one place to settle down. As a result, Matt never formed strong attachments or friendships. However, he saw plenty of monsters. Each new home contained some dark presence. Be it a ghoulish face in the bedroom window, a cold spot in the basement, or claws creaking in the attic. His father insisted the shadows in the moonlight were only gnarled trees. He told Matt he saw the silhouettes of cobwebs on the staircase, not ghosts. Their humid cellar contained insects, not demons. That did not explain the dank smell in the kitchen of their next home. Matt thought it was a vampire. He warned his father that it must sleep under the sink, for lack of a coffin. It bode its time until night, whispered Matt, when it slunk out to drink their blood.

Their latest home was different though. Even when he saw its photograph, Matt felt uneasy. The emotion almost did not exist, save for his vaguest contemplation. The fear only appeared when he arrived in person. It was sunset. His father stood outside the car. He admired the house from the curb before rushing indoors. Matt studied every inch. He gazed from the gables to the garden. His eyes found an upstairs window, soon to be his bedroom. There he saw Uncle Scratch, dimly lit from below as the sun melted behind the clouds. His form was visible in the dying light, yet his features remained hidden. Matt’s expression bore no surprise. The boy was experienced at recognizing monsters. They were all worrisome, yet Matt knew Uncle Scratch would be the worst. For most monsters were eager to reveal their presence. Their hideous faces quickly appeared in his nightmares. That day, Matt only saw Uncle Scratch’s moss-coloured eyes. Then he left the windowpane and submerged into darkness.

In other ways, Uncle Scratch was like any monster. He appeared only at night. He resided within the bedroom closet. Matt took care to keep it spotless. Monsters are less inclined to haunt clean spaces. During the first night, Uncle Scratch’s stare confronted him. His mossy eyes betrayed an insatiable hunger. Matt knew that Uncle Scratch did not care for flesh. He wanted something more, and Matt feared it was worse.

Matt owned a night-light. It was a gift from his mother, and it comforted him in other homes. He tried to use it here, but it was disturbing to have a light illuminating Uncle Scratch. Matt cringed at the sight of the slimy rats. Uncle Scratch's gloved hands stroked the rats and they writhed in response. His touch was never gentle. They scurried over Uncle Scratch’s suit, clashing with his unwrinkled tie and spotless white gloves. This cleanliness amplified the rats’ repulsiveness, like a painter enhancing a stroke of green with red.

Once, a rat attempted to issue a warning. He told Matt not to accept Uncle Scratch's treats. Before it finished, Uncle Scratch pulled the rat away. He dropped in into his pocket by its tail. Matt heard it squeal as it disappeared. Then Uncle Scratch spoke to Matt. His whisper was coaxing, almost friendly. He offered Matt a treat, but Matt did not accept. A moment later, Uncle Scratch disappeared, promising to bring Matt another surprise tomorrow. Matt shuddered, for other monsters never spoke. They waited until Matt fell asleep before venturing forward. Waking chased them away. Uncle Scratch could not be frightened so easily, every night Matt heard him beckon.

Uncle Scratch proved strenuous for Matt’s father as well. “Go to bed!” he often ordered. “But Daddy, Uncle Scratch will be up there,” Matt sobbed. “He’ll show me some candy or a movie, and he’ll try to get me! Please Daddy. It’s getting harder to resist him every night. He just won't ever give up.”

“Your obsession with monsters is tiresome,” sighed his father. “It's those horror comics you read. If they hadn't belonged to your mother, I'd have burned the lot to ashes." Matt listened for a moment, until the ball game his father was watching returned. His father turned away to enjoy it. Matt hated sports; he never understood why his father fussed over them. There were matters of greater importance at hand, like the threat of monsters.

Matt went upstairs for bed. As he departed, his father called after him. “Remember to brush your teeth!” After three steps, Matt stopped. He studied the stairs. He wondered about the creaking. In an earlier house, Lady Swoon-Moon made such creaks. He remembered her long teeth. She painted them like candy canes with the blood of children. To Matt, each creak was the sound of munching. He visualized her crouched over the bones of innocent victims. Matt quaked in fear. He ran up the stairs and saw the bathroom door. It was at the end of the hall, a foot from his bedroom. Matt needed to relieve himself. The bathroom seemed miles away. Matt stepped forward, and heard a creak. His bedroom door was open, and a rat scurried out into the hallway.

“Don't listen to him Matt,” it squeaked. “He told me there'd be a dollhouse, there wasn't.” The rat never finished. The door opened wider and Uncle Scratch’s hand shot forward. He clutched the rat, and dragged it into the bedroom. It screamed in the voice of a young girl. The door shut, and Uncle Scratch’s eye materialized in the keyhole. It stared at Matt lustfully. The boy bolted into the bathroom, and slammed the door. He quivered on the toilet seat for hours. Eventually, his eyes shut tight and he fell asleep. Meanwhile, his closet door crept open and Uncle Scratch crept out. Through the bathroom keyhole, he studied Matt. His expression sparkled with anticipation. “Soon,” he whispered as his tongue massaged his lips.

Matt’s father had fallen asleep watching television. He awoke suddenly, and his lips parted in fear. He studied his television vacantly, while his hands fumbled into his pocket. Quivering, he lit a cigarette. “God,” he whispered to himself. “What a nightmare.” His face sunk as he remembered fragments of his dream: gloved hands, rats, and mossy eyes. Someone he knew was screaming in that dream, someone young. “I better go check on Matt,” he whimpered to himself. He trod up the stairs, through the hallway, and into Matt’s room.

“My God!” he exclaimed upon entering. He stood staring, his hand frozen on the doorknob. Toys littered the floor, but Matt’s bed was empty. His face paled, when he heard snoring from outside. The bathroom light was on, and he sighed with relief. “Listen Matt,” he said as he opened the bathroom door. He stopped when he saw him sleeping. “That’s my boy,” he sighed. His arms sagged with the boy’s weight as he lifted him. Matt’s eyes fluttered as his father carried him to his bedroom. They half-opened as the blanket swished over him, before closing once more.

Hours later, Matt awoke. He silently cursed his foolishness, and wondered how he got into bed. In the darkness, a noise sounded. Yet it was not rats scurrying or children moaning. It was a human voice. Matt was still, corpse-like. The noise broke the silence like ice cracking. Matt drew a silent breath and listened closer. There was silence, then a whine. A long sob emerged before the silence returned. Matt turned his head. The moon outside had disappeared, and the room was nearly black. Another murmur; there was no mistake. Someone was weeping.

Was this Uncle Scratch? Matt had never heard a monster cry, not even as a trick. A wet sound followed, like a bucket collecting rain. Matt visualized tears streaming down a woman’s face. It was nearer now, as though some invisible entity approached. The dripping continued, accentuated by occasional moans. The sound was feminine. Matt remembered his mother. His eyes watered. Uncle Scratch would have offered a treat by now. Matt debated turning on his lamp. Finally, he reached toward the switch. There was a fumbling, then a sob near Matt’s ear. In fear, he drew back his hand and the noises ceased. Matt did not lie down. He feared the presence would hear his mattress. In the dark, something slithered. Matt sensed the presence under his bed. Sweat tickled his chin, but he was too frightened to wipe it away. The voice returned, coming from under the bed. It wept, now in a constant stream. Did it want his attention? Matt ventured a question. “Why are you crying?” he asked.

Little boys do not simply disappear. The crime usually leads to the family. The police escorted Matt's father from his home. From the car, he had one glance at the house. He looked upwards, and gazed at the window to Matt's bedroom. Before the police car departed, Matt's father saw a rat on the windowsill. For some reason, the sight disturbed him. It was just as well that his hearing was only average. Had he keen ears, he would have heard a voice. "Daddy, help me. Please, Daddy."




The End

[Lynchenberg]

“Daddy, why is mommy so cold?”

She was dead. Maurice knew that much, but why was she so cold? His father, a stout man named Gregory, was silent. Everyone knows we die. Not even children deny this fact. Yet knowing a fact and believing it are different. Maurice knew his mother lay dead in her casket. Gregory explained the custom of a wake to him in advance. Yet while Maurice was old enough to acknowledge death, he was too young to believe his mother could die. What does a father say in the face of faith?

They did not speak on the drive home. As they passed between houses, Maurice thought the vacant windows resembled his mother’s empty eyes. Maurice hardly breathed, and his father dared not look at him. To this day, they have never spoken of her in depth. Gregory refused to think about her. They moved not long after. That was when Maurice began seeing monsters.

Gregory made his living as an event coordinator. He originally focused on local events, mainly weddings. After his wife’s death, he began coordinating large-scale festivals and trade shows. This required him to travel across the country. Often he would purchase a new house, but never spent enough time in one place to settle down. As a result, Maurice never formed strong attachments or friendships. However, he saw plenty of monsters. Each new home contained some dark presence. Be it a ghoulish face in the bedroom window, a cold spot in the basement, or claws creaking in the attic. Gregory insisted the shadows in the moonlight were only gnarled trees. He told Maurice he saw the silhouettes of cobwebs on the staircase, not ghosts. Their humid cellar contained insects, not demons. That did not explain the dank smell in the kitchen of their next home. Maurice thought it was a vampire. He warned his father that it must sleep under the sink, for lack of a coffin. It bode its time until night, whispered Maurice, when it slunk out to drink their blood.

Their latest home was different though. Even when he saw its photograph, Maurice felt uneasy. The emotion almost did not exist, save for his vaguest contemplation. The fear only appeared when he arrived in person. It was sunset. Gregory stood outside the car. He admired the house from the curb before rushing indoors. Maurice studied every inch. He gazed from the gables to the garden. His eyes found an upstairs window, soon to be his bedroom. There he saw Uncle Scratch, dimly lit from below as the sun melted behind the clouds. His form was visible in the dying light, yet his features remained hidden. Maurice’s expression bore no surprise. The boy was experienced at recognizing monsters. They were all worrisome, yet Maurice knew Uncle Scratch would be the worst. For most monsters were eager to reveal their presence. Their hideous faces quickly appeared in his nightmares. That day, Maurice only saw Uncle Scratch’s moss-coloured eyes. Then he left the windowpane and submerged into darkness.

In other ways, Uncle Scratch was like any monster. He appeared only at night. He resided within the bedroom closet. Maurice took care to keep it spotless. Monsters are less inclined to haunt clean spaces. During the first night, Uncle Scratch’s stare confronted him. His mossy eyes betrayed an insatiable hunger. Maurice knew that Uncle Scratch did not care for flesh. He wanted something more, and Maurice feared it was worse.

Maurice owned a night-light. It was a gift from his mother, and it comforted him in other homes. He tried to use it here, but it was disturbing to have a light illuminating Uncle Scratch. Maurice cringed at the sight of the slimy rats. Uncle Scratch's gloved hands stroked them as they writhed. His touch was never gentle. They scurried over Uncle Scratch’s suit, clashing with his unwrinkled tie and spotless white gloves. This cleanliness amplified the rats’ repulsiveness, like a painter enhancing a stroke of green with red.

Once, a rat attempted to issue a warning. He told Maurice not to accept Uncle Scratch's treats. Before it finished, Uncle Scratch pulled the rat away. He dropped it into his pocket by its tail. Maurice heard it squeal as it disappeared. Then Uncle Scratch spoke to him. His whisper was coaxing, almost friendly. He offered Maurice a treat, but he did not accept. A moment later, Uncle Scratch disappeared, promising to bring Maurice another surprise tomorrow. Maurice shuddered, for monsters never spoke. They waited until Maurice fell asleep before venturing forward. Waking chased them away. Uncle Scratch could not be frightened so easily, every night Maurice heard him beckon.

Uncle Scratch proved strenuous for Gregory as well. “Go to bed!” he often ordered. “But Daddy, Uncle Scratch will be up there,” Maurice sobbed. “He’ll show me some candy or a toy; he’ll try to get me! Please Daddy. It’s getting harder to resist him every night. He just won't ever give up.”

“Your obsession with monsters is tiresome,” sighed his father. “It's those pulp magazines you read. If they hadn't belonged to your mother, I'd have burned the lot to ashes.” Maurice listened for a moment, until the ball game on the radio returned. Gregory turned away to enjoy it. Maurice hated sports; he never understood why his father fussed over them. There were matters of greater importance at hand, like the threat of monsters.

Maurice went upstairs for bed. As he departed, Gregory called after him. “Remember to brush your teeth!” After three steps, Maurice stopped. He studied the stairs. He wondered about the creaking. In an earlier house, Lady Swoon-Moon made such creaks. He remembered her long teeth. She painted them like candy canes with the blood of children. To Maurice, each creak was the sound of munching. He visualized her crouched over the bones of innocent victims. Maurice quaked in fear. He ran up the stairs and saw the bathroom door. It was at the end of the hall, a foot from his bedroom. Maurice needed to relieve himself. The bathroom seemed miles away. Maurice stepped forward, and heard a creak. His bedroom door was open, and a rat scurried out.

“Don't listen to him Maurice,” it squeaked. “He told me there'd be a dollhouse…” The rat never finished. The door opened wider and Uncle Scratch’s hand shot forward. He clutched the rat, and dragged it into the bedroom. It screamed in the voice of a young girl. The door shut, and Uncle Scratch’s eye materialized in the keyhole. It stared at Maurice lustfully. The boy bolted into the bathroom, and slammed the door. He quivered on the toilet seat for hours. Eventually, his eyes shut tight and he fell asleep. Meanwhile, his closet door opened and Uncle Scratch crept out. Through the bathroom keyhole, he studied Maurice. His expression sparkled with anticipation. “Soon,” he whispered as his tongue massaged his lips.

Gregory had fallen asleep listening to his radio. He awoke suddenly, and his lips parted in fear. He studied his radio vacantly. A re-run of Lights Out was playing. He switched it off, while his free hand fumbled into his pocket for matches. Quivering, he lit his pipe. “Good Lord,” he whispered to himself. “What a nightmare.” His face sunk as he remembered fragments of his dream: gloved hands, rats, and mossy eyes. Someone he knew was screaming in that dream, someone young. “I better check on Maurice,” he whimpered to himself. He trod up the stairs, through the hallway, and into Maurice’s room.

“My God!” he exclaimed upon entering. He stood staring, his hand frozen on the doorknob. Toys littered the floor, but Maurice’s bed was empty. His face paled. Then he heard snoring from outside. The bathroom light was on, and he sighed with relief. “Listen Maurice,” he said as he opened the bathroom door. He stopped when he saw him sleeping. “That’s my boy,” he sighed. His arms sagged with the boy’s weight as he lifted him. Maurice’s eyes fluttered as his father carried him to his bedroom. They half-opened as the blanket swished over him, before closing once more.

Hours later, Maurice awoke. He silently cursed his foolishness, and wondered how he got into bed. In the darkness, a noise sounded. Yet it was not rats scurrying or children moaning. It was a human voice. Maurice was still, corpse-like. The noise broke the silence like ice cracking. Maurice drew a silent breath and listened closer. There was silence, then a whine. A long sob emerged before the silence returned. Maurice turned his head. The moon outside had disappeared, and the room was black. Another murmur; there was no mistake. Someone was weeping.

Was this Uncle Scratch? Maurice had never heard a monster cry, not even as a trick. A wet sound followed, like a bucket collecting rain. Maurice visualized tears streaming down a woman’s face. It was nearer now, as though some invisible entity approached. The dripping continued, accentuated by occasional moans. The sound was feminine. Maurice remembered his mother. His eyes watered. Uncle Scratch would have offered a treat by now. Maurice debated turning on his lamp. Finally, he reached toward the switch. There was a fumbling, then a sob near Maurice’s ear. In fear, he drew back his hand and the noises ceased. Maurice did not lie down. He feared the presence would hear his mattress. In the dark, something slithered. Maurice sensed the presence under his bed. Sweat tickled his chin, but he was too frightened to wipe it away. The voice returned, coming from under the bed. It wept in a constant stream. Did it want his attention? Maurice ventured a question. “Why are you crying?” he asked.

The sound ceased, and Maurice heard a soft creaking as something crawled out from under the bed. There was silence, until a huddled mass formed over the window. “Maurice?” the mass whimpered. “Is that you?” Maurice turned pale, it sounded like his mother. Suddenly, a blue light jarred the mass into a straight stance. The light emanated from wires fastened to the mass’s skull. Maurice saw that it was indeed his mother. She floated before him like a spectre. Maurice thought she almost looked like a puppet with wires attached to her head in place of string. He titled his head, and noticed Uncle Scratch illuminated in the corner. His mossy eyes stared at his mother viciously.

After several jolts, she floated limply in the air. Playfully, Uncle Scratch lifted a hammer and an ice pick for Maurice to see. Casually, he strode nearer while Maurice watched helplessly. Floundering electric sparks from the wires occasionally tore through the darkness. In these brief moments, Maurice watched Uncle Scratch set the hammer down on his bedside table. Uncle Scratch pulled back his mother’s left eyelid. Slowly, he inserted the ice pick around the top of her eyeball. He carefully slid it deeper until it hit bone. With two taps of his hammer, he broke through the thin layer of skull. Maurice observed Uncle Scratch scraping behind it. After two taps and more scraping behind the other eyeball, Uncle Scratch discarded his tools. He turned back to Maurice. “That’s what they did to her Matt,” Uncle Scratch whispered. “They didn’t even bother to get a doctor to do it, just some staff member. It wasn’t long before they let her wander around. She took a tumble down the stairs. We both know how that turned out, don’t we Maurice?”

The blue crackles died with the last of Scratch’s words. Maurice sat in thick darkness. He groped back in bed when he heard Uncle Scratch’s sinister voice in the blackness. “I can bring her back Maurice,” he said. “There will be a price to pay, but nothing worth having is ever free. What do you say child?” Despite seeing nothing, Maurice’s eyes never turned away from the voice. He began to see faint glints, as if light reflected off Uncle Scratch’s grinning teeth. The sound of rats scuttling behind the walls appeared. A mixture of fear and loneliness consumed Maurice. He wondered if Uncle Scratch could restore his mother to him. If so, what would remain of her? There was hardly a sound when Maurice whispered, “yes.”

Little boys do not simply disappear. Questioning the parents is routine police work. The officers escorted Gregory from his home. From the car, he had one glance at the house. He looked upwards, and gazed at the window to Maurice's bedroom. Before the police car departed, Maurice's father saw a rat on the windowsill. For some reason, the sight disturbed him. It was just as well that his hearing was only average. Had he keen ears, he would have heard a voice squealing, “Daddy, help me. Please, Daddy.” Meanwhile inside in the closet, Maurice’s mother lay gibbering. Uncle Scratch had restored her flesh, but her mind was another matter.

The End

[Lynchenberg]

“Daddy, why is mommy so cold?”

She was dead. Maurice knew that much, but why was she so cold? His father, a stout man named Gregory, was silent. Everyone knows we die. Not even children deny it. Yet knowing a fact and believing it are different. Maurice knew his mother lay dead in her casket. Gregory explained the custom of a wake to him in advance. Yet while Maurice was old enough to acknowledge death, he was too young to believe his mother could die. They did not speak on the drive home. As they passed between houses, Maurice thought the vacant windows resembled his mother’s empty eyes. Maurice hardly breathed, and his father dared not look at him. They moved not long after. That was when Maurice began seeing monsters.

Gregory made his living as an event coordinator. He originally focused on local events, mainly weddings. After his wife’s death, he began coordinating large-scale festivals and trade shows. This required him to travel across the country. Often he would purchase a new house, but never spent enough time in one place to settle down. As a result, Maurice never formed strong attachments or friendships. However, he saw plenty of monsters. Each new home contained some dark presence. Be it a ghoulish face in the bedroom window, a cold spot in the basement, or creaking in the attic. Gregory insisted the claws in the moonlight were only gnarled trees. He told Maurice he saw the silhouettes of cobwebs on the staircase, not ghosts. Their humid cellar contained insects, not demons. That did not explain the dank smell in the kitchen of their next home. Maurice thought it was a vampire. He warned his father that it must sleep under the sink, for lack of a coffin. It bode its time until night, whispered Maurice, when it slunk out to drink their blood.

Their latest home was different though. Even when he saw its photograph, Maurice felt uneasy. The emotion almost did not exist, save for his vaguest contemplation. The fear only appeared when he arrived in person. It was sunset. Gregory stood outside the car. He admired the house from the curb before rushing indoors. Maurice studied every inch. He gazed from the gables to the garden. His eyes found an upstairs window, soon to be his bedroom. There he saw Uncle Scratch, dimly lit from below as the sun melted behind the clouds. His form was visible in the dying light, yet his features remained hidden. Maurice’s expression bore no surprise. The boy was experienced at recognizing monsters. They were all worrisome, yet Maurice knew Uncle Scratch would be the worst. Most monsters were eager to reveal their presence. Their hideous faces quickly appeared in his nightmares. That day, Maurice only saw Uncle Scratch’s moss-coloured eyes. Then he left the windowpane and submerged into darkness.

In other ways, Uncle Scratch was like any monster. He appeared at night and resided within the bedroom closet. Maurice took care to keep it spotless. Monsters are less inclined to haunt clean spaces. During the first night, Uncle Scratch’s stare confronted him. His mossy eyes betrayed an insatiable hunger. Maurice knew that Uncle Scratch did not care for flesh. He wanted something more, and Maurice feared it was worse.

Maurice owned a night-light. It was a gift from his mother, and it comforted him in other homes. He tried to use it here, but it was disturbing to have a light illuminating Uncle Scratch. Maurice cringed at the sight of the slimy rats. Uncle Scratch's gloved hands stroked them as they writhed. His touch was never gentle. They scurried over his suit, clashing with his unwrinkled tie and spotless white gloves. This cleanliness amplified the rats’ repulsiveness.

Once, a rat attempted to issue a warning. He told Maurice not to accept Uncle Scratch's treats. Before it finished, Uncle Scratch pulled the rat away. He dropped it into his pocket by its tail. Maurice heard it squeal as it disappeared. Then Uncle Scratch spoke to him. His whisper was coaxing, almost friendly. He offered Maurice a treat, but he did not accept. Uncle Scratch left, promising to bring Maurice another surprise tomorrow. Maurice shuddered, for monsters never spoke. They waited until Maurice fell asleep before venturing forward. Waking chased them away. Uncle Scratch could not be frightened so easily, every night Maurice heard him beckon.

Uncle Scratch proved strenuous for Gregory as well. “Go to bed!” he ordered, as he listened to the radio.

“But Daddy, Uncle Scratch will be up there,” Maurice sobbed. “He’ll show me some candy or a toy; he’ll try to get me! Please Daddy. It’s getting harder to resist him every night. He just won't ever give up.”

“Your obsession with monsters is tiresome,” sighed his father. “It's those pulp magazines you read. If they hadn't belonged to your mother, I'd have burned the lot to ashes.”

Maurice listened for a moment, until the ball game on the radio returned. Gregory turned away to enjoy it. Maurice hated sports; he never understood why his father fussed over them. Nevertheless, Maurice went upstairs for bed. As he departed, Gregory called after him. “Remember to brush your teeth!” After three steps, Maurice stopped. He studied the stairs. He wondered about the creaking. In an earlier house, Lady Swoon-Moon made similar sounds. He remembered her long teeth. She painted them like candy canes with the blood of children. To Maurice, each creak was the sound of munching. He visualized her crouched over the bones of innocent victims. Maurice quaked in fear. He ran up the stairs and saw the bathroom door. It was a foot from his bedroom. Maurice needed to relieve himself. The bathroom seemed miles away. He stepped forward, and heard a creak. His bedroom door was open, and a rat scurried out.

“Don't listen to him Maurice,” it squeaked. “He told me there'd be a dollhouse…” The rat never finished. The door opened wider and Uncle Scratch’s hand shot forward. He clutched the rat, and dragged it into the bedroom. It screamed in the voice of a young girl. The door shut, and Uncle Scratch’s eye materialized in the keyhole. It stared at Maurice lustfully. The boy bolted into the bathroom, and slammed the door. He quivered on the toilet seat for hours. Eventually, his eyes shut tight and he fell asleep. Meanwhile, his closet door opened and Uncle Scratch crept out. Through the bathroom keyhole, he studied Maurice. His expression sparkled with anticipation. “Soon,” he whispered as his tongue massaged his lips.

Gregory had fallen asleep listening to his radio. He awoke suddenly, and his lips parted in fear. He studied his radio vacantly. A re-run of Lights Out was playing. He switched it off, while his free hand fumbled into his pocket for matches. Quivering, he lit his pipe. “Good Lord,” he whispered to himself. “What a nightmare.” His face sunk as he remembered fragments of his dream: gloved hands, rats, and mossy eyes. Someone he knew was screaming in that dream, someone young. “I better check on Maurice,” he whimpered to himself. He trod up the stairs, through the hallway, and into Maurice’s room.

“My God!” he exclaimed upon entering. He stood staring, his hand frozen on the doorknob. Toys littered the floor, but Maurice’s bed was empty. His face paled. Then he heard snoring from outside. The bathroom light was on, and he sighed with relief. “Listen Maurice,” he said as he opened the bathroom door. He stopped when he saw him sleeping. “That’s my boy,” he sighed. His arms sagged with the boy’s weight as he lifted him. Maurice’s eyes fluttered as his father carried him to his bedroom. They half-opened as the blanket swished over him, before closing once more.

Hours later, Maurice awoke. He silently cursed his foolishness, and wondered how he got into bed. In the darkness, a noise sounded. Yet it was not rats scurrying or children moaning. It was a human voice. Maurice was still, corpse-like. The noise broke the silence like ice cracking. Maurice drew a silent breath and listened closer. There was silence, then a whine. A long sob emerged before the silence returned. Maurice turned his head. The moon outside had disappeared, and the room was black. Another murmur; there was no mistake. Someone was weeping.

Was this Uncle Scratch? Maurice had never heard a monster cry, not even as a trick. A wet sound followed, like a bucket collecting rain. Maurice visualized tears streaming down a woman’s face. It was nearer now, as though some invisible entity approached. The dripping continued, accentuated by occasional moans. The sound was feminine. Maurice remembered his mother, and his eyes watered. Maurice debated turning on his lamp, Uncle Scratch would have offered a treat by now. He reached toward the switch, but stopped. There was a fumbling, then a sob near Maurice’s ear. In fear, he drew back his hand and the noise ceased. Maurice did not lie down. He feared the presence would hear his mattress. In the dark, something slithered. Maurice sensed the presence under his bed. Sweat tickled his chin, but he was too frightened to wipe it away. The voice returned. It wept under the bed in a constant stream. Did it want his attention? Maurice ventured a question. “Why are you crying?” he asked.

The sound ceased, and Maurice heard a soft creaking as something crawled out from under the bed. There was silence, until a huddled mass formed over the window. “Maurice?” the mass whimpered. “Is that you?” Maurice turned pale, it sounded like his mother. Suddenly, a blue light jarred the mass into a straight stance. Maurice saw that it was indeed his mother. The light emanated from wires fastened to her skull. She floated before him like a spectre.

Maurice titled his head, and noticed Uncle Scratch illuminated in the corner. His mossy eyes stared at his mother viciously. After several jolts, she floated limply in the air. Uncle Scratch lifted a hammer and an ice pick for Maurice to see. Casually, he strode nearer while Maurice watched helplessly. Floundering electric sparks from the wires occasionally tore through the darkness. In these moments, Maurice watched Uncle Scratch set the hammer down on his bedside table. Uncle Scratch pulled back his mother’s left eyelid. Slowly, he inserted the ice pick over the top of her eyeball. He carefully slid it deeper until it hit bone. With two taps of his hammer, he broke through the thin layer of skull. Maurice observed Uncle Scratch scraping behind it. After two taps and more scraping behind the other eyeball, Uncle Scratch discarded his tools. He turned back to Maurice. “That’s what they did to her Maurice,” Uncle Scratch whispered. “They didn’t even bother to get a doctor to do it, just some staff member. Then they turned her loose, and she took a tumble down the stairs. We both know how that turned out, don’t we?”

The blue crackles died with the last of Scratch’s words. Maurice sat in thick darkness. He groped back in bed when he heard Uncle Scratch’s sinister voice in the blackness. “I can bring her back Maurice,” he said. “There will be a price, but nothing worthwhile is ever free. Just say yes.” The sound of rats scuttling behind the walls appeared. A mixture of fear and loneliness consumed Maurice. He wondered if Uncle Scratch could restore his mother. If so, what would remain of her? There was hardly a sound when Maurice whispered, “yes.”

Maurice checked under the bed for his mother. He found her sprawled on the floor, gibbering mindlessly. Uncle Scratch had restored her flesh, but her mind was another matter. Maurice crawled under the bed and lay with her. He wept and stroked her hair. They exchanged a horrified glance. She opened her mouth to speak, but only drool dripped out. Moments later, Uncle Scratch’s hands snuck under the bed and pulled Maurice away. He shut Maurice into the closet where he was alone, save for the fearful whispers of rats. Uncle Scratch forbade him from speaking to his mother, and then whispered, “It’s time to pay that price I mentioned.”

When a child disappears, questioning the parents is routine police work. The officers escorted Gregory from his home. From the car, he had one glance at the house. He looked upwards, and gazed at the window to Maurice's bedroom. Before the police car departed, he saw a rat on the windowsill. For some reason, the sight disturbed him. It was just as well that his hearing was only average. Had he keen ears, he would have heard a voice squealing, “Daddy, help me. Please, Daddy.”

The End