The box, last night red and blue, was yellow again.
“It must have soaked into the wood,” her mother said, when Jessaline pointed it out. Her phone pinged with a text message at that moment, and Mrs. Dorfman turned away and went down the hall to answer it.
“But I put it on really thick,” said Jessaline, but her mother was already gone. Grumbling, Jessaline began again. This time, when she finished, and the paint was dry, she used her mother’s huge can of hairspray, hoping the stiff shellac would fix it in place. Then she got to work painting figures: She started with the stars, and then a castle, and a forest. She painted a dragon with rainbow wings who wore a scarf and smoked a long pipe. She liked him; he looked like he sold used books, she thought, and so she painted him some to read. She turned on her music player and started singing along as she worked. But by midday, the sun was shining brightly, and Jessaline started feeling icky being inside. So, once again, she cleaned her brushes and went downstairs, leaving her music playing …
The early summer air was sweet and blustery. She biked up and down the quiet road in front of her house, and as the day went on colored her driveway with sidewalk chalk. Some kids went by on their own bikes as she drew a large dinosaur. She kept her eyes down so she couldn’t be sure, but she thought one waved. Then again, she also thought one might have giggled, and she felt relieved when they were gone and she could draw by herself again. As the sky darkened to violet and gold, and twilight stole over her neighborhood, Jessa finally went inside, feeling full of good air and a little tired.
She was taking off her boots and hanging up her windbreaker when she heard her father say, “Jessa?” He sounded annoyed. Confused, she slunk upstairs. She found him in her room, her mother was there too. They scowled as she came into the room.
“How many times have we told you to take care of your things?” he said. And he held out her music player. The screen was smashed, and not just a little bit.
“But I didn’t do that,” said Jessa.
“And this is not what I meant when I said you could paint anything,” said her mother, pointing to the trunk. Instead of a wise, colorful dragon snuggled in books, there was a huge, brown worm curled around bones; in place of her vibrant, green forest were dead, black trees.
“But I didn’t paint that.”
Her father closed the curtains, and her mother folded her arms. They each said how disappointed they were and then left. Jessa could hear them downstairs. They did not talk, and they did not turn on the radio as they cooked dinner. She knew that they were very mad and hoped maybe dinner would take a long time so she wouldn’t have to go down.
But as she thought and the room grew dark, Jessa heard a soft sound, a sound she would not have heard were it not so quiet: a muted, firm clunk, and a voice like wind in an attic.
I am the Creep … Silence is golden when talk is cheap.
She turned around.
The trunk was open, just a crack. Two long eyes, red as red, stared out at her. Jessa stared back. She took a step back, and then another and another until she was in the hallway. She closed her bedroom door and went downstairs.
“I can’t sleep in my room tonight,” she explained.
Her mother, chopping an onion, did not look over. “Why?”
“There’s a monster in there.”
“Jessa, you’re too old for that,” said her father, shortly, seasoning a slab of beef.
“I don’t think anyone is ever too old to be eaten by a monster.”
Her parents looked at each other and then went back to their tasks. They didn’t speak to her again until after dinner, and then they had a family meeting about acting out. By the end, Jessa thought she’d rather take her chances with the monster.
She turned on all the lights as she went upstairs and then slowly opened her bedroom door. She peeked inside. The trunk was closed again. Fast as she could, she hit her light switch, marched straight inside, and, picking up one end, dragged the trunk to the hallway.
“And what do you think you’re doing?” Her mother was coming up the stairs. She pointed back into the room. “It’s not leaving your room until you paint over that nasty mess you made.”
Jessa didn’t argue, knowing it’d be no good. She dragged the box back inside.
“You might have to be in my room,” Jessa whispered at the box, angrily. “But I don’t have to look at you.”
She pulled the toys and old clothes stuffed at the bottom of her closet out and shoved them under the bed. Then she pushed the trunk inside. But when she went to close the door, it jammed halfway shut. The trunk was too wide.
“I never wanted you. Why’d I have to get you?” she said to the box. “Mom and Dad don’t believe me, but I can deal with you. I’m not in over my head yet.”
She found the heaviest thing in her room (her old dollhouse) and set it on top. She tried to stay awake, reading a book in bed, but by ten o’clock her eyes began to itch, and by eleven her head was drooping, and by midnight she was fast asleep.
When she woke, it was still night. Her lamp was off, but she could see through the dark to the darker place that was her closet. It was wide open, and so was the chest …
I am the Creep, said a voice. Water is shallow till it is deep …
It had come from the foot of her bed.
She could see something dark there, like the top of a shadowy head. It began to rise, to get bigger …
“MOM!”
Footsteps thumped in the hallway, and then her bedroom door flew open. The light burst on.
“What’s wrong?” Her mother’s hair stood up in crazy corkscrews. She looked around the room and glowered. “Jessa, what did you do to your dollhouse?”
Jessaline sat up. Her dollhouse was on the floor; the front was broken off.
“The Creep must have knocked it off when it got out of the trunk,” she said. Her mother crouched to pick up the pieces.
“I know you’re getting too big for this, but you know your Granny Dorf worked so hard to make you this house,” said her mother.
“But I was trying to trap the Creep!”
Her mother glared, angry now that she wasn’t scared. “Is that your monster’s name?”
“It’s not my monster,” she insisted. “I just have it.” She got up and went to the closet. “See?”
But the trunk was closed, and the lock was still rusted shut. Jessa stood in her pajamas in front of the closet for another minute after her mother left and then dragged the trunk back out.
“You’re staying where I can keep an eye on you,” she told the box. She left the light on as she got back in bed and tried to go back to sleep.
* * *
The next day, her dad helped her put the dollhouse back together.
“What’s gotten into you, kiddo?” he asked. She could tell that he was trying to sound joking but that he was a little annoyed too.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Everything okay?”
She considered telling him about the monster again. “No, I’m fine,” she lied. “Just tired.”
She played by herself again and blandly watched when the other kids rode by. She bet they didn’t have Creeps to deal with. She drew on the sidewalk because at least drawing still made her feel a little better. She wished she’d never inherited a monster.
That night, she didn’t go to her room empty handed. While her parents were watching TV, she slipped one of her mother’s golf clubs out of its carrier in the garage. While there, she found a box of Christmas ornaments and fished out a small brass bell; she held it tight in her hand so it would not ring and kept the club hidden by her side as she walked past the TV room and said goodnight.
The trunk was closed. Jessa hefted the club up on her shoulder, tip-toed inside, used tape to fix the bell securely to the rusted latch, and then crawled under her blankets—bringing the club with her. She read her book, and when she got sleepy, she turned off her lamp.
She did not dream, and if she d
id, she did not remember in the morning. What she did remember was in the dark, in the quiet small hours the faint, fragile ting-ting.
She was awake all at once, but she didn’t open her eyes.
I am the Creep, said a voice. You’re too afraid to make a peep.
She had gone to sleep with her back to the trunk. She had rolled over in her sleep. Afraid, she opened her eyes at last.
The trunk was open, and from the dark crack were the two red eyes. They did not glow, but they seemed bright, reflecting an inner light, like rubies.
“Go away,” she whispered.
She couldn’t be certain, but she thought that she saw fingers now, long, shadowy fingers sliding out and down the side of the trunk. She felt a scream welling up inside of her, and before she knew what she was doing, she grabbed the club and threw it. The putter hit the side of the box, catching the hinge. The lid crashed down onto the Creep’s shadow fingers. And then it was gone. She sat up and turned on her lamp.
On the floor were not six little fingers, but six little things: a key on a chain, a tarnished ring, the rope from a graduation hat, an expired credit card, a music cassette tape with most of the tape unwound, and a paintbrush. She recognized the brush. It was her best one. She picked it up, brought it to her kit, and put it back in its place. When she closed it again, she didn’t feel afraid anymore. She felt angry.
“Don’t take my things,” she said.
But the box was silent and still. She collected the remaining things off the floor and hid them in her bookbag.
Her mother came to talk to her the next morning as she was digging around the huge collection of plastic containers in the kitchen cupboard.
“Did you get up again last night?” her mother asked, pouring a cup of coffee.
“No,” Jessa lied. It was just a little fib, though, she figured, and it didn’t feel too bad.
“I thought I heard a thump.”
“I didn’t hear anything.” Jessa found the container with clear sides and top she’d been looking for and held it up. “Can I borrow this?”
“Borrow means give back,” her mother reminded her, which meant yes. She blew on her coffee. “Any friends you want to ask over to play later?”
Jessa stacked the rest of the containers back and let her hair fall over her face.
“No.” She pretended she didn’t hear her mother sigh. “Hey, Mom?” she said, changing the subject. “How do you get rid of a monster?”
“I don’t know, Jessa,” she said, walking away, out to her office. “Maybe you don’t get rid of them.”
Jessa didn’t go to bed that night. Instead, she took the not-finger-things from out of her bookbag, put them in the clear plastic container, turned off the light, and (with her mother’s golf club propped beside her) sat with her back to her door, watching the trunk.
She sat for a long time and would pinch her ankle every time she got sleepy. Finally, well after midnight, the latch of the trunk popped open: clunk. The lid of the trunk opened. Two red eyes loomed out from the dark.
I am—
“You are the Creep,” interrupted Jessa. “But I am brave, and you’re just a heap.” She picked up the plastic container and shook it once. “You stole all these, didn’t you?”
I am the Creep … What I take is mine to keep.
“No, it’s not,” she said. She put the container down. “Why did you change my drawings?”
The eyes stared at her.
“Why did you break my music player?”
Still, the eyes stared.
“You don’t seem so tough.”
I am the Creep … A mountain is small, until it is steep.
“I don’t know what that means,” admitted Jessa. “But it doesn’t sound good. I think I’ll have to get rid of you in the morning.”
The eyes slid to one side of the crack, then the other.
A gift accepted, it said, is a gift you must keep.
Jessa thought about this. “You don’t feel like a gift.”
The Creep said nothing.
Why did Granny Dorf have such an awful thing? Jessa wondered. She thought about her then. Granny had been a nice old lady. She’d had small wire glasses and liked big glasses of bourbon. She’d had the biggest laugh of anyone she had ever met, but she was quiet too. Some days, when Jessa would visit, they would go the whole day without talking. Jessa would draw, and Granny would carve one of her prize-winning ducks. It had been nice, but some days Granny didn’t want to see anyone at all. She’d be silent, and a little sad, and it used to scare Jessa a little. Jessa wished now that she’d gotten to know Granny Dorf better. Granny had always said Jessa reminded her of herself when she was young.
“You probably knew Granny Dorf a long time, probably even longer than I did,” said Jessa at last. She didn’t know how she felt about that. She got to her feet, leaving the club where it was. “Goodnight, Creep.”
Sometimes the wolf must count the sheep.
“Okay,” she said and climbed into bed. She was already asleep by the time the lid of the trunk closed at last.
* * *
Three weeks later, Mr. Dorfman came up to Jessa’s room and knocked on the door. He came inside holding a cheese and pickle sandwich.
“That’s much nicer,” said her dad, admiring the reading dragon painted on the trunk’s lid. Jessa herself was reading a book about crows.
“Did you know,” she told her father, as he passed her the plate with the sandwich, “that crows have a sense of humor?”
“I did not,” said Mr. Dorfman.
“They pull pranks on other crows, for no other reason than entertainment.”
“I had no idea. They’re odd birds, aren’t they?”
“Just misunderstood.”
Mr. Dorfman looked out her window. A team of kids rode by on bikes and then disappeared down the street. He sat on Jessa’s bed. “How’s the monster problem going?”
“I’m dealing with it,” she said, turning a page in her book. “I figured if Granny Dorf could live with a monster all those years, I can too.”
He smiled, but a little sadly, and he then patted her on the head. He stood up and rolled up his shirt’s sleeves as he walked to the door. He did not notice a little white button pop off his cuff.
“Just as long as you’re happy.”
“Not happy.”
Mr. Dorfman stopped and looked at her from the door. She smiled.
“But not scared.”
He shrugged and went back downstairs. When he was gone, she leaned forward and picked up the button from the carpet. She sat back down again in front of her steamer trunk and knocked.
“Here, you can have this one,” she said as the lid squealed open. “He’ll never sew it back on.” Two long, shadowy fingers drifted out, wrapped around the button, and then slid back into the dark. As the lid closed again, she thought she heard a muffled voice say:
If you do not sew … you cannot reap.
She thought that perhaps crows weren’t the only misunderstood creatures with senses of humor, took a bite of her sandwich, and turned another page in her book.
* * *
Laura Keating is a writer of fantasy and horror. Her work has appeared in CBAY Books' Giants and Ogres anthology and Persistent Visions magazine. Originally from St. Andrews, New Brunswick, she now lives in Montréal, where—when not working on a novel—she works as a freelance editor and writer. You can find her on Twitter, @LoreKeating, or explore her website, lorekeating.com.
I was supposed to sign up for an after-school activity today. Club, sport, whatever—it didn’t matter. Mom said if I was going to make friends at my new school, then I was going to have to “put myself out there” and “get involved.”
Could there be two more terrifying phrases in the English language?
I tried. I really did. I made it all the way to the gym before I freaked out. The double doors were flung wide open, but there might as well have been an invisible force field. Tons of people I don’
t know? Fluorescent lights? Squeaky shoes? Yeah … I’ll pass.
Turning to flee, I ran smack into Kevin. Literally. Bounced off his chest and landed butt-first on the sidewalk. “Excuse me, uh …” He trailed off, a puzzled look on his face.
He had no clue what my name was, even though I’d been sitting next to him in science for the past two weeks. Like Lily-the-lab-partner was so hard to remember. I couldn’t find my voice to even remind him, though. I just jumped to my feet and mumbled a lame “Sorry.”
The closer I got to the swamp, though, the better I felt. It’s so chill there—exactly what I needed. I couldn’t wait to get there. The warm brown water always rests calmly against the grass, never in a rush like it is at the beach. Cypress trees sprout straight out of the wetlands, with roots than run deep beneath the surface. They have these huge, fat trunks that fan out at the bottom like one of my grandma’s skirts. The outstretched branches form umbrellas overhead, capturing the heat and glow of the Florida sun. The burning rays soften as they mix with the cool, bladed leaves, and a mellow greenish gold light drips down.
I spent the summer at the edge of that swamp, molding the mud like clay. Little people, animals, and plants all sprung to life in my hands, sculptures born from the earth. Lined up on the grass, they dried and hardened in the sun. I thought about taking them home, but it just seemed wrong, so I always gave them back to the swamp. It seemed to like it.
It’s a pretty weird hobby, I guess. My sister started calling me Swamp Lily and asked me why a twelve-year-old was still making mud-pies. I called her Cheerleader Kelly and asked her why a sixteen-year-old was so stupid. Not my best comeback, but whatever.
Today, the swamp perfectly reflected my mood. And not in a good way. Wrinkled candy wrappers and crushed soda cans had invaded the still waters—a jumbled mess, like my jumbled brain. Shaking my head, I waded into the shallow part, picking up the trash and tossing it onto the nearby grass.
Leaning forward to get a particularly stubborn honey-bun wrapper, I lost my balance and fell face-first into the murky water. Thin, finger-like reeds brushed my face, and tadpoles tickled my eyelids. I tried to push myself up, but my hands slipped on the muddy bed, plunging me back down into the water. My nose and mouth filled with hot, liquid dirt that stole my breath and burned my throat. My heart raced, and I let out a bubbly, smothered shriek.
The Monsters Hiding in Your Closet Page 8