**Trigger Warning for Mention of Suicide**
When a child finds a monster under her bed, she doesn't ask why he's hiding. Or wonders what could have driven him there in the first place. All she knows is he's big, he's scary and no matter how loud she screams, he refuses to vamoose.
To protect herself, the child develops rules:
1. Sleep with one eye open.
2. Don't be alone with him.
3. Hurt him before he can hurt you.
And for years, they work. They keep her safe. Meanwhile, the animosity piles between them like a physical, fecal mound, stinky and unpleasant.
Even now, helping my uncle into the RV, I get a whiff of the fictional scent. My boogeyman. Here. In my home. But while my palm tingles against his shirt, I don't recoil. Or lash out. Because circumstances have changed. I've changed.
For one, I'm now savvy enough to recognize that the monster beneath my bed might actually be equally as scared as I am. Equally as haunted. And for another, it's easy to put the bad aside when there's a life on the line. When the stakes are so much sharper than petty squabbles and childish fears.
But most importantly: I need him.
The shit keeps coming and it don't stop coming and the weight is too heavy to bare alone. Ace gets stronger every day but those thin shoulders can only hold so much. I don't wanna crush her. Whereas our uncle, well, he's been bench-pressing emotional girders since the 80's. It's a treacherous thought, but I'm relieved to have a qualified spotter on board. My knees are about to snap.
"Do we know the exact time he was injured?" asks Morgan, cane rapping against the couch where the swaddled patient lies.
I dump his tote on the armchair with a jangle of glass, unsurprised he's already up to speed. "Beats me."
"Eleven thirty? Midnight?" Ace guesstimates as the door fastens behind her. With the drawn blinds and the fruity smell of decay wafting off Terry, it's like a damn hospice in here.
"Over twelve hours, then. He's a determined little fella." Morgan leans his visual aid against the armrest and clasps one limp, pale hand. Bowing his head, a low whir thrums through the RV, thick and streaked with an unearthly tang. "Determined big fella. Christ almighty."
That's the fourth rule the child penned: Avoid all physical contact with the boogeyman. It allows him to see things. Things you'd rather keep hidden.
Suddenly, like an in-camera effect in a cheap horror flick, an image stutters over Morgan's stooped form. Black and white cartoon horns sprout from his head and staticky eyebrows dive-bomb glowing eyes as lips curl upward in an impossible grin. A kid's doodle of a monster.
Nope. I mash my injured palm with the opposite thumb. Nope. Grinding until a muddy flower blossoms on the bandage. Until the fierce, slicing pain banishes the flickering doppelgänger. Nope.
I shouldn't've had that third Red Bull. Or that second cigarette. I might as well have given my intrusive thoughts a megaphone.
As the creepy aura fades, Morgan lifts his head to where Ace and I wait on tenterhooks. And I wonder, not for the first time, how he always seems to know where I am. "The good news is, there's still a way to save him. Bad news? It's a lot of trouble to go to for someone you just met."
"Meaning what?" I snap.
"Meaning..." He drops the hand as his lips thins in compassionate pragmatism. "It's a lot of trouble."
YOU ARE READING
Slate Gray
Paranormal||9x Featured|| For the Slates, Demon Slaying is the family business. And eighteen-year-old Perrin has fully embraced her chosen profession. But when her younger sister, fifteen-year-old Ace, unwittingly picks a doozy of a case as her first outing...
