The Last Monster

by Ginger Garrett

  “Mom!” I called, and took a step toward them.

  The woman standing next to my mom turned around, and a dark smile slowly spread across her face. It was the woman from the counselor’s office. My breath caught in my throat.

  “Sofia, be there in a sec,” Mom called. “I’m just talking to someone.”

  I moved closer. The woman stood between us.

  “Your mother and I were just talking about all the difficult struggles that girls your age must face. It’s so important for us moms to know how to support our girls.”

  She placed an odd emphasis on the word “our.” I nodded but said nothing. Mom put a red onion in her basket and stuck out her hand to the woman.

  “Again, it was lovely to meet you. Thank you for your advice.”

  “Well, I hope I didn’t overstep my bounds,” the woman replied in her rich, soothing voice. “I guess I just know from experience that once the wrong door gets opened, it can take forever to shut.”

  At the registers, when I was sure the woman wasn’t following us, I grabbed Mom’s arm.

  “What advice did that woman give you?”

  Mom shrugged slightly. “Just how important it is that girls your age feel like they fit in. Being the odd girl out is a sign of trouble, she said. She’s right about one thing: this is a hard age.”

  I focused on emptying my basket for the cashier. The advice didn’t sound sinister. But then, I didn’t get the sense that woman was a fairy godmother.

  “Yeah, but, Mom,” I said, carefully placing my last item, the jar of spaghetti sauce, on the belt. “I just don’t fit in. I’ve tried. Does that mean I’m headed for trouble?”

  “Not unless you count my cooking as trouble.” Mom shook her head and set her bag of lettuce on the belt. “And you fit in just fine.”

  I shrugged like I was debating that, and she smiled at me.

  “You know what’s weird?” Mom asked a minute later. “She said she just got out of a spin class, but she wasn’t sweaty at all.”

  I glanced behind me with a frown.

  “Some women are just perfect,” Mom sighed. The cashier handed her the receipt and Mom tucked it neatly into her wallet. She had more receipts than money.

  The television switched on downstairs. Mom was watching the news while she did the dishes. The loud clanks and clinks were accented by a man’s deep, authoritative voice. The only man’s voice we ever heard inside these walls came from the TV. I wished Mom would get married. But she had survived two broken hearts, so even though I wanted a dad, I never pressured her to risk a third heartbreak. Sometimes hiding what I felt seemed like the only way to show that I loved her.

  Mom didn’t like to talk about my dad. He left when he found out she was pregnant with me. Mom said it was a complicated situation and he wasn’t ready to be a dad, so she offered him a deal: he never had to pay child support if he relinquished all parental rights in the divorce. He took it.

  Then, when I was in third grade, my mom was engaged to the man of her dreams. He was going to be my first real father. But four weeks before the wedding, he was killed in a motorcycle accident. Mom’s wedding dress hung in her closet for a year before she finally gave it away. I wish there were a ribbon for people who survived broken hearts. I’d wear one for my mom. I was thirteen now, and maybe she thought it was too late for us both to have a happily-ever-after as a family, but I still wanted her to have one.

  I opened my closet door and didn’t see the book. Panicking, I looked in each corner, then around the room. I knew Mom hadn’t moved it when she hung my laundry up. She would have asked me about it. Finally, I bent down and peeked under my bed. The book sat in the shadows. It looked like it had hidden itself.

  I pulled back, surprised. But if that was what it had done, that was a good thing. Keeping the book hidden was one thing I didn’t have to worry about. If it was real, which it wasn’t, exactly.

  Definitely.

  Maybe.

  I sat on the edge of the bed, reached for the book, and tried to pull it out, but my body had the muscle tone of a wet noodle. I grunted and tried two more times before I was able to get the thing into my lap.

  I opened the book and flipped past the dedication. On the left side of the next page was a picture of a young girl with long white hair wearing a golden yellow dress. The girl stood in a room with a wooden floor and a window with bars on it, like a prison. In her hands she clutched a bottle. I couldn’t tell if it was supposed to be poison or medicine. At her feet crouched a strange creature with long white teeth, red eyes, and floppy dog ears. It had lizard feet and a dragon’s sharp, pointed tail. I didn’t understand what the picture meant. The lines were delicate and exact. Someone must have spent hours making it.

  Around the edges of the picture were gold and blue swirls, with tiny scrolls of leaves and ocean waves. I ran a finger over the picture. It had a slight texture—not bumpy, like an oil painting, but wavy and just a little warped, like paper that’s been wet, then dried. And it was definitely paper of some kind, not leather.

  On the opposite page was a similar frame of blue and gold, but it had a giant eye staring right at me, front and center. I didn’t like that.

  I turned the page.

  The next one was blank except for two words in an old, fancy script, each letter fat and thick, with blurs of ink around the edges.

  Leaning down to look more closely, I read:

  Welcome, Sofia.

  I slammed the book closed. The freaky girl from the hospital must have written that before she gave it to me.

  No, that was impossible. She didn’t know my name.

  Then it had to be the creepy counselor who had warned me not to throw my life away for a book, because she did know my name. But how? She wasn’t a real counselor. And how would she have gotten access to the book or know I would open it?

  I started to feel that irresistible temptation to do what I knew I shouldn’t, like digging a fingernail under the edge of a scab.

  I opened the book and flipped right back to the same page.

  It was blank.

  As I continued to stare in confusion, tiny scratches appeared, like someone was trapped inside an Etch A Sketch. I covered my mouth with one hand and watched.

  Whoever or whatever it was scratched out one letter at a time. It was torture, guessing what the letter would be, waiting for each letter to be complete, guessing at the word it would make. A question formed.

  Shall we begin?

  I jerked back and blinked to clear my vision. When I opened my eyes again, the four words were still there. This was really happening.

  The newscaster’s voice floated up the stairs. “Tonight, we look into the threat of meningitis in schools: what you can do to keep your child safe.”

  Mom would be glued to the television.

  I stared at the book. Who was talking to me? And how were they doing it? Was I supposed to write my answer? And what were we going to begin?

  “I don’t exactly know…,” I said. “I mean, I’ve never talked through a book. I’m not exactly sure how this works.”

  Immediately the words were rubbed away, one by one, fast. Someone was magically erasing them. Tiny scratches appeared in their place, faster now, like someone on the other side was excited. I watched, half frozen with disbelief.

  Neither am I.

  I am trapped, alone, between the realms of life and afterlife. This book is my window between our worlds.

  I can only speak through these pages.

  I am human, even now, and am bound by human limitations.

  I can hear what you say and watch what you do, wherever you are. But I cannot read your mind, and I do not know the future.

  However, I do—

  “Seriously? You can hear me?” I gasped, leaning forward. “I’m talking to a person?”

  You interrupted me.

  “Sorry,” I murmured. It was probably an adult.

  There are many believers but only one Guardian. Though the truth
speaks to everyone who listens, I myself can only speak to the one who holds this book. The Guardian has almost always been a child, because children are not often suspected of wielding great power. But know this: The power is not in the book. The power is in you, and in your choices.

  Please understand: this is life and death. Do everything I say, exactly as I say. No Guardian who obeyed me has died of her injuries. No matter what happens, trust me. I have walked countless roads and seen the rise and fall of many empires.

  When no more words appeared, I cleared my throat. “May I ask a question now?” I said. The page remained blank. I assumed the answer was yes.

  “The girl who gave me the book—is she okay? What happened to her?”

  Her name is Claire, and she is well. Claire did not want this life. She is not strong like we are.

  “Who are you?” I whispered.

  The last student of the Master of Them That Know, Aristotle. My name is Xeno.

  “Xeno, if that were really true, you’d be dead by now,” I said.

  NOT DEAD

  “Okay, trapped,” I answered. “Between two worlds. And you’re talking to me through a book, a book about monsters and someone called a Guardian. Xeno, if that’s even your real name, I don’t believe you.”

  I did not ask you to believe. I asked you to trust. Will you do that and help me protect this last, great secret?

  Xeno thought I could guard a last, great secret? My mom couldn’t even leave me alone with an open bag of potato chips. Stalling for time before I answered, I glanced around my room, at the pockmarked walls, at the closet full of clothes to hide what made me different, and I felt that aching hole in my heart from missing my best friend even though I had to act like I didn’t. I was pretty good at keeping secrets, but mine all sucked.

  Maybe I needed a new secret. I was so tired of being me. Reading and answering this book was like playing a game of dress-up. Xeno and I were pretending. He was offering me the chance to be someone else. None of this was real.

  And I hated real.

  “I’d love to,” I said.

  Excellent.

  The book was lost for generations and has only recently returned to the light. I am anxious to begin. Many friends have wandered and been lost.

  If you are ready, press your hand to the page.

  So far, this was interesting. A little scary, maybe, but a definite improvement over staring at my blank walls.

  I pressed my palm flat against the page. It was soft and warm, like an animal’s belly. The black letters beneath my palm pressed back against my hand. I could feel their ridges and sharp lines tickling me. Then the letters turned a warm and deep gold color, seeping together in one puddle that stretched itself into a long thin line and surrounded my hand with the outline of a much bigger hand. It was a man’s hand holding mine, and it radiated heat.

  In the distance, a shrill scream split through the night air. Animals all over the neighborhood reacted, dogs barking madly and cats screeching as if they’d seen an enemy. But softer, farther away still, a different creature sang. It was not a song with notes of growls or cries, but a song in a language of long ago, like something brought up from the ocean floor.

  My heart seemed to expand and open. Something in my bones remembered this song, as if this were music I had made when I took my first breath as a newborn. For the very first time, I heard the world as I was meant to.

  The television went quiet downstairs. Mom would be coming up for bed. I shut the book with a sharp snap. Musty air swirled up at my face from between the pages. Something familiar was in that smell again. Something warm and salty and…It reminded me of the way Alexis’s dad smelled when he hugged me after a track meet. Comforting and loving. What was happening to me?

  I heard Mom’s footsteps on the stairs. I only had a split second left before I needed to hide the book. I flipped it back open.

  “But wait…who’s the Guardian?” I whispered.

  YOU ARE.

  Thursday, February 27

  I ate breakfast while Mom pouted, loading our dishes into the dishwasher with a lot of unnecessary clanging and banging.

  “Mom—” I tried again.

  “You didn’t want to talk last night. You just rushed upstairs to your room, and every time I checked on you, you were just sitting there in the dark and you wouldn’t let me come in. Did I do something? Is there a reason you suddenly need to be alone?”

  I opened my mouth to answer but nothing came out. Yes, I wanted to say, but that would hurt her, and if I tried to explain, she’d think I was having emotional problems like the doctors warned.

  They couldn’t have prepared either of us for this. I had looked up the word “paranormal” at school, and it meant life outside the normal senses, so it was a perfect description. I was dealing with something I couldn’t explain. I had tried to stay awake last night so I could open the book once she fell asleep, because there was so much to ask and learn and school sure wouldn’t cover any of it.

  The last thing I remembered was hiding the book under my pillow when I heard Mom coming down the hall to check on me again. I had nodded off, still fully clothed.

  A glass shattered when she slammed it into the rack. She didn’t stop but just reached for the next one.

  “I still get tired,” I said. “And I need time to think.”

  “If something is going on, you can talk to me about it. You know you can tell me anything.”

  I could, but I didn’t. I always wanted to tell her everything, but there were so many little things, overheard comments and embarrassing moments and daily hassles that I kept to myself. Changing for gym class had embarrassed me in sixth grade so badly, but Mom thought it was no big deal. I thought it sucked. Stripping to your underwear in front of someone like Candy, who was perfect, was humiliating. One time, Candy had brought the whole changing room to a stop when she pointed out my underwear.

  “Sofia, are you seriously still wearing underwear with pictures on it?”

  I had on my Polly Pocket panties I bought in fifth grade. They weren’t cool even when I bought them, but they were on clearance and Mom loved a bargain. They had stretched out a lot, but they still fit, and I hadn’t found anything else clean in the laundry that morning.

  In sixth grade, girls are not supposed to wear underwear with cartoon characters on it. No one had told me. Candy made sure I knew. She was special that way.

  I started changing in the bathroom stalls to avoid being seen.

  So if Mom didn’t understand some issues about ordinary life, even the stuff that happened last year, how could I explain this?

  Fresh tears made my throat tighten, and I sniffed to chase them away.

  Mom heard me and lowered her head, still holding an empty coffee mug. She didn’t set it down when I walked over to her. I could tell she was still upset that I hadn’t wanted to talk to her last night. I took the mug and set it in the sink, then picked up her arms, wrapping them around my waist. I rested my head on her chest.

  “Are you angry with me?” she whispered. “I worry that we’re not communicating.”

  “What? No.”

  She pushed me back so she could see my face.

  I raised my head and kissed her on the cheek. “You wanted to get back to normal, right? Well, I’m a moody, difficult teenager. That’s normal.”

  She rolled her eyes in mock dismay. My attempt at humor had worked.

  “Let’s get moving,” she said. “Don’t want to be late for school.”

  Grateful for the out, I went upstairs, but before I reached the top I glanced back to be sure she wasn’t watching. It was hard to move my prosthetic leg like a real one when going up the stairs. I had to angle my torso sharply to one side and swing the prosthesis up.

  When I got to my room, I dumped my book bag onto the bedspread before I packed it for the day. It was too heavy to drag around with all the books from the media center. I chose three to keep in my backpack for now and put the rest in a pile on the
floor next to my bed.

  A business card fell out as I picked up the books.

  Hamby Animal Clinic

  Andy Hamby, DVM

  After-Hours Emergencies Accepted

  Call Our Home Number at…

  Billy must have slipped that into my bag while we were in the library.

  I remembered seeing a new vet clinic open really close to our house. Billy had told Ms. Hochness the truth; his dad really was a vet. I suspected that was where Billy had gotten the goats.

  Something scratched at my window.

  The media center books about monsters were spread out on my bed. I hadn’t had a chance to read them yet. I froze, glancing between them and the window. Could a monster really be out there?

  Could they be real?

  Not a chance. People imagine monsters, that’s all.

  My pillow began to glow. I guessed Xeno wanted to tell me something.

  Wind rattled my window. I glanced at it, hoping I was wrong about the noise. A patch of wet fog grew on the other side of the glass. Something big had just exhaled.

  I yanked Xeno’s book out and turned my back to the window, feeling dizzy, like I was standing on a very high ledge looking down.

  I flipped the book to the blank page where words had appeared last night. How did this work, exactly? “What’s outside my window?” I asked.

  Throw away those worthless books! Will I not reveal all?

  I glanced at the books on my bed, then back at the window. “I just needed more information to—”

  Once, I did not believe in monsters either. But the Master sent me into new lands to document every creature I found. And I found creatures beyond explanation. If I had not seen them myself, I would not have believed.

  You must see them for yourself too.

  A shock like the touch of cold metal shot up my spine. I wasn’t ready. I thought I was, but I wasn’t. It was just like the moment when they took the bandages off my stump for the first time.