The Toy Monster

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

This is a psychological thriller of overcoming relentless fear.

They told me the toy monster only preyed on bad kids who didn’t clean up their stuff before it came into the room. The toy monster isn’t tall in stature, but it is big and menacing. It wears a black jacket, which hangs over its grotesque and deformed body. The toy monster has thin black hair, but no one really knows for sure because everyone that has ever come into contact with it never escaped its influence, that is except for me. At the strike of eleven an ominous presence can be felt throughout the house, which seem to begin in the uppermost right part of my house. The darkness quickly spreads down the hallway, across the red tile, and then reflects back off of the obsidian walls. If your room is clean you have nothing to worry about, but should you have forgotten, the toy monster will unleash its hatred. Scrapes against the wall, a sound very similar to nails on a chalkboard, begin to erupt. It grows louder and louder until it practically makes you go mad. If you cleaned your room, and the floor is free of toys, it passes. You know you’re in the clear when you hear the sound of thick-soled heels clicking against the blue carpet. If you didn’t clean up, however, the toy monster appears in your room and rips you down by the same blue stairs. It doesn’t end there. Next it drags you into the far right room of the house. It continues until it drags you into the closet. Lastly, you see a brief flash of light, until you wake up, seemingly forgetting about the evil of the toy monster. All traces of this moment of time have been erased, and any attempt to capture the phenomenon will fail. Trying to think of the toy monster is like trying to imagine not existing, other than the thought of non-existence is far less terrifying. The tale you are about to hear will change the way you perceive reality, and will most-definitely change you as drastically as it has changed me. This isn’t a story as much as it is a self- reflection grinding to my very core. Never am I without fear, and I go about life in a giant’s world, through the perspective of a mouse. I am small, but at the same time I am big in my own perception of the world.

I was born without hair in a cold room with a couple of surgeons. I had a difficult time being born, from what I hear, and the first thing I saw were the dull blue tiles that expanded all throughout the hospital. As a child, I was unlike most other kids. While most of my peers went to their moms for support, I went to my toys. I played by myself in the courtyard of the hospital. If you asked anyone who knew me they would also probably tell you my emotions were gone. I walked around all throughout my early life with a blank expression, one that someone might wear after seeing a murder. It was as if I had seen a ghost, but really much of my being was deprived and restrained. I went to numerous counselors, and each of them were confused as to what was wrong with me. Usually they shrugged it off, but even if they wanted to help they couldn’t. Even I didn’t know what was wrong, and I didn’t know what to do.

It was a hot day in June, and I had recently been let out for summer break. I had a ton of friends at this point in my life, so we decided to play at my house. One of my best friends whom I loved the most was named Donald. Donald was a fun and energetic guy, with a weird and quirky accent, but I still liked him. Even if I didn’t like him I had five other friends I could play with. They were my friends and they would play with me however I wanted them to. On occasion, when I would get a little heated, I would shove my friends into my newly painted red wall. I didn’t want to get angry, and as soon as I did it, I immediately apologized. As a punishment I never had my room completely repainted and only two of the walls were red; the other walls were green and blue respectively. It was promised that if I behaved, I could paint the rest of the walls red over time.

 My friends and I were having a wonderful time playing, and I realized that it had been six hours since they arrived. I told them it was time for them to leave, and I looked over to the obsidian clock, which revealed it was a quarter until eleven.

I now know why I felt as terrified as I did, but back then with every passing minute I became more and more paranoid. The paranoia built and built until eleven passed by, and gradually my mood flattened out and I wondered what I was even nervous about. Until that night, it was only a feeling of terror, but that would all change. Tick… tock… tick… tock. The clock became louder than ever, and the noise that emitted from it almost seemed to forebode me. It was almost as if the clock was trying to warn me of impending doom, yet didn’t know how to best reach me. The problem was communication. The clock and I spoke different languages, but I could still tell that it was trying to warn me of something. I looked back up at the clock and proceeded to feel the most vulnerable and scared I’ve ever felt in my life. It was almost incomprehensible. It was as though I had been surrounded by a half-dozen bloodthirsty dogs while being whispered to by an unidentified, malicious dark force. The feeling sent chills rushing down my spine, then they began to wrap around my stomach. If the high on heroin is the extreme high of pleasure and happiness, this was the opposite.

The clock struck eleven, and I knew something terrible was in store for me; something that would change me for the worse. I was lying in bed and staring at the tall, elongated doorway, when suddenly I heard a horrendous screech. The sound was scary, but at the same time, I knew that the voice wouldn’t and couldn’t hurt me. The voice faded, and shortly afterward I heard soft and brisk footsteps flowing down the stairs. Whatever it was, I wished that it would come back and help me, or at least offer protection from the coming evil. Before I could even begin to ponder the situation, I heard something new: the sound of laughter. It sounded as though someone was laughing to repress a paralyzing fear. This character had most likely locked in her subconscious that the evil existed, but in an attempt to escape it chose to pretend it didn’t exist. Eventually, like the voice before her, she gave way to silence. The footsteps that followed were strangely smooth and graceful, similar to that of a ballet dancer, with the presentation of an actress. Upon the exit of the graceful footsteps, I knew that I was again without hope, alone.

This time I knew that what would follow was the evil itself, and its target was clearly not the other two bodiless voices, but me. The evil could have effortlessly consumed them, yet for whatever reason, it chose to pursue me. I felt my heart sink back into my chest, and I began to feel utterly hopeless. There wasn’t a need to escape, because I was trapped in a cage. A cage in which I had built around myself, and others exploit. I knew what I had to do in order to escape; but I couldn’t do it. I was frozen in my surroundings; stuck in a sea of sorrow.

It all happened at once. The sound of bloody fingers scraping the wall began to become clear. To this day I’m not sure which room is the origin of this evil, but it seems to emerge from the main house office. I knew it had to be around that area because it echoed down the hallway and then into my room. The hallway was a long and empty one; few people used the hallway and when they did it was only done when absolutely necessary. The hallway itself isn’t the problem; the problem is the bad vibes that engulf it. Just walking down the hallway was a regrettable experience in itself. The feeling is very similar to the feeling a kid gets when he feels something chasing after him, but he cant get away. The hairs on the back of your neck begin to tingle, and soon stick up straighter than steel. The hairs on the back of your head are in tune to their surroundings, as opposed to the rest of the clueless body, which stands above the ground with little emotion. The little prickly hairs are the first defense of the body, and try to grab the person’s attention in the only way they know how. Most of the time they fail in their attempt, but they must never quit. These hairs, for whatever reason, have been damned for the rest of their master’s days to warn them of any potential danger. They are as numerous as they are helpless, especially since it is very common for the person to lack awareness of their purpose. They put forth an intensely collaborated effort, but after a while they begin to become fatigued. At this point each individual hair falls down, until it seems as if the phenomenon has passed. But don’t let this fool you, the danger is still present, and if anything you become at more risk. This was the case for me.

I chose what so many other unsuspecting people had chose before me, and I decided the danger had passed, seeing as the hairs on the back of my neck had fallen. This decision became one of the most regrettable moments in my life. I was still in my room physically, but mentally I was in another dimension. This dimension is unlike anything I have ever witnessed, and just thinking about it makes me cringe in fear. The best way to describe it is the feeling of being absolutely alone. If you were ever lost from your parents as a kid, the feeling is similar, except indescribably worse. The way I felt is like how a young child would feel if his daddy, whom he cared about more than the world, locked him in a dark dungeon for all eternity with zero hope of escape. In both situations the person is absolutely hopeless, and is constrained in a state of purgatory. Anyways, this feeling began to grow stronger with each passing second until I was pushed unto the brink of sanity. The same clock, which was once my friend, was now a raging fiend. It mocked me and taunted me; taking into account the state of mind that I was in. The wallpaper crumbled and the red paint dripped down from the wall. The room smelled of rotting corpses, and the atmosphere of the room was now immensely hostile. The walls began to close in on me, as though to trick me into leaving the room. I knew I couldn’t leave the room. I knew what lurked outside would be waiting for me to make that mistake. But what did it matter if I stayed or not? The very room that I lived in and loved had turned against me, and plotted to usher my demise. It really didn’t matter if I stayed or left because the protection of the door could only last for so long. The door was giant and sturdy with the strength of a fortress; but even that couldn’t hold back the evil.

The door became emaciated after a while and was loosing the support it once had. I sat there amongst the madness that was going on, and I looked up at the stressed door. Its white frame slowly began to break, and it had almost a sad look to it, as if it was trying to show its mortality but couldn’t. Finally the inevitable happened. The door fell down to the ground in an instant. The door had been there for my entire life, and when it fell, a small piece of my being was crushed. The wood, which was in its former life a door, began to crumble, and all that was left was a small pile of ruble. My last friend was gone, and I was without any company other than the darkness.

It stood there in the place of the door. It was large, grotesque, and wore a large black dress, which covered all of its body. I was unable to move or speak, and at this point I knew that I was helpless. All I could do was stare into its deep and vacant eyes, which were eerily similar to someone I had once known. Its main concentration never seemed to leave me eyes, and I felt it consuming my very soul. It didn’t move, blink, or say anything, but somehow it was communicating with me. I don’t know how, but it almost seemed to know me. It knew my thoughts, and was able to penetrate into them. It knew every motivation and reason for my actions, yet instead of embracing them, chose the route of exploitation. It knew who I was, but instead of being my friend it chose to be my greatest enemy. It chose to use my very emotions against me, in a way that is unimaginably sinister. All at once, it was able to crush my very world, and put upon me a burden I still carry to this day. A fear was synthesized that day which I can’t even explain; a fear that constantly looms over me and occurs at times I can’t predict. It made me who I am today, but for a while it limited who I could become. I now recognize that the monster, which I spent so much time running from, is nothing more than the lowly toy monster. Needless to say, I now have no toys to pick up, but even if I did I wouldn’t pick them up only out of fear. The toy monster is very much real but it is up to you to overcome it. I recognize that it’s influence and power is limited, and you will eventually escape its negative influence. 


Submitted: December 13, 2013

© Copyright 2022 Zachary Ames Smith. All rights reserved.

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