Monsters are not real

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic
Monsters aren't real.
Or are they?

Submitted: January 22, 2013

A A A | A A A

Submitted: January 22, 2013



 It was too quiet to sleep in this new place. I had recently rented out a room in a stranger’s house.
 I probably should have paid more attention to my roommate’s background, but I didn’t care enough to investigate thoroughly.
 My own father had once told me that I was a useless, good-for-nothing child. He told me he wished my mother was alive, only so he never would have to see me again. My father hated me. Why should I bother with proper living style?
 All I knew about this man was his age and occupation: 27 and a drug dealer.
 I mostly kept to myself. We never really talked, unless making arrangements to buy groceries or dinner.
 Since I had just been fired, I had a lot of time to think about my childhood. My father’s anger was the main part that I had remembered. But on that particular night, I recalled something else; something good about my childhood.
 I was terrified. For once, it wasn’t over my father’s wrath, but something less frightening: a monster. I kept peeking over my sheets, hoping with every glance that no animalistic being was creeping out of my closet. I called for my father, who for once, wasn’t angry.
 He comforted me and told me not to be silly. Monsters weren’t real.
 He then left without another word.
 It wasn’t a particularly great memory, but one of the best that I had with my dad.
 I bundled up in the scratchy sheets that my renter provided for me, hoping to keep out the chilliness of the empty room. The silence was so stale, that it seemed to grow loud. I heard a ringing noise in my ear and nervously put a pillow over my head.
 For a while, the noise was muted, but it slowly began to creep through the wrinkles in the pillow and make its way to my eardrum once more.
 Infuriated by this monstrosity, I slammed my fist into the wall.
 I pulled it away and saw blood.
 I never would have done anything useful with that hand anyways; after all, I’m a useless person. Good for nothing. Right?
 I remember one time, I stayed up the whole night, just staring at my door. Camping out, in hopes of catching the monster. I patted my trusty baseball bat, and waited.
 At one point, the door moved.
 Perhaps it was the wind, because of course, monsters weren’t real.
 I felt myself shiver, and immediately began to curl up in a ball. The noise was now fading to a dull buzz in the depths of my ear. In a way, this was worse, but I shrugged it off. The bigger problem was the blood dripping from my hand.
 It forced me to get out of my covers and make my way towards the bathroom.
 On my way out, I shut my closet, which was ajar. For some reason, I didn’t feel comfortable with it open.
 I trudged across the hallway into the bathroom where I turned on the sink. I washed my scarlet knuckles and splashed some water on my face.
 I used the towel to wipe all the water off, and then left the bathroom as quickly as I had arrived.
 I gratefully crossed the room to lie in my bed once more. This time, it felt oddly warmer, but who was I to question such a welcome occurrence?
 I was finally cozy, and the ringing sound had finally left for good, and on top of all that, I wasn’t bleeding any more.
 I looked at my surroundings via the moonlight that leaked through my shoddy blinds.
 There was a small drawer, a mini fridge, my open closet, and the guitar that I played in the rare occasions that I didn’t want to kill myself.
 When I was in high school, I used to write music.
  At least my room was in order. I closed my eyes, ready to sleep finally.
 After about an hour of restless slumber, I opened my eyes again. I looked around my room once more, to see a black gape that was my closet. Suddenly I remembered, hadn’t I just closed it?
 For a moment, I felt like a child again, just staring petrified at my closet, ready for something to jump out.
 But, of course, monsters were not real.
 Once again, I unwrapped myself and crossed the room to close my closet.
 I reached for the handle, when suddenly, that maddening ringing noise started up again.
 I covered my ears and fell to my knees. Something told me that I was overreacting, though, so I stood up and grabbed the knob.
 As I twisted it, I heard a voice.
 You’re no good, aren’t you? Wouldn’t you like to redeem yourself?
 This voice was haunting and chilled me more than the temperature did.
 I looked into the blackness of the closet. I didn’t see anyone.
 But whoever this voice was, they posed a very interesting ultimatum.
 “Yes, yes I would.” I whispered into my wardrobe.
 Perfect. The voice hissed. Step inside, and I will tell you the way.
“Step inside where?” I asked.
 As if in response, my closet light flickered.
 I looked around, as if this was all a joke. Perhaps it was, but I was about to fall for it.
 Hesitantly, I walked into my closet, finally wondering if there would be a scary creature hiding behind my clothes.
 But, of course, monsters were not real.
 I closed the door slowly, still unsure about this new development.
 Once the door clicked shut, a soul-shredding shriek went off in my head. I fell to the ground again, but this time, I didn’t find the urge to get up.
 I felt blood accumulating in my ears. I tried wiping it off, but I only made a bigger mess.
 Abruptly, the noise stopped, as if it never even happened. I looked around my closet expectantly, hoping for a sign.
 Whether it be a camera man, videocamera, or goblin, I wanted an answer.
 I heard a noise to the right of me. I tried to finger some of the blood out to hear better, but only ended up aggravating the wound.  I tried to see through the thick blanket of darkness, but could only make out shadows.
 I could have sworn that one had moved.
 Your roommate. He is your task. Killing him is all I ask. I would be very proud of you, son.
The voice suddenly sounded familiar. My father.
 Yes, boy. Now, there’s a meat cleaver in one of the kitchen drawers. Use that.
“Yes, father! Anything to prove myself.”
 I didn’t question him, I just stood up and exited my room. This time, I did so with pep in my step, my father would be so happy.
 I smiled, thinking he might smile at me for once.
 In no time, I was rummaging through the drawers, searching for the hatchet.
 Finally, I had found it. I raised it in the air and let the moonlight reflect off of it. It made me chuckle. It looked so pretty.
 I slowly but surely made my way to my landlord’s room. His door was shut, but not all the way, so there was no door-fiddling nuisances.
 His room was messy and unkempt, unlike my room. There was marijuana scattered on the floor and a small “chemistry lab” sitting in the center of the room. Chemicals stained the carpet and there were almost a dozen lighters lying on the windowsill, where the blinds weren’t drawn. I figured it didn’t matter anyways. I didn’t care who saw. After this, my father would love me. He would finally appreciate me. Nothing else mattered. After this, maybe I would finally be valuable.
 I stroked the cleaver.
 The man snored obnoxiously. He was a pig, really. I was doing the world a favor by killing him.
 I walked to the side of his bed, and raised the hatchet high in the air, and then I brought it down right over his stomach. I felt the satisfying ripping of his skin and intestines as I chopped through.
 His eyes shot open in shock and he screamed.  He rolled to his side and I laughed as he tried to keep his guts from spilling onto the bed.
 Since he was too weak to resist me now, I rolled him onto his back again, and withdrew his hands from his wound. “It’s okay. There’s no stopping it now.” I crooned.
 I smiled at him before raising the cleaver once more to chop his head off. Due to his neck, it was difficult to slice it off cleanly in one hit. So, I began to saw through the rest.
 Finally, I had cut through the final flaps of skin, and I could wash my hands off.
 His blood was a dark, dark red that made my stomach flip.
 How filthy. I thought to myself.
 But I beamed at myself in the mirror. Finally I could have my father’s honor.
 I walked back to my room and threw the meat cleaver onto the floor before standing before my closet.
 “Father, he’s dead!” I said happily.
 There was no hissing, ringing, or reply. I stood for a few extra moments to wait for him.
 “Dad? Are you there? Do you love me?”
 Once again, there was no reply. I sat there for hours upon hours talking to my closet, hoping that finally my dad’s voice would boom inside of my head again and congratulate me upon my task.
 But his voice never came.
 Soon, it wasn’t moonlight leaking through my window, but sunlight.
 I picked the hatchet off of the floor and wiped it in my t-shirt.
 Ah, clean.
 For the first time in five hours, I stood up. I crossed the room to open my blinds slowly. I squinted away the light at first, but soon adjusted.
 I stood staring out the window at the backyard. I watched as trees swayed in the chilly wind.
 The house was very quiet. The silence was deafening.
 Could silence be deafening? I thought so.
 Cutting through the quiet noise like a razor blade, I heard a knock on the door.
  Could it be? Has my father come to see me?
 I sprinted through the house to get to the front door as fast as possible.
 I knew I had blood on my face and shirt, but I knew he wouldn’t care. Perhaps that would be what he wanted to see.
 I eagerly opened the door, and was surprised to see not my father, but five policemen.
 Smiling, I said. “Good morning.”
 They looked me from head to toe.
 Disregarding my welcoming tone, one in front said, “We have warrants to search your house. We have reason to believe that your roommate has been dealing drugs.” he paused, overlooking me once more. “Perhaps there is more going on here than I thought.”
 “Why yes, sir. He did deal drugs. He was very ambiguous about it verbally, but physically, he had it written on his face.” I smiled, happy to help.
 One of the officers in the back frowned. He stepped forward.
 “Why are you speaking of him in past tense?” he slowly inquired.
 I laughed heartily. How could this man be so stupid?
 “Oh, I killed him sir. He’s still in his bed asleep. He won’t wake up, but he is still asleep. My father told me to kill him.” I grinned proudly at the five men.
 Immediately, one of the men cuffed me. They were cold, and tight.
 “Your father told you to do it, you say?” the man who cuffed me asked.
 I nodded. “Yes sir. He’ll love me now, it was worth it, I swear.”
 “What’s your father’s first and last name?”
 “Bill Arnoldson.” I replied happily.
 The man was now tying me to a pipe inside of my house.
 One police man was lining yellow tape around my porch. Others were filing in and out with cameras, bags, cards, and swabs.
 The officer who had tied me up turned around and shouted to one of his buddies in the car. “Run a diagnostic on Bill Arnoldson! I want to know every detail of his life.”
 I sat patiently, still waiting for my father to arrive. I knew he would.
 I had a nice view of the man who was searching my father’s name. He got out of the car, and walked into the house.
 “Jeff.” I heard the man call to another.
 “What?” Jeff replied.
 “About Bill Arnoldson…”
 “Yes?” Jeff asked, annoyed.
 “He’s dead. He’s been dead for four years now.”
 My father? Dead? Impossible!
 He couldn’t be dead, I was just talking to him the night before!
 What else could it have been?
 Because, of course, monsters were not real.


© Copyright 2017 EmilyVelasco. All rights reserved.

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