The Boy Who Drew Monsters

by Keith Donohue

  “We didn’t do it.” A line of clear mucus escaped from his nose, and he sniffed and wiped it with his sleeve.

  With grave concentration, Jack Peter tapped his pencil on the tabletop, slowly at first, but then with greater speed and force.

  “Don’t,” his father said. “You’ll ruin it, J.P.” But the boy kept tapping.

  “Stop, Jip. I said stop.”

  He was more frantic and forceful. The point left small marks in the soft wood.

  “It wasn’t us,” Nick said.

  The pencil sounded like a woodpecker hammering on an oak. Tim grabbed his son’s wrist, the boy’s pulse racing in rhythm to the tapping. By tightening his grip, Tim forced him to stillness. “Dammit. Just quit, Jack. Who did it then? Who let the cold in?”

  “Him,” he growled. “The monster.”

  “The what?” He looked carelessly at the drawings on the table, fabrications of the ten-year-old mind. “Don’t be silly.”

  His son refused to look him in the eye.

  “What is he talking about, Nick?”

  “Maybe Mrs. Keenan left it open before she went out. Or maybe you forgot. It wasn’t us, I swear.”

  With a sigh, Tim loosened his grip around his son’s thin arm, and Jip wriggled free like a bird from a snare and skittered from the table to a chair in the breakfast nook. He turned his back on his father. There was no reasoning with him when he was so angry, Holly would say. Leave him be.

  A bolus of air, cold as the December sea, tumbled across the room and wrapped itself around his legs and lower body. He whispered a curse and searched for the source of the sudden gust, but the windows and doors were shut fast. The boys seemed unaware of the lump of winter sitting in the room. At the dining table, Nick contemplating the space between his two hands against the wood. Jip remained at the window, chanting barely audible nonsense like some mad monk at prayer. Seeking forgiveness and the restoration of equilibrium, Tim carefully approached his son, and bent down so their faces were on the same plane.

  “Why is it so cold in here?” he asked.

  Jip stopped muttering and leaned forward to tap his finger against the glass. “Him. He’s trying to come inside.”

  “Who him?”

  “The man, the monster.” He spoke quietly, glaring at his father. “Don’t you know anything?”

  He reached out to his son, but stopped his open palm inches from the boy’s hair, afraid that Jip would flinch and withdraw from the touch. A wave of helplessness nearly overcame him. “There are no monsters.”

  The boy faced him, a baleful expression in his eyes. “Just look, Daddy. He’s out there now.”

  The green ocean filled the window frame in a band across its width, and above it only sky, thick with gray clouds stretching to the far horizon. To see the shoreline, Tim had to come closer and nearly press his nose against the pane, his breath leaving a fog on the glass. To the right, the rocks wandered in the sand, and directly below the window he could make out the bow of a small wooden boat stored beneath the house. To the left, the headlands rose gradually to the lighthouse, and he worked his gaze back from that landmark to the irregular granite. He would have surely missed the figure crouched in the ledges had he not been expecting to find something. Straining to get a better look in the dim light, he bumped his forehead against the glass. He pushed ever so slightly, as if that slight pressure might burst the seam between the inner and outer worlds. The figure on the rocks moved, shifting in its crouch, and it cocked its head toward the house. Tim could not be sure, but it appeared to be a man, a figure that reminded him of the strange thing he had seen that night on the road. White as winter, the hair a clot of whirls, a mangy beard. A wild and lonesome thing.

  “What the hell is that?” He peeled himself from the window and went straight to find his boots and coat.

  “We didn’t do it,” Nick said from the table.

  “You boys stay here. I just want to see what that is.”

  On the mudroom floor, a trail of sandy clumps led from the kitchen to the outer door. Tim left his boots untied and coat unbuttoned and hurried round to the back of the house, scrambling to the shore. Where the man had been, there was nothing.

  He stepped into the empty landscape, hoping to catch sight of the figure, but it had vanished. A sudden patch of sunlight brightened the rocks and sand, throwing momentary shadows until the clouds passed by and erased the fine detail. Glancing over his shoulder, Tim saw the boys standing side by side in the frame of the bay window. Jip’s head was turned to the northeast, as though he was watching something, trying to direct his father’s attention. Tim followed his son’s gaze, spying at last a flash of white movement, quick as a breath. He raced toward it, coat flapping in the wind, bootlaces lashing his shins, sinking in the sand, and scrambling across the rough rock.

  It was impossible, he told himself, for the naked man to have outrun him, even with such a head start, but after that one glimpse, he saw him no more. Only the illusion of movement, the desire of the chase. On a promontory, he stopped to catch his breath and surveyed the sighing sea, the desolate rock, and realized how the world had swallowed them both. He was panting, his chest pounding, and feeling a bit dizzy. Exhausted, he bent over, resting his hands upon his knees, allowing his head to hang down. Between his feet, fresh wet drops had darkened the ground, and at first, he wondered if the thing he was chasing had passed this same way, wounded and bleeding. A bright red coin splashed on the rock, and then another. He raised a cold hand to his warm throat and felt the slick where he had cut himself earlier, shaving, and when he drew back his hand, he was surprised to find it covered in blood. At the sight of it, he fell to the ground in a dead faint.

  iii.

  The first thing Nick saw that morning was a swath of red velour stretched tightly across the drum of his father’s belly. From his bed, his faced muffled by a pillow, Nick blinked to focus, and the red balloon in his field of vision swelled and receded. He rolled over to get a better look.

  “Ho, ho, ho. Something wicked this way comes.”

  Nick rubbed the sleep from his eyes. His father wore his annual Santa Claus outfit, sans beard and cap.

  “Sure you don’t want to come with? It’s going to be a real fun party.”

  “Dad—”

  “Had to make sure the suit still fits. One of these years I’ll be too fat.”

  “—do I have to?”

  “Too old, are we? Where are the sons of yesteryear? How our childhood swiftly passes. Once around the block in a little red wagon and then you’re all grown up. Now look at you. Can’t get out of bed in the morning. Even when it’s snowing.”

  His father pulled up the blinds. A few flurries danced across the sky. In the light from the window, motes of dust caught in the draft drifted and fell. Nick wanted nothing more than to sink into the warmth of his bed.

  “Your mother will take you over to the Keenans. But you better hop to. She’s already in the bathroom, working her magic. Mirror, mirror, on the wall.”

  Nick sat on the edge of the bed and stared at his bare feet. “Do I have to go over there? Can’t I stay home by myself?”

  “Not unless you want to see me sent to prison. The law is very clear on this point: you’re too young to be left alone all day by yourself.” His father sat next to him, the mattress sagging under his girth, the bedsprings complaining of the burden. “Imagine what those outlaws would do if old Santa Claus showed up in the holding cell. Destroy their faith in mankind, it would.”

  The sleeves of his Santa suit rode up, exposing two inches of pale skin thatched with wiry black hairs. Nick wished he would put on some gloves.

  “I thought you liked hanging out with your old pal Jack. Something gone wrong between you two?”

  “He’s just weird sometimes.”

  “Weird? A bit of an odd duck, but aren’t we all? I’ve come to the firm conclusion that everybody’s got something wrong up there.” He tapped his skull with his middle finger. “Odd ducks, all. B
ut he’s your best friend, Nick, and you’ve got to stick by your friends.”

  The door swung open slowly, pushed by a hip, and Nick’s mother came in, a hairbrush in one hand, a coffee in the other. She was wearing nothing but blue underwear and a black bra. “Have either of you seen my red sweater?”

  “The one with the tiny Christmas trees on it?” Fred asked.

  She rolled her eyes. “Not that one. The nice one.”

  “I like the one with the tiny Christmas trees on it. Very festive. Seasonal. Besides, I gave you the one with the tiny Christmas trees on it last Christmas, and you never wear it. You’re naughty, not nice. And you’ll get coal in your stocking this year.”

  “Aren’t you going to be late?” she asked.

  When Fred looked at his watch, he noticed how the sleeves on his suit rode up on his arms, and he hitched the fabric in vain. “Is it just me, or is everything getting smaller? I must load up the sleigh and hitch the reindeer to it.” As he exited, he recited their names, “On, Comet and Cupid and Vixen and Dixie.…”

  “Good grief,” Nell said, pretending to give him a kick in his broad backside. She chased him down the hall, threatening him with the hairbrush, laughing all the way.

  After she had gone and he was safely alone, Nick slid his hand beneath the mattress and pulled out the notebook. He had been dreaming about it all night, imagining the pages white as snow, the ink turning to blood red. Hold it close, he decided, bury it under his overcoat, beneath his hoodie sweatshirt, keep it next to the skin.

  Nick smuggled in the monsters. While his mother was engaged at the door with Mr. Keenan, he managed to sneak past them both and scurry off with Jack Peter. At the top of the stairs, Jack Peter whispered, “Wait here” and ran into the bathroom. Nick loitered in the hallway, spying through the open door to Mr. and Mrs. Keenan’s room. The unmade bed looked like a crime scene, a red quilt flowing to the floor and tangled sheets the dreadful evidence of their recent presence. He was not sure why, but the disorder unnerved him. He listened for a flush from the toilet, but heard only laughter coming from the kitchen. Jack Peter burst from the bathroom and they crept into his room. Behind the closed door, Nick slipped the notebook from beneath his sweatshirt and handed it to his conspirator.

  For the whole week, he had been busy dutifully following the instructions to keep his creations bound in a secret notebook, and on lined paper stood one monster per page. With a mix of nerves and pride, he watched Jack Peter peruse them one by one. The first few creatures imitated their pop culture counterparts: the old movie Frankenstein complete with flat top and neck bolts, and his Bride with the electric beehive hairdo, a cloaked vampire with brilliantined hair and bared fangs, a mummy in peeling wrappers, a skeleton with dancing bones. He had copied the Creature from the Black Lagoon, a winged monstrosity labeled Mothman, a witch and her flying monkeys. There were a stylized werewolf and floating Dementors straight out of Harry Potter, an orc from the Lord of the Rings, and a fire-breathing dragon patched together from a dozen movie dragons. Jack Peter raced through the images like a critic, vaguely dissatisfied with the work, searching for something that was not there. When he reached the last page, he flipped back to the beginning to scrutinize each drawing, tracing with a fingertip the path of certain lines, muttering beneath his breath. He did not speak directly to Nick but rather seemed lost in the process of seeing.

  When at last Nick understood what was taking place, he could no longer bear to sit and watch. He took a turn about the bedroom, inspecting for the hundredth time its attractions. On the other side of the closet door, he imagined, one of their monsters, snarling quietly to itself, peered through the keyhole, waiting. On the bookcase carefully arranged treasures gathered dust. Toy cowboys and Indians and colorful plastic soldiers from many wars tangled in a knot inside a clear jar labeled Sebago Pretzel Co. Next to that contained jumble stood a stack of puzzles and board games—chess and checkers, backgammon and Parcheesi, marathon Monopoly and Risk that could occupy entire afternoons. He touched the box of a German game called Waldschattenspiel that they had played all the time last winter, a game requiring candlelight in darkness, where trolls in pointy felt hats hid behind wooden trees, moving away from a relentless seeker, winning by keeping to the shadows.

  On the floor between Jack Peter’s old toy box and the desk, a mousetrap had been baited with a chunk of hard cheese, its killing bar poised to snap. Nick squatted on his haunches to inspect, resisting the urge to spring the mechanism with a quick finger. “What’s this for?”

  From the bed, Jack Peter did not look up from the picture. “My mother thinks we have a mouse.”

  “Have you ever seen it?” Nick sat on the toy box, remembering when it held their childish treasures.

  Jack Peter bent closer to the drawing. “I’ve never seen it because it isn’t a mouse.”

  As usual, the desk was clean and ordered, schoolbooks piled on the back right corner, paper stacked neatly on the left. The single drawer in the middle sealed in a mystery he dared not release. Atop the bureau, the mirror reflected the falling snow and the ocean through the window on the opposite wall. Nick idled away a few moments, transfixed by the waves caught in the silvered glass. The melody of his mother’s voice rose from below, joined by the nervous reply from Mr. Keenan in the breakfast nook. Theirs was a different rhythm from the muffled sounds his parents made, and he was distracted by its music.

  He sneezed and rubbed the tip of his nose with his fingers. His own face in the mirror stared back at him, its knitted brow and puckered frown, and he exaggerated the effect, trying to look angry and disappointed, practicing the scowl until it felt convincing. The sudden appearance of a pale white arm surprised him, but it was only Jack Peter in a state of undress, shucking off his pajamas to reveal a reedy chest and two nipples like staring eyes. Bone-white skin glowed in the thin light, for he was an inside boy who rarely left the house, rarely stood directly in the sun or the rain or the wind. The sunlight might pass right through him, and the very air bruise his skin. Jack Peter pulled on a dark hooded sweatshirt and a pair of jeans and then sat on the floor to wrestle his feet into his socks.

  At the window, Jack Peter wrote on the glass with his fingertip. “Do you know this trick?” He breathed hard upon the window, and in the condensation appeared the word “wicked.”

  “Epic,” Nick said, hiding an edge of sarcasm.

  “Let’s go scare my daddy.” Raising his hood like a cowl around his head, Jack Peter gathered the notebook from the bed and a fistful of pencils from his desk. With a crook of a finger, he bid Nick follow, and they sneaked down and stationed themselves at the kitchen table without a sound.

  Nick’s mother had gone off to her party, leaving Mr. Keenan all alone. He was just staring through the bay window, unaware and lost in his thoughts. When he finally noticed them at the table, he seemed mildly distressed at how they had managed to materialize unnoticed.

  “You’re like a couple of ghosts. Time for me to hit the shower, boys,” he said at last. “You two be all right without me?”

  Soon the plumbing moaned as water gushed in the shower overhead. Taking the notebook in hand, Jack Peter leafed through the pages again, stopping momentarily at pictures that caught his eye. “These are good,” he said. “Some scary. Did you make some of them up?”

  Small guilt pulled at Nick’s stomach, as though he had somehow failed him. A string of mucus ran from his nose, and he wiped it away with the back of his sleeve. “No, I copied them from books or movies. Some I remembered in my head.”

  Jack Peter grunted and closed the book. “Did you ever see someone who was dead?”

  “Besides that time you drowned and everyone thought you were dead for a few minutes?”

  A rare laugh escaped Jack Peter’s mouth. “I mean someone who was dead a long time?”

  Once when he was cutting through the pine forest on his way home from school, Nick had come across a dead cat, half buried in dry needles. Weatherworn, it was a desicc
ated bag of matted fur and bones, but when he flipped over the corpse with a stick, a squirm of maggots writhed in its guts, and he retched and ran away. But he had never seen a dead person, much less a body dead a long time. Nick thought of his parents, drowned and hanging in his closet, but he figured they did not count because he could not prove they were real. He shook his head.

  Taking a clean sheet of paper, Jack Peter began to draw, concentrating intently on moving the pencil. Nick watched in silence, curious and patient, wondering what strange thoughts danced in his friend’s mind.

  “Do you mean dead like zombies?”

  The boy across the table paused and lifted his eyes. “Not zombies.”

  “They’re called the living dead.”

  “Not zombies.” He continued his line, the tip of his tongue peeking from the corner of his mouth. “Zombies eat brains. And they are slow. Not zombies.”

  “But dead, anyhow.”

  “Definitely,” Jack Peter said. “Or at least I think so.”

  Above them the shower stopped, and Nick thought he heard Mr. Keenan call out, but Jack Peter made no move to answer. He finished and rotated the paper so Nick could take a look. The creature faced him from a head-on perspective, a man of sorts, his arms longer than his legs and bent at the elbows, the legs bent at the knees, so that he appeared crablike, scrabbling toward the viewer. His hands and feet were splayed outward, and his face, full front, was wild and ruined. Bug-eyed, he stared beneath a tangle of hair thick as seaweed. He wore no clothes, which only emphasized his preternatural physique, as though made of skin stretched over wire. Nick recognized him at once. The creature he had encountered on the road that night with Mr. Keenan.

  “That’s him. I’ve seen his face before.” He stared at the page and laughed to himself. “You missed one thing though. He’s got no pecker.”