THOUGHT CATALOG BOOKS
The Worst Kind of Monsters
Elias Witherow
Thought Catalog Books
Brooklyn, NY
THOUGHT CATALOG BOOKS
Copyright © 2016 by Elias Witherow
All rights reserved. Published by Thought Catalog Books, a division of The Thought & Expression Co., Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Founded in 2010, Thought Catalog is a website and imprint dedicated to your ideas and stories. We publish fiction and non-fiction from emerging and established writers across all genres. For general information and submissions: [email protected].
First edition, 2016
ISBN 978-1945796098
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Cover photography by © DasWortgewand
This one is for my parents. I love you both very much. And I hope you never, ever read this book.
Also for Dave. You’re a damn good pal.
Contents
Dedication
1. The Tall Dog
2. The House In The Field
3. Empire Snuff
4. The Goat Room
5. There's Something Wrong With Dad
6. Feed The Pig
7. Ten Days, Ten Pills
8. Red West
9. Blackout
10. Where Is My Son?
11. Texts From My Brother
12. Shimmer
13. Chrome Sunset
14. My Father, My Monster
15. Behind Hell
16. Horse/8min
17. Deep, Deep Down
18. When Hell Comes Knocking
19. The Worst Kind Of Monsters
About the Author
1
The Tall Dog
We always expect life to be easier than it actually is. Why is that? Why do we assume we are owed happiness? Why do we act so surprised when things go wrong? Is it the society we live in? Is it the false advertising that surrounds us at all times? Is it because of the things we watch or the books we read? Why is tragedy always so shocking?
Life is a slog of disappointment and misery. Sometimes we are graced with pockets of joy, a brief respite from all the hardship. In these moments, we feel like we have figured out what the purpose of our existence truly is: love, family, culture, travel, natural beauty.
But it’s all bullshit.
Those fleeting hours of contentment are nothing more than a quick breath between beatings. It’s a ray of hope that gets stuck inside our minds like a cancer. We hold onto it, we beg for it, we scream for it. During times of unbearable mental agony, having something to hope for is worse than if there was no hope at all. Hope is a lie. It’s a disease that tricks our minds into thinking this painful reality is going to evaporate like a puff of breath on a cold wind.
And let me assure you, reality is a brutal, bloody corpse.
Now, you might be reading this and thinking: I’m not like this. I have a good life, a healthy family, and I’m financially secure.
Let me tell you, I hope you enjoy your quick breath of clean air because there’s a bomb falling over your head. You might not see it yet, but it’s descending at a tremendous speed. When you least expect it, it’ll land and devastate your entire existence. It will destroy everything you love and it will leave you broken and weeping in the fucking gutter.
Why am I telling you this?
Why should you listen to me?
Because the bomb has already dropped on me. Because the fallout is unbearable and I can’t seem to find a gasp of clean air in this toxic wasteland of life. My throat burns, my eyes water, and I can’t speak for fear of tearing my silenced throat.
My wife is dead.
She died a year ago and left me alone to raise our little girl, Heather. Heather is all I have left. She’s the gas mask I struggle to hold onto. She’s the choked cries of desperation I emit from between bloody teeth.
Heather is five now. We did our best to recover from the pain of my wife’s death, a loss of a companion, a removal of a mother. I shudder to think my daughter has to face the bloody blade of life at such a young age. She needs to be sheltered from it; she needs protection.
And for a while, I thought I was providing that.
But that was before…that was before the nightmares started.
That was before the Tall Dog.
* * *
I scrubbed sleep from my eyes, rolling in the darkness to check the clock. Three AM. I groaned and pulled myself from the warmth of my sheets. Heather was crying from her room, calling my name. She must have had a bad dream.
In a daze, blinking sleepily, I shuffled out of my room and down to hers. The house was silent and my feet scuffed over the cool hardwood floors. Heather never has bad dreams, I thought, yawning. Did I let her watch something scary before bed?
I entered her room, the space illuminated by a pink ballerina nightlight, and went to my daughter’s side. She was curled up in a ball with her hands over her face. She was sniffling and her pillow felt damp with tears.
Cooing, I scooped her up and told her everything was OK. After she calmed down some, I asked her if she’d had a nightmare. She looked up at me with big teary eyes and nodded. She hugged me and asked if she could sleep in my bed. I told her of course.
“It won’t come in your room?” Heather asked me as I picked us both up off the bed.
I paused.
“Sweetie, what are you talking about?”
She wrapped herself tight around me and whispered, “the Tall Dog.”
I didn’t know what to make of her nonsense phrase, and so I told her there were no dogs coming into the house and that we were safe. I felt her relax against me as I walked us back into my bedroom. I laid her down in my bed and stroked her hair until I heard the soft snores of sleep. I laid down next to her and exhaled heavily. Sleep returned to me in a rush of heavy fatigue.
The next day, life resumed its predictable repetition. I got Heather ready for school and then rushed to prepare myself for work. I left her downstairs in front of the TV, happily munching on some toast as I scurried to shower and shave. It was like this every morning, but I was used to the frantic pace.
As I threw my sports jacket on and bustled into the hallway to go downstairs, I paused. I bent down and wet my thumb with my tongue. I scrubbed it along the hardwood floor, wiping away a streak of dirt that ran toward Heather’s room. I gritted my teeth and reminded myself it wasn’t a big deal. She was five years old and couldn’t be expected to remember to take off her shoes all the time.
Standing, I hurried down the stairs and collected my daughter to begin our day. I switched off the TV and grabbed Heather’s pink Barbie backpack, asking her if she had to go to the bathroom before school. When she said she didn’t, I snatched the car keys off the kitchen counter and ushered her to the front door.
As I followed Heather out, I hesitated, my hand freezing before I closed the door all the way. I stuck my head back inside and listened. I could have sworn I had heard something from upstairs. After a second, I shrugged and closed the door, locking it tight.
The day passed like so many before it. The hands on the clock pushed forward triumphantly and finally announced the end of the workday. Not long after the trumpets of freedom were blown, I found myself at home once again. I ordered pizza for us, a rare delicacy to my daughter, and spent the evening watching children’s shows on Netflix. I barely saw the images on the screen, the fatigue from the day washing over me in heavy waves. A stomach full of pizza didn’t help, either.
Heather shifted and snuggled into me, resting her head against my chest. I smiled and kissed her shoulder, telling her that after this episode it was time for bed. She put up her usual resistance, but I battl
ed it valiantly. That was something I’d had to learn how to do. My wife had always been the one to say no and knew when to say enough was enough. I was always the softie, allowing Heather to get away with a multitude of activities. It was hard to say no to her big, cute brown eyes brimming with innocent pleas. My dad-heart melted every time and I would eventually cave, begging her not to tell her mother.
But after the brain tumor took my wife away from us, I had to learn how to balance my daughter’s requests with fatherly affection and parental standards. I thought I had found a reasonable balance. With each passing day I would discover another piece of the puzzle and take another step closer to becoming a functional single parent.
When the show ended, I told Heather to go upstairs and brush her teeth and get ready for bed. Groaning, she obeyed and I began to pick up the kitchen. I placed our plates in the dishwasher and threw out the empty pizza box. I checked my watch and saw that it was almost eleven. I sighed, not realizing how late it had gotten. I should have put Heather to bed two hours ago. I exhaled. It wasn’t the end of the world.
After the kitchen was clean, I turned off all the lights and made sure the front door was locked.
Satisfied, I climbed the stairs and went to check on Heather’s progress. To my delight, I found her already in bed and asleep. I went to her and gently kissed the top of her head, smiling to myself. She really was a good girl.
I turned on her nightlight and closed her door behind me. I went to my own room and prepared myself for bed. As I slid into the cool sheets, I decided that tomorrow after school I would take Heather to the park so she could ride her bike along the community bike trail. Content with my plans, I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep.
Darkness. Haze. Groggy. I slowly peeled my eyes open in the black, my head spinning. Why was I awake? What time was it? I rolled over and looked at the clock. Three AM. I blinked and closed my eyes, deep drowsiness filling my body like hard liquor.
Heather was crying. I forced my eyes open again. That’s why I was awake. I pulled myself into a sitting position and scrubbed my face with the palms of my hands. Why was she crying? Another nightmare?
As I stood, I prayed that this wasn’t going to turn into a regular thing. I stumbled around in the darkness and pulled my door open. I stepped out into the hall and paused, cocking my head toward the stairs.
I…thought I heard something moving downstairs.
Another wave of cries from Heather’s room forced me back into motion and I shuffled down the hall and opened her door. The room was bathed in soft pink light, the tiny ballerina illuminating the walls with her glowing body. I went to my daughter and knelt by her bed, whispering softly that Daddy was here and everything was OK.
She wrapped her arms around my neck and hugged me tight, soft sniffles escaping her bubbling nose. I stroked her hair and asked her if she’d had another nightmare.
She pulled away and looked up at me, her eyes brimming with tears. “Yes, Daddy, it was awful!” she cried. “And…and when I woke up…” she trailed off, struggling to get herself under control.
My eyes melted, “What is it, sweetie?”
“When I woke up and the Tall Dog was whispering in my ear!” she sobbed, collapsing against me.
I felt my stomach churn slightly. Prickles of unease rose along my arms like tiny mountains of fleshy fear. This was the second night in a row she had mentioned this Tall Dog. I didn’t know what the hell she was talking about or what it was, but it was clearly bothering her. I wondered if someone at school had told her something or she had seen something scary on TV about a dog. Whatever it was, it was giving my daughter nightmares and I needed to find a way to make it stop.
Suddenly, Heather squeezed my neck and I heard her gasp. Before I could react, she buried her face against me and started sobbing even harder, her whole body shaking. Confused, I pulled her off me and cupped her face in my hands.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” I asked urgently.
Heather pointed behind me toward the open door. “It just peeked around the corner and was looking at you!”
I spun around, my heart thundering. There was nothing there. Of course there was nothing there. Why would there be? Putting a hand over my chest, I forced myself to settle down.
“There’s nothing there, honey,” I said. “It’s just shadows. It’s late; do you want to sleep in my bed again?”
Her eyes remained locked on the open door as she slowly nodded. I picked her up and rubbed her back as I walked us out of her room. There was nothing to be afraid of. She’d just had a bad dream. As I walked down the hallway, I paused in the darkness. I looked to my right, down the stairs, down into the gaping maw of black.
Did I hear something moving down there?
Heather squeezed me tight and whispered into my ear, “It’s going into the basement.”
I shifted her weight in my arms, her words sending a shiver of unease down my spine. I told Heather there was nothing down there. I brought her into my room and tucked her into bed. I sat beside her and rubbed her head until she drifted off to sleep. It took longer than it had the previous night, but once she was breathing easy, I went to my bedroom door and stepped out into the hall.
In the dead of night, when surrounded by heavy darkness, fear has a way of making monsters out of the shadows. I forced myself to remain calm, reminded myself that I was an adult, and stood at the top of the stairs. I looked down, the enclosed staircase revealing nothing but the square black mouth at the bottom. I listened, holding my breath.
Silence. I shook my head, telling myself that I was being ridiculous, and went back to my room. I closed the door and lay down next to Heather. I stared at the ceiling, mind alert and awake. I knew I wasn’t going to be falling asleep anytime soon.
I pulled my phone off the nightstand and brought up the Internet browser. After taking a moment to think, I searched the term “Tall Dog.” I scrolled through some dog-show sites that popped up and finally found a link to a message board. I clicked it.
My heart skipped a beat as I read the question at the top: My son keeps having nightmares and complains about something called “The Tall Dog”…does anyone know what the hell this is? It’s happened three nights in a row! It’s driving me crazy! Help!
The top answer sent a chill rocketing through my body.
It read: Your son is telling the truth! GET HELP! The Tall Dog is real and it will keep coming back! It’s attracted to deep sadness and it won’t leave your son alone until it gets what it wants! IT IS VERY DANGEROUS! I know this sounds insane but I’m telling you the truth! I’ve come across others who have encountered this thing! IT IS VERY REAL AND VERY DANGEROUS!
I put my phone down and stared into the darkness. My heart was racing. This couldn’t be true, could it?
Every part of me wanted to write it off as a bizarre coincidence, but it was so…specific that I couldn’t. What am I supposed to do with this information? I thought. This is crazy; stuff like this doesn’t happen, doesn’t exist.
And yet here I was, staring at a warning on my phone while my terrified daughter lay curled up next to me. It was unnerving. I turned on my side and stared at the closed bedroom door. Just outside the door were the stairs leading to the ground level. As I closed my eyes, I pictured something long and lanky pulling itself up them, its snout dragging along the wood. I shivered and forced the image out of my head.
There was nothing out there.
The next day, Heather didn’t mention anything about the nightmares and I didn’t ask her. I wanted this to go away and bringing it up in the daylight didn’t seem like it would help my cause. I prepared her for school and then got myself ready for work.
As we left the house, I realized just how tired I was. The lack of sleep last night was taking its toll on me, and I made a mental note to stop and get more coffee after I dropped Heather off.
While I drove, my mind wandered back to the message board warning. In the daylight, it seemed a little silly. I pushed t
he fear back into the corner of my mind and scolded myself internally for being so irrational. I reminded myself again that I was an adult and didn’t believe in monsters and things that go bump in the night.
After I dropped Heather off, I went and got another cup of coffee and then drove to work. My brain accepted the caffeine gratefully and as I sipped on the steaming liquid I pondered what my wife would make of the whole thing. She’d probably say I was being stupid and to man up. The thought made me grin and I suddenly missed her.
Eventually, I pulled into the office parking lot and began my day. It was Friday, and I was hoping I could leave a little early. The crisp morning air was a prelude to a possibly beautiful day. I still planned on taking Heather to the park. I had hopes that the fresh air and sunshine would erase her nightmares, burning them away in a blaze of brilliance.
Well…things didn’t go as planned.
Halfway through the day, I got a call from Heather’s school. I sat, dumbfounded, as the principal told me I needed to come pick my daughter up. When I asked why, he informed me that Heather had started biting her classmates and wouldn’t stop until a teacher forcefully pulled her off someone.
I closed my open mouth, shock erupting across my face. There had to be some kind of mistake; my daughter didn’t do things like that! The principal assured me that he was just as surprised as I was but that she needed to be taken home for the day. The other kids were scared of her and the parents were being notified.
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