*Monsters of Imagination

Intro: I attend a weekly writing group. One of my friends writes children’s books and she has been working on a monster idea. When I came across this writing prompt I couldn’t pass it up. Besides, it kind of fits the season. When you were little, you could swear there was a monster under your bed--but no one believed you. On the eve of your 30th birthday, you hear noises coming from under your bed once again. The monster is back and has an important message to deliver to you.

“You don’t exist.”

“I don’t have time for this, lady.” The voice growled.

I squeezed my eyes closed wishing my husband were here and not on a business trip. “No. This is a figment of my imagination. You don’t exist.”

“Okay, let’s pretend I don’t exist, will you listen to my message now?”

Twenty years earlier, a monster lived under my bed. I hated him. As a ten-year-old, I thought it was common to have a monster. My friends and family didn’t agree. While I told fantastic stories about being kept up all night because my monster shook the frame or made groaning noises, they thought I was lying. Finally, it got so bad that my parents took me to a councilor. When I overheard the councilor tell my parents in hushed tones that he believed me certifiable, I knew I had to do something. The monster stayed until I was fourteen but I never mentioned him again. After another couple of years, I was convinced, just as much as my family that monsters didn’t exist.

Now, on the eve of my thirtieth birthday, the monster was back.

“Come on, lady. I’m not asking for much. Just a minute of your time.”

The dark shape loomed at the side of my bed and I squeaked pulling the covers up and moving further away. The same horns. The same scales. The same four arms. My nightmare was back.

“Go away, go away.” I rocked myself clutching the covers in tight fists.

“You haven’t changed at all. You use to do this back in the day.”

“Just go away.” I howled.

The last time I had seen my monster was in a similar situation. He was silhouetted against the window, moving steadily closer. I screamed, my parents came running and he was gone. They asked why I screamed and I just said it was a nightmare. He never came back. When we moved to another house a year later I watched the movers take away my bed. The bottom frame was filled with scratch marks, too large to be caused by an animal.

“Fine.” The voice said. “Don’t listen to me.”

The room fell silent and after a few minutes I opened my eyes. A large black face was inches from mine. The yellow eyes unblinking. I screamed and tried to scramble away but I was already in the corner.

“Do I have your attention now? Your daughter is in danger.”

“What?” I gasped thinking of my eight-year-old step daughter sleeping down the hall. “Don’t touch her.”

“Monsters come to the imaginative. You’re daughter has a strong imagination.”

The monster moved away and slunk back under the bed. I could hear his claws scratching the frame.

“Penny?”

“You had the strength to quell me. Her monster grows stronger by the night.”

“What?”

“I figured I owed you. You always did know when to scream. Made my job fun.”

The scratching stopped and I waited for only a moment before dashing out of room. As I moved down the hall, I could hear a faint whimpering. I burst through the door and moved to the bed. The little girl threw herself into my arms, something she’d never done in the year I’d been her mother.

“It’s okay, Penny.” I crooned stroking her hair.

“It’s going to eat me.” She sobbed. “Help me.”

“Of course I will. Let me tell you the first rule of dealing with monsters.”