The Girl Who Cried Monster

content warning: scary imagery, violence, violence towards children, dark and mature themes

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Hush, little baby… Don’t say a word.

A lullaby’s plucky rendition soothed Little Jane in her nest of well-snuggled fuzzy companions, where she’d been spirited away by friendly phantoms that kept her hidden in the recesses of sleep. The only light came from a green silicon froggy on the nightstand, its inner glow reminiscent of a living soul; and the waning moon dusting the room in pale blue.

It was a subtle tap, tap on the windowpane that withdrew Little Jane from her safe dreams.

Eyes half-lidded and sandy, she sleepily blinked through the crust until the room started to take shape. Before she even realized something had woken her, it happened again, this time more urgent.

Tap, tap. Tap, tap.

She sat rod-straight, looking to the dew-frosted window with eyes as wide as a fawn’s caught in bright light. There was nothing out of the ordinary—only the blackness of the front yard, the starry expanse of the night sky, and her hideaway treehouse in the hundred-year-old oak she could reach from the roof. It was frequently used to escape pirates and ruffians, or her mom yelling at her to clean up her toys.

Tap, tap.

With a startled yelp, she scrambled backward until her back thudded against the bed frame. As a six year old, she knew only one defense: she hugged her fiercest stuffies—Mr. Smiley, a limited-edition Mattel pink pony, and Stripey Sam, a grumpy-faced Bengal tiger—tight against her chest and fastened her eyes shut.

Another tap, tap.

Little Jane tried desperately to pretend nothing was there.

Tap, tap.

She pulled the blanket over her head, reasoning that maybe it wouldn’t see her.

Click.

When she recognized the sound, dread swelled within her—the window lock unlatched, followed by the heavy drag of the window slowly rising.

“Don’t…” She jolted at the voice, creaky and breathless like a twisted version of her Granny’s, just next to her like whatever it belonged to was under the blanket, too.

She could only gape soundlessly, paralyzed in her terror.

“Don’t… close… your eyes…” it rasped, straining like it couldn’t quite get the words out. “Monsters… don’t just… go away.”

Little Jane’s dollish face stretched back in horror, contorting into a silent scream. Her tiny heart pounded. Her whole body shook. Her lungs painfully constricted.

“If you… can’t see… me…”

The ashy voice deepened, no longer reminiscent of her Granny’s at all, instead a loud hellish bellow—“I CAN SEE YOU.”

Little Jane’s scream cut the silent night.

It was instantly severed, catching in her throat and lodging there as her blanket was snatched away. A spindly eel-like thing snaked around her and yanked her through the window into the dark night.

She couldn’t keep up with what was happening or where she was going or even which direction she was facing. All she could tell was that she was suspended in the brisk outdoors, and something timbered and thorny dug into her flesh and crushed her arms against her ribs. Gulping in gallons of air, she shrieked and struggled. When her eyesight adjusted to the darkness, she realized it was a tree branch binding her—the giant oak tree where her usually quaint treehouse now loomed over her like a malicious ghoul. She was facing the house instead of being inside of it, peering into her own dark and empty bedroom. Beyond nature’s nighttime hum, the only sound came from her haggard breathing and the rickety sway of the tree.

It ignored her pleas and did not speak again.

Little Jane’s crying lulled when the hall light outside her bedroom flicked on. When it spilled into her room, her chest ballooned with hope.

“Mommy!” She cried as loud as she could—louder than any tantrum she’d ever had or any crying over a scraped knee. “Mommy, help me!”

But her mom didn’t turn around. She stood at the foot of the bed, facing where Little Jane should’ve been sleeping and stayed for a long while, just watching. Her mom didn’t even seem to notice she wasn’t there, or if she did, she thought nothing of it. She soon left, shutting the door behind her and leaving the room once again in total darkness. Little Jane’s balloon of hope deflated.

“No!” she howled as she was thrust forward and hurled through the window.

A dollhouse broke her fall, but she didn’t even noticed the pain blooming in her arm as she ran straight to her mom as any child would, sobbing and blabbering about monsters and trees. Her boyfriend Donny who had been reading on his tablet observed with obvious concern, glasses perched at the edge of his nose.

“Shh, Jane. They’re only nightmares,” her mom chided.

When she insisted with more sobbing that they weren’t only nightmares, her mom conceded to letting her sleep there for the night. She jumped at a sharp violin in the horror film playing, which her mom didn’t think to turn off so Little Jane fell asleep to dramatic screams and wolfmen howling at the moon.

The next night, she had to sleep in her own room. In protest, she pointed out the broken dollhouse and her injured arm, but the only thing that accomplished was an angry lecture about breaking her things and playing after bedtime. And so, terrified and once again protecting herself with her toys, she squeezed her eyes shut.

As she lay there, the warning of the monster outside her window came back to her.

Don’t close your eyes. Monsters don’t just go away.

With a deep breath, she opened them and was surprised to feel the tiniest bit in control, or at least she’d see it coming—for whatever that was worth.That small seed of confidence withered soon enough when a scratching sound came from her bedroom closet.

Scritch scratch. Scritch scratch.

Then came a drawn-out creeeaak as Little Jane could only watch in terror while the closet doors opened.

Scritch scratch. Scritch scratch.

She faced a gaping black hole. Anything could be waiting for her.

Scritch scratch. Scritch scratch.

She wouldn’t close her eyes. She wouldn’t. She had to look at it. Face it.

Abandoning the safety of her stuffies and blanket, Little Jane approached it. “I-I know you’re there,” she shakily warned. “Go away, or I’ll tell mommy.”

Behind the princess dresses and tiny clothes came dry laughter.

“You’ll tell on me?” Scritch scratch, scritch scratch, scritch scratch.

Upon hearing the deep growling voice, she froze in place. Up until this point, she was starting to convince herself last night was only a nightmare.

“How brave. But you’re just a child... No one will believe you.”

The scratching was growing louder and gaining speed, sounding panicked and pressing—like a warning.

Scritch, scratch, scritch scratch scritch-scratch scritch-scratch-scritch-scratch scr—.

Huge hands snatched Little Jane into the closet. They were clawed and furry and larger than baseball mitts, clamped onto her shoulders, effortlessly keeping her in place. She stopped struggling when a stream of light broke through the wall of hanging clothes.

Her mom was checking on her! Hope swelled. Her mom would see the monster for herself.

But before Little Jane had a chance to call out, her face was buried in fur as the beast’s paw-like hand covered her mouth, and once again, she watched helplessly as the light came and went.

There was a dreadful silence, then the monster let loose a wolf-like howl. Just as the tree had the night before, it shoved her out. She smashed right into the mirror, shattering it, as the double doors slammed behind her.

This time embedded with glass and bleeding cuts, she went to her mom for help, who was furious at her for getting herself hurt. Her mom wrapping herself in a robe and Donny sliding on his teddy bear slippers, they followed a terrified Little Jane to her room, her mom shushing her to not wake the baby. She watched eagerly as Donny checked the closet, confident he would find the monster and do something about it like grown-ups were supposed to.

It was empty.

“Please believe me,” Little Jane begged, not knowing which words to use to convince them. “The wolfman was in there!”

Donny patted her kindly on the back and gave her mom a stern look. “Of course we believe you, Janie.” He made a show of checking every nook and cranny of the bedroom. “Looks like you were so brave you scared him off.”

Little Jane was unconvinced.

Monsters don’t just go away.

Donny gave her a big hug and kissed her on the forehead while her mom just stood by the door, arms crossed and lips pursed. Both adults retired for the long night, and through the door, she heard her mom say, “You know as well as I do she’s been playing after bed and just ran into the mirror, Don. You need to stop enabling these made-up excuses. Wolfmen? Possessed trees? It’s too much.”

The moment she heard the click of their bedroom door, Little Jane tiptoe’d out of her room, remembering the promise of the monster in her closet.

You’re a child. No one will believe you.

So far it was undeniable, and with that in mind, as quiet as she could, she slipped into her brother’s room and stole the baby cam monitor. As fast as her heart was pounding, she was surprised to find herself much more confident than she was last night. Now she had something beyond the words of a child, and her mom wouldn’t be able to say Little Jane was fibbing because it would be right there on camera—irrefutable proof.

Eyes wide, camera on, she waited. And waited. She waited for so long that if she wasn’t so scared, she would’ve fallen asleep. But eventually it came—a guttural croak and wet, slappy plop plops.

Little Jane sprung up on the mattress, securing her blanket around her like armor, and peered over the edge without daring to breathe. The monitor’s flashing red light assured her tonight would finally be the end. So she called out shakily, “I know you’re under there.”

Her effort at bravery was lost when a slimy voice oozed out from under the bed.

“So? You’re small… weak.” Croaaak. “A little girl… with nothing to defend herself.”

The truth hit her like cold water: a video didn’t prevent the monster from hurting her. No one would ever know if she wasn’t alive to show anyone.

While she hadn’t thought much about death beyond her grandpa’s open-casket funeral and Bambi’s murdered mother, the idea of it now gutted her like a primal instinct. She’d already been bruised and cut; the monster under her bed could be even worse.

Her best option was to run.

She peered over the edge as if she might be able to catch a glimpse of something, and she did—a green glow from underneath. It had gone quiet, and she waited a long while to hopefully catch it by surprise. The door wasn’t too far from the bed. One good bounce would put her right by it. With no other ideas, Little Jane summoned all the bravery she had, inhaled deeply and leapt off the bed across the room. She was airborne for just seconds when something cold and squishy latched onto her ankle and jerk her down to the floor. She dug her nails into the carpet uselessly, screaming as she was dragged under the bed.

“Don’t hurt me,” she whimpered.

“I’m not the one to worry about,” it crooned, almost sadly. “It’s… coming…”

Just then, the door opened with her mom once again checking on her, unable to hear her daughter’s cries as the monster kept her hidden. Hope lost, Little Jane gave up this time before her mom even left.

She was ejected from under the bed with such force that she burned her skin skidding across the carpet. Instead of going to her mom this time, knowing it was useless, she crawled into bed and tried to recede into her happy dreams like she usually did. But the spirits didn’t come that night.

When Little Jane awoke from a fitful sleep, there was hardly any indication of last night save for the faintest redness on her arms and legs that didn’t look nearly as bad as it had last night. When she checked the monitor, her heart sunk. It recorded her standing on the bed and jumping off, but it didn’t show anything grabbing her. Her digital self fell to the floor, then slid under the bed so fast that it didn’t even look like she was being dragged.

Little Jane had nothing.

The day felt too quick, and dread followed her until bedtime. Tonight she didn’t complain about sleeping alone. She routinely said her good nights along with hugs and kisses to her mom and Donny. Donny looked at her worried again, nervous as if something was wrong with her.

Words from the monster under the bed came back to her.

You don’t even have anything to defend yourself.

A new plan began to form in Little Jane’s mind. She snuck into the kitchen and used the kid’s stool she used to brush her teeth. Now she it was to reach her weapon. She pulled a handle from the wooden block, fear prickling her skin upon seeing the pointy tip of the kitchen knife, and was careful not to cut herself on her way back. She tucked herself back in with it secured under her pillow, little fist clenching the handle and hoping she wouldn’t accidentally cut off her hand in her sleep. But now she really could take on whatever monster came tonight.

She could see it.

She could prove it.

She could defend herself.

This time, there was no monster. Just the creaking of the bedroom door and light spilling in like when her mom had checked on her the last couple of nights.

She kept the knife hidden, eyes open, and checked the flashing red light of the baby monitor. The figure moved closer to her bed, but when she caught a glimpse of the feet, she realized it wasn’t her mom at all—her mom didn’t wear slippers. She always said they made her toes hot.

“Donny?”

His normally comforting and caring face was twisted into something heinous, and he was looking at her in a way that made her skin crawl and her tummy sick.

“Hey there, little Janie.”

I am not the one to worry about.

When this monster tried to capture her, Little Jane used all she had learned. She looked straight into his soulless eyes, and she took control; she gave an animalistic shout—anger and fear and helplessness all boiling over—and only when she felt liquid spilling onto her hands did she see the kitchen knife buried inside the roaring monster, her own hands shaking as they choked the handle. He tried to wrestle it from her, but was too late before she plunged it in again.

And again.

And again.

The frightening sounds eventually stopped, but she kept going to be sure. And she didn’t stop until she heard the toe-curling, chilling shriek from the doorway. Little Jane caught a glimpse of herself in the broken mirror, hands and arms bathed in monster blood—sprayed with it too, like someone flicked a paintbrush and splattered red across her whitened face and white nightshirt.

Two decades later.

Now, it’s not the memories of imaginary monsters that haunt me like they once did. All I remember now is hiding.

Years of therapy unearthed what really took place in that house: sleepovers with stuffed animals in my treehouse, burying myself behind clothes in the closet, crawling under my bed with a nightlight—all to not be found.

For so long, my brain hid me from the real monster until I was ready to face him.

Today, my proof is my word and my defense is experience, things children don’t often have. And I continue to face every new monster open-eyed.

Little Jane couldn’t help herself.

Jane can.