that he would take care of Teddy. She hugged Teddy and said “I love you.” She went to work.
Teddy’s dad made them lunch. They ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches together. Teddy’s dad let him eat some extra peanut butter out of the jar. They sat in the living room to watch cartoons and Teddy’s dad brought him milk and cookies. They watched a lot of cartoons. Teddy loved spending time with his dad. For a while he forgot about the monsters.
They went outside and played catch. Seeing the trees scared Teddy for a minute, but his dad being there made him feel safe. After playing catch they played on the swing set. Teddy’s dad pushed him higher and higher. Teddy was having a lot of fun. As they were going back into the house, Teddy heard a noise from the tress. He got scared again, but his dad said it was probably an animal. That made Teddy feel better.
They watched more cartoons together and Teddy fell asleep with his dad on the couch. The doorbell ringing woke him up. Teddy’s dad told him to go lay in his parents’ bed so he could finish his nap. Teddy went into his parents’ room and got in their bed. He pulled the blanket up over him and closed his eyes. He felt so safe in their bed with his dad taking care of him. He knew as long as he was with his dad the monsters couldn’t get him.
Teddy cleared his mind and started to fall asleep. Then the bedroom door opened. Teddy thought it was his dad so he didn’t look up.
Teddy thought he was having a nightmare because he heard the light monster say his name. He opened his eyes and it was standing next to the bed. Teddy was scared and confused. The monsters couldn’t get him in his parents’ bed. Teddy screamed for his dad to come in. He knew his dad would protect him. The monster wasn’t doing anything but Teddy kept screaming.
Finally, Teddy’s dad came in the room. He asked his dad to stop the monster. He told Teddy that the monster wasn’t a monster, that it was his friend from work.
Then Teddy’s dad turned into a monster.
Dear Missy,
The headaches stopped. My head isn’t jumbled anymore. My mind is finally clear. I’ve finished my stories and I think I’m ready to leave. I just wish Theresa were there for me to come home to. I should’ve saved her. She was dying in front of me and I just watched. I saw her bleed and choke and I did nothing. I don’t remember what I did with the knife. Maybe I should try to find it.
I’m happy you’re okay. Thank you for finally writing back to me. I was worried I might never hear from you again. The girls are finally starting kindergarten. They’ll love going to school. Teddy just started going. He was scared at first because of the monsters but he ended up liking it. Why did his dad have to ruin everything? Teddy was such a happy boy when the monsters left him alone. He was never the same after his dad became a monster.
Was Dad ever a monster to you? No, he loved you too much. I don’t know what I did to make him not love me anymore. My headache just came back. It’s really bad. I feel dizzy.
Missy, I don’t think I’ll be able to come home. No matter what I do, the headaches come back. I’ve lost Mom, I’ve lost Theresa, and now I’m losing myself. I know how Felix felt. He lost his wife a long time ago and the world around him seemed so dark. Tell the girls I love them. Hug them and kiss them for me. Live your life with James and don’t leave any regrets.
I should find out how Teddy is. He wasn’t doing well the last time I checked. I think I remember what I did with that knife. I love you, Missy.
Love,
Ken
Afterword from editor Bryan Batcher
I met Kenneth Rines shortly after I left high school. It was a chance meeting that changed my life. I was at my local Department of Motor Vehicles waiting to renew my driver’s license in a room full of people. While I was waiting, a man sat down next to me with a clipboard. I assumed it was DMV paperwork but when I glanced at it (I’m kind of nosy), I saw the scribblings of a short story.
Without realizing, I started reading it quite rudely and quite noticeably. I’m an aspiring writer myself and had, in fact, written a short novel in high school that I still hope to edit and publish someday. So, I was intrigued to meet a fellow writer. I apologized for reading over his shoulder but he said he didn’t mind. He handed me the clipboard and let me read what he had written so far. It was good. I asked his name but I had never heard of him. He told me he wrote for himself and hadn’t published any of his work. This also intrigued me, as publishing is all I have ever been able to think of. I want people to read my work and feel the way I feel when I read Robert Cormier, Lois Lowry, and K. A. Applegate. Ken didn’t care. He wrote because it made him feel good.
We traded email addresses and kept in touch. We shared our work with each other and I got some helpful criticism from him. I tried to get him to publish his stories because they were just so brilliant, but he always refused. I didn’t understand it, but I respected it.
It was the mutual respect that we did have for each other that eventually turned into an intimate friendship. I confided in him for almost everything, whether it was my writing, school, work, or my personal life. His wife and my girlfriend would sometimes get jealous of how close we were. There were things I would share with Ken that I would never think of telling my girlfriend. Before this gets too “bro-mantic” (I really hope I used that neologism correctly), we were not lovers. We were just as close as best friends can be.
When Ken’s wife Theresa died, things changed. He became distant and was reluctant to interact with anyone, including me. I was hurt, but I understood. He was going through an unimaginable tragedy. I didn’t hear from him after he moved to the cabin. He emailed me to tell me he was going there and that was the last I heard from him.
About three months later I got a call from the police. They told me Ken had been found dead in his cabin. It was suicide. I couldn’t believe it. Honestly, I still can’t. Even as I type these words, I’m still waiting to get an email from him. I think I drove my wife insane with my grief. They let me go to the cabin to gather his things since I was the closest thing he had to family.
Confused? So was I. I found a pile of papers sitting on his desk. It was a collection of different stories and letters to his sister Missy. There were two problems with that: 1. The letters were never sent, and 2. Ken didn’t have a sister named Missy. Ken didn’t have any siblings. His mother died when he was young and he was raised by his father. I thought that maybe he just didn’t tell me he had a sister, so I checked it out. She didn’t exist.
When I took the time to read everything, I was even more confused. He had never said a single bad thing about his childhood. I don’t know how many times I read those stories and letters. I was looking for something, anything really, to help me figure out what had happened to him.
I made some calls (a lot of calls, actually) to try to find information about Ken’s childhood. There had been reports of abuse from his father but nothing was ever confirmed. His mother’s death was shrouded in mystery. There was suspicion of homicide but no evidence.
That was when things started to make sense. Theresa’s death was also mysterious. Ken swore it was suicide and I believed him. He was my best friend and I took his word for it. Now, after reading his stories and letters, I believe he killed her. He grew up without a mother and being abused by his father. There’s no telling what his mental state was as an adult.
When Ken went to the cabin he created a new life for himself. I think Missy was supposed to replace his mother. He lost her when he was young and he had wanted her back ever since. James was the father he always wanted: a good man who cared about his family and treated them right. Belle and Tammi represented the childhood he wished he’d had.
The stories he wrote alongside those letters were all about him. Teddy was Ken as a child, Felix was Ken as an adult, and I think the death of Anna was how he saw the death of Theresa. He wrote himself into every aspect of his stories and wrote everyone else into letters.
I say all this like I’m writing a story. I guess it’s because that’s just how I write. I was ho
rrified by these revelations. The man I called my best friend was suffering so badly inside and I never even knew it. I didn’t want to believe it but the evidence was right there on paper.
Through all my grief and confusion I realized something else. Ken was a more brilliant writer than I ever knew. The stories he wrote at the cabin blew me away. He would hate me if he knew I was publishing them but the world needs to read his work. They need to know his story. It’s a sad and tragic story, but it’s too enticing and intriguing not to tell. I put the stories and letters in the order I think he wrote them. The pile on the desk was organized but there were other papers scattered throughout the cabin. I hope his work can inspire others as it has inspired me. At the same time, I hope it serves as a cautionary tale for people who are suffering inside. It’s okay to ask for help.
After everything – after all the grieving, the confusion, the reading, the acceptance – even after preparing Ken’s story for publishing, I was left with a nagging question: Where was I in all of this? No one was closer to Ken than I was, but I wasn’t part of his ideal family. It wasn’t until I proofread the book one last time that I figured it out. I wasn’t in his ideal family because I was in the stories. In everything Ken wrote, I was right
Love, Ken Page 13