by Susan May
No heat pack or hot water bottle. “They’re like mosquitoes attracted to heat,” Caleb had warned. It was summer now, and there was nothing hot in his bed. Except him. His body temperature felt set to Furnace.
Leave nothing open.
He was good there. He’d become so obsessive about open doors and windows he’d even checked the door on his moneybox safe.
What about the hardest-to-follow rule? The rule even Caleb insisted was a struggle for him. “You might forget to close doors or accidentally wear colored pajamas, but this one rule is an absolute. Even in your sleep, you must do it.”
What could be harder than what I’ve already learned, Bailey had thought when Caleb had said it.
“Have you ever lay in bed on your side with your head pushed into the pillow and heard whump-whump, whump-whump? What do you think that whump-whump is, and why does it keep perfect time?”
Bailey had stifled a giggle. “Of course I’ve heard it. It’s your heartbeat, stupid.”
Caleb shook his head. “Uh-uh. That’s what they want you to think.”
“Who wants me to think?”
“Your parents, you dope.”
“It is so your heartbeat. Why would your parents want you to think any different?”
Caleb rolled his eyes. “Ah-ah-ahh. Not a heartbeat, but a beacon. Your parents figure if they tell you, then you’ll never go to bed and they won’t get their secret parents’ time.”
“A beacon?”
“A beacon for the monsters. Lying on your side activates it. It transmits your exact position until you lie on your back again. Roll over—and off it goes again. Beeep-beeep. That’s how the monsters know you’re in bed… and to come for you.”
That was the moment when Bailey made a stupid mistake. He started to laugh. Of all the monster rules, this one was the craziest, and Bailey suddenly felt totally silly for believing any of it. He expected Caleb would understand, would actually laugh along with him… but he was wrong.
Caleb went very quiet as he studied Bailey. When he spoke again, there was a tremor in his voice.
“You think… you think I’m lying?”
“I don’t know. Look, it all just sounds kind of… well, weird. My parents are pretty on to stuff, and they’ve never said a word about monster rules.”
“Fine,” Caleb shot back, folding his arms. “Think what you like. Follow the rules. Don’t follow the rules. If something happens, don’t come crying to me.”
“Well I won’t,” said Bailey, with a degree of bravado he didn’t actually feel.
After that day, Caleb and Bailey had never again spoken of the monster rules. Bailey had always wondered whether, if he hadn’t laughed, Caleb would have told him more rules. If there were more rules, then perhaps there was an unknown crack in his defenses.
He’d still followed the rules religiously—even the lying-on-your-back one. In fact, his constant checking of doors had caused his mother to accuse him of having a thing called O.C.D. He’d worked out it probably meant odd child disorder or overly careful disorder, or something like that.
Here he was—possibly because he’d laughed at Caleb—trapped in his own room, under the covers, praying for all he was worth that his mom would come in to check on him just one more time.
Ker-chunk-slap. Ker-chunk-slap.
Oh no! Oh no! Terror was inside him now, clawing at his mind like a wild cat. This sound was close. Too close. Only a few feet away.
There was something in the room. He wasn’t imagining it. Now he smelled something, too, like burnt-to-a-cinder meat on a barbecue. It swirled inside his nostrils, sticking there, before it forced itself into his lungs, burning his throat on the way down. A sneeze tickled at the back of his nose; he fought against it. Please don’t let me sneeze.
Seconds later, the sneeze receded to wherever sneezes go in the back of your head. Thank you. Thank you, nose.
The rules ran through his head, threads of words hurtling randomly through the gray of his mind. He must have missed one. They’d seemed like scary fun in the daylight but, in the dark, they seemed all too real. All doubts receded when the rotten smell filled his mouth and nose.
Over his face came the sound of breathing: long, strained, gurgling breaths, so close he could feel the gentle movement of the air. The smell wafted over him, hot, thick and rotten—a dirty smell like fresh dog turds. He wanted to gag.
The breath. Oh no! It was on his cheek. In and out. In and out.
Hot. Then not. Then hot again, covering him in a thick blanket of putrid stench that sank into his pores.
He played dead for all he was worth, lying perfectly straight on his back, while his heart sent out the loudest thumping beacon call on the planet.
Eewh! Yuk!
Something wet and sticky dripped onto his face. Like slimy glue. Hot and burning. It smelled worse than the breath. It smelled of death. Even though he didn’t know what death smelled like, he knew this smell must be pretty close.
Terror seeped from every pore in his body, and every vein pulsed with fear beneath his skin. The horror of it all filled him, until he felt as though he would burst. He wanted to scream. He gulped it back.
The rules. The rules.
He must follow the rules. He could still play dead. That was a plan. This might be a test. A monster test.
The thing was only inches from his face. If he didn’t move… if he stayed looking dead… his meat no good… his body too thin… then he might have a chance. It was his one tiny chance to avoid becoming another Ben Stirling. Missing. Taken by a monster.
Stop breathing. Stay still. Play dead. He focused on the words. He prayed. For if he didn’t get this right, then very soon he wouldn’t need to pretend.
Bailey couldn’t do it.
Even as he willed his eyes to stay closed, they betrayed him.
As if they had a mind of their own, his lids flew open. His eyes rolled wildly inside his head as he madly looked around. For a few seconds he couldn’t focus. All he could take in was the blackness, hanging thick and claustrophobic like a heavy veil.
It was as his vision began to clear, to pull shapes from the shadows, he suddenly felt the urge to scream, knew he could scream.
Not with terror. With happiness.
The joy flooded his body, chasing out the fear as if a fresh breeze had blown through.
There was nothing there.
No monster leaning over him, its jaws only a tooth’s length from his face. No creature from hell waiting to drag him away. He must have imagined it all.
Caleb and his stupid monster rules had gotten inside his imagination and warped his mind. Just wait ’til I see Caleb at school tomorrow. He’d pay him back somehow. Maybe make up some rules of his own—robot rules, or witches rules. He’d show him how it felt to be tricked.
Breathe. In and out.
Finally, he could breathe. He pulled in a long, grateful breath of beautiful, fresh oxygen, exhaling it in a long, loud whoosh of relief.
That moment. There, as he breathed. That was his mistake, the mistake, which couldn’t be undone. The rule he’d recklessly broken.
If only he’d waited. If only he’d checked.
It dawned on him, too late, there was something there, a weight, on the end of his bed.
His heart exploded.
He wasn’t alone.
The thing was much smaller than he’d imagined. The size of a large dog, but uglier, blacker, and shinier. If evil could drip from a living thing, then this was dripping buckets. Its vicious teeth glowed in the dark, long and white. Its mouth pulled back as if it was smiling at him—not in a friendly way. In a hungry way.
Caleb had been right, too: the eyes did glow red, and they flashed as the thing blinked. Slowly the monster twisted its head from side to side, calmly, as if it knew Bailey wouldn’t scream, couldn’t scream.
Then it pulled back on its dark, scaly legs, which shimmered green even in the dark. It was preparing to launch at him. Bailey’s terrified brain
grasped it was coming, and instinctively he curled into a ball and covered his face with his arms.
Too bad about exposing his arms. The rules hadn’t worked anyway.
He felt the air move as it leaped at him and then land on his body, its legs on either side of his hips, its black, spindly arms on top of his chest. Bailey squirmed as the claws—so sharp they felt like jagged pieces of broken glass—pierced his skin and pinned him to the bed by his shoulders.
It hurt. It really hurt. His mind screamed for his mother. His father. He’d even settle for his brother. Instead, the reply was a whistling, whispering voice, like a snake hissing senseless sounds. Then slowly the whispering built, like a swirling, whipping wind, until hundreds of voices were inside his head, talking and shrieking all at once until his own thoughts were drowned out.
A single voice arose above the sounds, louder and even more frightening. It was a wild and terrifying thing, like the wind shrieking on a stormy night. The sound began to sound familiar. It wasn’t the thing, whose claws were digging into his tiny body. He suddenly understood what it was. The voice was his own, crying and begging and screaming.
He didn’t want to look at the monster. It drew him as though his will was taken and stripped from him. Stopping himself from looking at it was impossible; he had to see. He looked up, and his eyes locked upon two red, ravenous orbs focused only on him. The screaming stopped for a blessed moment, and a stream of words fell from his mouth.
“I followed … followed the rules. Followed the monster rules. It’s not, not … fair.”
The thing, the monster, the stinking, dripping, red-flashing-eye creature, paused. It actually loosened its grip. Bailey thought maybe he was saved. Maybe it was letting him go.
Then it threw back its head and opened its lipless mouth. Wider and wider its dark maw opened, until the creature’s face split in two and Bailey found himself staring into a black chasm. Each edge of the chasm held three rows of teeth, uneven and cracked, and as jagged as his mom’s bread knife. The purpose of those teeth was very clear.
Then the voices in his head thinned to a single sound, so sharp it felt as if his head would crack open like an egg. The sound repeated like a broken recording; it took a few seconds, before he recognized it.
Laughter. Crazy, mocking laughter.
Then a sharp talon effortlessly pierced the soft flesh of his neck and tore downward in a perfect straight line. He felt his skin peel apart like a cut orange, warm blood spurting from the wound to splatter and cover his face and chest. The bitter, salty taste invaded his mouth, choking him.
Just before his eyes closed to a real death—no need to pretend anymore—the monster leaned into his face, turning its small head to the side. Its claws pinched his cheeks, and the hot scales of its skin pulled at his hair. A tongue, pointed and sticky, flicked along the outside of his ear, and its whispering, hissing voice wormed its way into his head. Laughter erupted around him and within him until his soul vibrated with it.
Then the laughter stopped and the monster paused all movement. It seemed to smile. Then it hissed through lips spreading wider and wider:
“Sometimes we change the rules.”
The Monster Rules
Never expose your arms and legs above the bedcovers.
Never stand next to your bed.
Never get up at night.
If you think there is a monster in your room, pretend to be dead.
Do not leave closet doors open.
Do not leave windows open.
Only wear dark pajamas.
Never use a heat pack or hot water bottle in bed.
Never lie on your side.
Never turn your back on the dark when climbing stairs.
Don’t believe in monsters—or one day you might discover they exist beyond your imagination.
From the Imagination Vault
You might be thinking, Hang on a minute, this isn’t like Susan May’s other stories—it’s kind of simple. Well, wonderful reader, you would be correct. This is my version of a children’s story. I wrote it for my kids as a fun horror story, a little like R.L. Stine’s Goosebumps.
With that aside, I will let you in on a little secret, and you’re going to think I’m crazy. When I was a kid, I actually followed all of these rules. All except for the pajama rule. That one I made up for the story.
Most kids imagine monsters lurk, waiting to pounce when the lights go out. Growing up, I truly believed monsters were all around me, watching and waiting to pounce. I think my penchant, from a very young age, for Friday night horror films, and my passion for any horror books, may have contributed a little to my fears. Well, okay, maybe a lot!
My active imagination, fed often with a diet of horror, resulted in me being unable to walk outside in the dark to take out the trash, or for any other reason, without looking over my shoulder. I’m okay now, but I think I was in my late twenties before I conquered that fear.
A couple of years ago, when my boys were aged around eight and ten, I told them about all the silly rules I made up as a kid as protection from the monsters. As I told them, it dawned on me, maybe, I had a story there. In fact, I thought I could write it for my youngest son, Bailey. So I used his and his best friend’s names for the characters.
I’m now well and truly grown up, and yet I still find I sleep much better when I am covered up to the neck with the bedcovers (and the heavier weight the better—much safer). I made sure the last bed we bought had a double mattress (no room for monsters under there now).
Is it any wonder when I began writing I didn’t stray far from the horror and science-fiction genres? I’ve been sleeping surrounded by monsters for years. Don’t you worry about me, though. They’ll never get me, because I really do know all the monster rules … even the ones I haven’t told you.
© 2013 Susan May
Where We Once Were
Tamara dreamed of visiting her distant ancestors’ 1897 time world for her PhD research paper. What she discovers is a secret two hundred years in the making. History might be about to take a different path.
The dust surprised Tamara. The smoky-tasting powder coated her tongue and the grit stuck to her teeth. A horrible taste filtered down her throat, until she felt like gagging.
Despite her research, she’d chosen to believe her research was flawed, and she’d find green, rolling hills, neat pastures, and a quiet landscape of simple life dotted with sweet little farmhouses, with owners tending their precious land. This would prove to be the least of her dashed hopes.
Tamara surveyed the dust-blown dirt street, observing the slow meander of the town’s inhabitants, as they moved between the wooden-built shops and bungalows. The buildings appeared as stark contrast to the majestic towering gum trees surrounding the settlement.
Each person nodded a friendly hello to the next as they passed. Three women dressed in long-sleeve, tight-fitting bodices and dark floor-sweeping skirts stopped and animatedly chatted in the middle of the street. They looked happy and comfortable, quite the opposite to how Tamara felt. She found the outfits hot and cumbersome in the stifling humidity.
How did they stand it? Tamara thought she’d melt away if forced to wear this costume for more than the few hours at a time, when she came out to mingle among the town’s inhabitants.
Two children skipped along the road kicking a ball to each other. Laughing, they ducked into the shade of Werner’s general store. They seemed happy, too, despite the limited luxury she’d seen so far. The flies were intolerable, too. The townsfolk and the street seemed an alien landscape, just as odd as if Tamara had been transported to Mars. Their courtesy and manners were vastly different to the brusque and impatient exchanges she often experienced in her city’s bustling lifestyle.
Before her departure, she’d practised these people’s accent and mannerisms. Even though she’d grown up only one hundred odd miles away, over the centuries language had evolved so much. Common words had changed. Maybe not for the better. There was someth
ing melodic in the lack of acronyms in this time.
These people’s courtesy and care was built through a common bond and had evolved from necessity. They’d only each other to rely upon. In the mid-eighteen hundreds, the first generation of arrivals to this distant, mysterious land came eager and filled with pride, refugees from a struggling life in Eastern Prussia. Lured to Australia by the Government’s promise of land, they arrived hopeful and excited. The rich life imagined by the immigrants was a crafted illusion.
Quälsland (land of torment) they’d christened this place. An unwelcoming land of harsh weather, torrential rain, floods, and life-sucking droughts. Most wondered if they’d landed straight in hell.
Tamara’s passion for history made her perfectly suited to study life genetics. Her major: 1800s through to early 1900s, colonial Australia. This was her last year of her PhD, and this trip would contribute to her final assessment. If she scored well enough, she would begin her career at Life Genetics Inc.
The obsession with this era and this town, Gatton, had begun in Tamara’s childhood. In her dreams, she imagined their lives. She’d read every article published since 1850 she could find on the area. She felt as much a part of these distant relatives’ lives as their DNA was of her.
When the Central University of Historical Studies advertised a scholarship for volunteers for their travel program, she surrendered an entire summer writing her submission. At twenty-four, she had preparation and, importantly, youth on her side. Being young, a consideration, as the transfer stress on the body could make things difficult. On a cellular level, the body couldn’t cope with the destabilizing effect of disintegration and reform much past thirty-five. She’d heard disconcerting stories of the impact on older bodies.
After making the short list and clearing the health checks, it came down to two candidates. Tamara and Henry Cable. Both would make the trip, but the most qualified would choose the destination. The runner-up would accompany the other as an assistant. Henry’s choice was 1741, Limerick, Ireland.
