Deadman's Tome: Monsters Exist

by Mr. Deadman

  She lifted her ear off the pillow. Silence. Her animal instinct veered toward flight, urging her to sprint to the known safety of her parents’ room. Her rational mind superseded, picturing the angry look her father got when he was roused from sleep. You’re ten now, she thought. Ten now. Ten, ten, ten… the short syllable an incantation, protecting her like the sheets covering her trembling limbs.

  The whispering resumed. Her throat constricted. At first, she thought the voice had been the vestige of a nightmare. But it lingered, low but harsh, even as the sun cast its rays further into the room. Still, she fought the urge to run. Sweat beaded in her armpits. She gripped the pillow and pulled it around her ears, wriggling her body down her mattress until she was cocooned in linen. She stayed that way, frozen, until the familiar bustle of Mother and Father in the kitchen downstairs drifted up through the floorboards.

  ***

  “You feeling alright, hon?” Mother, making the rounds at the breakfast table, paused in the middle of spooning eggs onto Johanna’s plate and placed a palm flat on her forehead. “You aren’t warm…”

  “I had trouble sleeping,” said Johanna. Then, sensing further explanation was needed to appease Mother: “It was a bad dream.”

  Mother pursed her lips. She seemed about to interrogate, but was interrupted by an outburst from Luke across the table.

  “Want my eggy, Mama!”

  Mother dutifully filled her three-year-old son’s plate, while Johanna dug into her breakfast. Johanna grabbed the almost-empty ketchup bottle and squeezed, splattering red all over the plate. It looked like a Humpty Dumpty crime scene.

  The rest of the family ate.

  Father scrolled through Facebook on his tablet, lingering (imperceptibly to the kids, but not his wife) on the women he had known from high school who had managed in middle age to keep their figures.

  Luke chewed and hummed happily, bits of breakfast sliding down his chin and onto the table. Mother side-eyed her daughter. Her lip stuck out as she ran her tongue over her teeth. Mother always did that when she had something to say, but didn’t know how to say it.

  “You want to talk about your dream, Joanie?”

  “No!” Johanna barked. She blushed, surprised at the force of her own voice.

  Mother frowned. Luke’s eyes were wide. Father didn’t look up from the screen. They ate, in a silence marred by the scraping of cutlery on plates. Eventually, Father cleared his throat and pushed his chair back from the table.

  “Time for work,” he said.

  “What about your plate?” asked Mother. “You can’t spare one minute to rinse it off and put it in the dishwasher?”

  “If I’m late again, Annette will be on my a—butt.”

  “If you hadn’t argued, it’d be done already.”

  “Jesus!” Father jerked his plate off the table, stomped over to the sink, then shoved the plate into the dishwasher with a clatter. He looked down at his watch. “Perfect. I’m late. Goddamn it!”

  “Some example you’re setting for your kids, Chris.”

  Father huffed and made for the front door, slamming it shut.

  Johanna pushed the rest of her eggs around the plate. Father was always so angry in the mornings.

  “Mom,” Johanna said, “can I go outside and play?”

  ***

  Johanna tore out of the front door into the warming summer air. She closed her eyes and inhaled. Being out in the open made her feel better. The day stretched in front of her with endless possibilities.

  She brought her bike out of the shed and mounted it, rolling out of the driveway and down the meandering, unpainted road that cut through the woods surrounding her home.

  Her family lived in a not-even-one-stoplight town in western Massachusetts. Its primary draw was an esteemed boarding school, Lawford Preparatory. From September to June, Mother taught English literature in one of its grand brick buildings. Father worked at a firm in Boston. For a girl like Johanna—who counted just two of her classmates as friends—exploring the forests and cow pastures of her hometown filled the long days of summer break.

  Johanna hunched over the handlebars, pedaling furiously. The wind whipped across her face, her hair whirling behind her. She closed her eyes and let out a shriek. Snapping them open again, she slammed the pedals backward, bringing the bike to a clumsy stop. A dust cloud drifted lazily over the pavement. There, right in front of her, was a dirt path zigzagging into the woods.

  Johanna’s face scrunched. She had never seen the path before, though she had biked this stretch of road dozens of times. Hopping off, she glanced over both shoulders. After leaning the bike against the nearest tree, she strode down the path like she was being led on a string.

  The trail was irregular, twisting from one direction to the other at random intervals. At certain points, it became so overgrown with ferns and low brambles Johanna was afraid she would lose her way. But there was always a glimpse of dirt somewhere ahead of her.

  Underneath the shade of the pines, the temperature had dropped. She crossed her arms over her chest. For a moment she imagined she had been walking long enough that the season had turned. She tilted her head back, almost expecting the canopy to have changed colors—the green leaves transformed into a kaleidoscope of bloody orange and red.

  She shook her head, dismissing the thought, continuing on until her way was blocked by a massive, rotting fallen tree trunk. Johanna clambered over it, almost losing her balance when a patch of bark crumbled underfoot. By the time she slid down the other side, her jeans and floral tank top were filthy.

  Beyond the deadwood was a small clearing in the forest where a shack stood, constructed of rough-cut boards. To Johanna, it looked over one hundred years old, covered in moss and vines. The exterior walls curved inwards, like the structure was being slowly sucked back into its center. Its windows were black and brooding, ringed with shards of broken glass. Beside the house was a low ring of stone. When her gaze landed on the grey blocks, Johanna shivered. Goosebumps stood out on her skinny arms. (“Someone walked over your grave,” Mother always said.)

  But like how she picked at a scab knowing it would bleed, Johanna found her feet moving towards the well—a malignant circle in the earth. She crept closer. No plants grew within a foot of the stones. Johanna leaned over, peering in. The inside was as black as an enormous pupil.

  Johanna snatched up a pebble from the bare ground, dropping it down into the inky depths. She waited, but the expected plop didn’t come. Confused, she picked up another pebble and let it fall. Nothing. Then, there was a noise, but not the one she was expecting. It was a low, scratching sound.

  Johanna leaned one ear into the well. The sound grew louder: a whisper, a voice. Johanna gasped, swung around, and ran out of the clearing. She didn’t look back—not while she climbed over the old tree trunk, not when she biked down the road back to the house, not even when she slammed the front door behind her.

  “Back so soon?” Mother asked, looking up from the rug where she and Luke were wheeling toy dump trucks and bulldozers in circles. “Did something happen?”

  “No, I…” Johanna turned up the corners of her mouth with some effort. She knew her smile looked fake, like the ones on school picture day. “I got bored. I wanted to see what you guys were doing.”

  “We playin’ trucks! Vrmmm! Vrmmm!” Luke said.

  “Come join us,” Mother kindly said.

  “Okay.”

  Luke beamed. It was rare that his sister wanted to play one of his games. Joanna squatted on the carpet next to her brother and selected an excavator from the pile of vehicles.

  ***

  In her dream that night, she was back in the forest. She felt jagged twigs and rocks digging into the soles of her bare feet. Although it was dark, the well’s mouth was darker still. It seemed to be not only an absence of light, but a rebellion against it. In the strange logic of dreams, Johanna found herself standing near the circle of stones without having taken a single step. The whispering wa
s louder. She thought she could understand the voice, if she only got a little closer…

  She faltered, started to lose her balance at the edge of the well. The black pit loomed, but she threw her weight backwards, falling to the ground with a painful thump. Stunned, she gazed upward through an opening in the canopy. The stars overhead were in unfamiliar arrangements, a sky transposed from an alien world.

  She heard a sound like someone slurping a thick stew. A rank, viscous liquid bubbled out of the well. It smelled of the wet, rotting bottoms of leaf piles, the mold growing on the walls of an ossuary, the animal odor of a sleeping carnivore.

  The oily substance oozed towards her. She was paralyzed. It reached her toes. The flesh melted off of them, absorbed into the slime. She could see ten little white bones poking out of the ends of her feet. She cried out, but her wails weren’t enough to cover up the voice, which she could now make out clearly.

  “Hungry…” It hissed like the foul wind that rushed out of Pandora’s box. “MEAT!”

  Johanna woke with a gasp. Her pajama bottoms were soaked in urine. Sniveling, she crept to the bathroom to clean herself. After putting on new shorts, she padded down the hall to her parent’s bedroom, age be damned. Even in relative safety, tucked into the covers between Mother and Father, she slept fitfully.

  ***

  By the time the dawn’s first light slipped through the crack in the curtains, she had a plan. She snuck out of bed. Father’s snores were loud enough to cover the sound of her movements. Tiptoeing downstairs toward the kitchen, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror in the corridor. Her face was pale, with dark circles beneath her eyes. Her hair was tangled in some places, matted in others.

  In the kitchen, Johanna opened the cabinet under the sink and drew out one of Mother’s canvas grocery bags. She then raided the refrigerator shelves. Holding the bulging bag with both arms, Johanna stole out the front door and walked across the dewy front lawn.

  She ambled down the road, trying to put the image of the sinister black ooze out of her mind. The bag of meat was cold and wet against her body. She rested for a moment when she reached the strange and secret path. A gust of humid and sticky wind blew past her, bringing the lingering scent of decay.

  She felt her mouth growing dry. The leaves of the nearby trees rippled, and Johanna thought she could hear the voice again: “Hungry… meat…”

  “Hey…” she said, her voice wavering. She planted her feet, balled up her fists, and hollered. “IF IT’S MEAT YOU WANT, IT’S MEAT YOU’LL GET!”

  The sound reverberated into nothingness. All was still. She took a breath and entered the forest.

  It seemed to have changed since the previous day. The sharp turns and angles of the path weren’t where she remembered. At one point, the path sloped down into a shallow gully. Johanna had to carefully step across a large rock to avoid getting her sneakers wet. She tried to recall if she had crossed a stream yesterday. The bag of meat started to grow warm, the smell making her gag. She considered turning back, but then there was the massive fallen tree trunk. Grunting, she hefted the bag on its top and pulled herself up and over.

  She entered the clearing with trepidation, half-expecting to see a ghoul or goblin crouched in the ruins. But the area around the shack was serene. Somewhere in the branches above, a chickadee called its name over and over. Johanna walked over to the ring of stones. The end of her nightmare—her little toe bones wiggling—replayed in her mind and suddenly her stomach churned, and she covered her mouth.

  Blinking tears from her eyes, she reached into the bag, removing the pilfered meat and tearing open the packaging. She threw handfuls down into the well. Soon, she was laughing—wild, unhinged laughter. She didn’t stop until the grocery bag was empty.

  “I hope you’re full,” she called over her shoulder.

  ***

  Walking up the driveway, she could hear distant voices yelling her name. As she opened the front door, she saw Father on all fours, looking under the couch in the living room. He stood up clumsily. “And where the hell have you been?” His face was red, his eyes dull and glassy.

  “I went for a walk.”

  “A walk? A walk? Jesus!” Father’s voice dropped to a low hiss. “You think you can do whatever you like, huh, you little bitch?”

  Johanna clenched her fists, her nails cutting into her palms. Father seemed ready to say something else, but Mother entered the room.

  “Sarah, deal with her,” Father spat. “I’m going to fix breakfast.”

  “Joanie, baby,” Mother said. “We’re worried about you. These nightmares you’ve been having… you still don’t want to talk? Sometimes when you tell someone, it helps you feel better.”

  Johanna thought for a moment. When she was around Luke’s age, maybe a little older, she’d been convinced a monster lived under her bed. Mother had knelt down, pointing a flashlight against the carpet to show her that there was nothing beneath her mattress. She knew that Mother would treat the horrible thing at the bottom of the well in the same manner.

  “It’s nothing.”

  A look of worry crossed Mother’s face, and she placed a hand on Johanna’s cheek.

  Just then, Father’s voice rang out from the kitchen. “Where the hell is the sausage?!”

  Johanna gulped.

  ***

  The fluorescent lights of the grocery store glared overhead, giving the linoleum an eerie glow. Johanna squinted. There was a sharp, digging pain in the front of her skull from the lack of sleep, perhaps, combined with Father’s angry shouting, which had lasted for a good fifteen minutes. Mother side-eyed her and drummed her fingers on the shopping cart’s handle.

  “Joanie, be a dear… go run and get me a loaf of bread.”

  Johanna nodded and hustled toward the bakery section. When she scanned cellophane-wrapped packages, the bulb overhead buzzed and flickered. Johanna started to grow warm underneath the collar of her shirt. After two nights of fitful sleep, she was exhausted. She closed her eyes for a moment. It was difficult to open them again. Her head swam. Mother wouldn’t mind if she took a quick rest before getting the bread. Johanna’s body swayed. She leaned against the shelf, dislodging a loaf with her elbow, and slumped to the floor.

  She came to on a wet, mossy patch of earth.

  What happened to the store? Where’s Mom?

  Then, a more urgent, frightened thought. Am I back in the forest?

  She sat up. It was nighttime, a hazy blackness surrounding her. There was a wavering circle of light. The moist ground heaved suddenly. She jumped up, unsteady on her feet.

  A familiar giggle came from behind her.

  “Luke?”

  A figure tottered in the abyss.

  “Luke! Is that you?”

  A chubby arm waved.

  “So hungry… sugar and spice and everything nice. Snips and snails and puppy dog tails…”

  “Luke!” she called. “Luke, come here right now!”

  Her brother took a step toward her, then another.

  The swirling blackness behind him coalesced into two long, twisting limbs.

  “NO!” she cried.

  The limbs closed around Luke. He yelled her name, the sound shrill. The black arms darted backwards, and her brother disappeared into the void.

  The darkness swept along the ground in her direction.

  Johanna ran to the circle of light, her feet slipping on the slick earth. The glowing orb was ringed with jutting, square shapes. Teeth. She realized now the moving ground beneath her was a tongue. The warm air was the breath of some enormous, evil creature.

  She ran faster.

  The circle began to close. Before it sealed shut, Johanna saw that the teeth were stone, the same stone lining the forest well.

  She shrieked.

  Her eyes flew open, and she found herself staring up at the ceiling of the grocery store. A crowd of faces surrounded her—a teenage employee, an old man, Mother and Luke. She was still screaming, her limbs convulsing w
ildly, her head banging painfully against the tiles. She kept screaming, even as Mother, leaving the cart behind, pulled her and Luke from the store.

  Luke’s tearful wails added to the chorus of terror.

  ***

  Lying in her bed, Johanna heard the muffled voices of her parents coming through the wall. She could only make out snatches of conversation. First, Father’s low timbre:

  “So many nightmares… it’s troubling.”

  Mother next. “I’ll call Denise tomorrow.”

  “The school psychologist? Is that necessary?”

  “She had fit today, Chris!”

  “When I was a kid and was upset, we ‘sucked it up.’ None of this hippy-dippy, how-does-that-make-you-feel bullshit.”

  “She’s your daughter, for God’s sake.”

  “How about a good spanking?”

  Then the third voice, coming as quickly as storm clouds, drowned out the sound of her parents. “Hungry… snips and snails… boys and girls… sugar and spice. HUNGRY!”

  Johanna pulled the covers up around her head. She didn’t sleep that night.

  ***

  The smiling woman sat across from Johanna in a chair in her parents’ office. Her hair was piled into a tangled bun on top of her head. A few strands, having broken free, drifted from side-to-side when the woman moved. She wore a lime green top with spaghetti straps, running shorts, and flip-flops. The woman didn’t match the image in Johanna’s brain as to how a “psychologist” was supposed to look: a bearded, bespectacled man in a tie and tweed jacket.

  “Hi, Johanna,” the woman began. “I’m Ms. Denise. Your mom told me something’s been bothering you… that you’ve been having some bad dreams?”

  Johanna picked at the couch cushion beside her.

  “Johanna,” Ms. Denise said, her tone soft like a new pair of slippers. “Listen. I work with your mom at Lawford. My job is to talk with kids who… well… have challenges they need to discuss. Like, have you ever felt really mad or really sad?”

  Johanna nodded.

  “Me too. And sometimes when we feel that way, it helps to talk about it. It’s like putting on a Band-Aid after you scrape your knee. People don’t only get hurt on the outside. Sometimes they get hurt here, or here.” She gestured first to her forehead, then clasped both hands over her heart.