The Midnight Dinosaur

Growing up, my bedroom was divided down the middle by a strip of beige masking tape. The room’s governing authority—my older sister—laid the border herself, imposing from that day forward a set of strict rules I was to follow should I need to cross into her territory.

As an adult looking back, I understand her behavior: I was, by the most generous account, a professional-grade nuisance.

Where my sister strived for order, I made chaos. And while she was only a few years older than me, in the confines of that small room, our differing natures were a daily source of friction.  

As it turns out, dealing with a professional-grade nuisance requires a professional-grade imagination. My sister, therefore, put hers to work and developed a deep inventory of ways to neutralize my unruly behavior. 

I recall this being especially true the night our mother took us to see our very first musical—Annie. This show in particular tends to overexcite even the average little girl but as my baseline was “hyperactive with a chance of bedlam”, I was still vibrating hours later, long after our mother had called lights-out.

To pass the time, I huddled in bed with a flashlight and the Playbill, obsessively studying each bio of the young actors and imagining myself in their place. My brain was abuzz as I contemplated this new and exciting career path and my sister, as usual, had reached her breaking point.

As if on cue, I heard the metallic groan of her mattress springs as she shifted her weight onto one elbow.

“You can’t sleep but that flashlight is making it so I can’t sleep either. I don’t think it could be any brighter if you shined right at my face.”

Because I had no regard for my own safety, I shined it right at her face.

Reaching across the small divide that separated our two twin beds, my sister’s hand came to rest on the device I was holding. She held my gaze and waited until I willingly loosened my grip before slowly lifting it away. Her demeanor was more like a patient mother, rather than that of an annoyed sibling. I should have realized then that if either of us was destined for a life in the performing arts, it was my older sister.

She sat up straight, letting the flashlight’s beam drift back to me. “Have you ever heard of The Midnight Dinosaur?” she inquired.

I squinted past the light and shook my head. I had, in fact, not heard of The Midnight Dinosaur.

“I didn’t figure you had because as you can see, it’s almost midnight, and you are still awake.”

She gestured toward our plastic pink alarm clock that read 11:51 PM and continued, “I think you’re old enough now to know why kids go to bed so early. Do you agree?”

The Playbill slid to the floor, dreams of Broadway forgotten as I wormed my way further under the covers.

Pleased with my tractability, she nodded and tucked the flashlight under her pillow. The room went dim save for the soft, bulbous mound of pink glowing beneath her arm.  

“People often assume there are no more dinosaurs left in the world. After all, if there were a dinosaur, surely, we would see it lumbering about. But people…people would be wrong.

“A long, long time ago, an old man was walking through the forest when he came upon a mysterious egg. It was big and brown and speckled with little green dots. It looked unlike any egg the man had seen before. The man looked around, but he didn’t’ see any birds or animals that may have lain the egg and there was no nest nearby either. Thus, the man took the egg home and waited for it to hatch. Weeks went by without any change until finally, one morning a tiny little crack appeared. And then another crack. And another. Until eventually, a tiny baby dinosaur peaked it’s head out and let out its first baby dinosaur roar. 

“The man was so happy to have a baby dinosaur. He didn’t know anything about baby dinosaurs, but he supposed he could figure it out once he got into it.  What do baby dinosaurs eat, he thought. At first, he tried to feed the baby spinach and berries from his garden, but the baby didn’t want anything to do with those. Then he tried to feed the baby scraps from his plate, but the baby didn’t seem interested in his food either. Even though the baby dinosaur wasn’t eating, he continued to grow big and strong. The man figured it was magic. After all, it wasn’t every day that one found a dinosaur egg in the forest. Magic seemed as good an explanation as any. Then one day, the man started hearing stories about children going missing in the nearby villages. No one could explain it. The children had each gone to bed as they had many nights before, but when morning came, their beds were empty.

“The townspeople searched high and low for the children, but all they found were bones. Discarded piles of bones.” At this point, she closed hand closed around mine, turning it over in the dim pink light. With her thumb pressed against my knuckles, she made a show of examining its size. “The bones were fresh,” she said quietly, “…and about the same size as yours.”

I yawned dramatically so she’d think I was bored and slid my hands under the blankets. I pressed along each finger with my thumb, suddenly aware I had bone beneath my skin—something I don’t recall my nine-year-old brain having contemplated prior to that night.

My sister raised one eyebrow and dropped her gaze to the squirming lump where my hands were now hiding. She knew me too well. Leaning back onto her pillow, she continued, “The man felt troubled by this odd chain of events. First, he comes to have his very own magical pet dinosaur. Then, children start to go missing in the middle of the night. Have they simply vanished? Or worse, have they been eaten alive?

“The very next evening, the man put on his pajamas and crawled into bed but, on this night, he only pretended to fall asleep. If his dinosaur was sneaking out of the house each night to eat little children, then maybe he could catch him. Maybe he could stop him!

“But the man had worked hard that day and he was very tired. He fell asleep anyway and when he woke before sunrise the next morning, his dinosaur was gone, and yet another child was stolen from their bed.

“The man was distraught, but he loved his dinosaur and could not bring himself to destroy it. No one knows what happened to the man, but legend has it that his dinosaur still roams the countryside today. The townspeople call it The Midnight Dinosaur because he only comes out after midnight. He waits until all the children have gone to bed, and then he lurks about, looking in bedroom windows to find his next meal! But The Midnight Dinosaur is a picky eater and also kind of a bird brain. If he sees that you are not moving, he thinks you’re DEAD and probably rotten and he doesn’t want to eat you. But if he sees that you are awake, he knows that you are going to be a fresh and tasty treat.”

I eyed the alarm clock again. 11:59 PM. Not good.

“To ensure you’re not The Midnight Dinosaur’s next meal, it’s important to be asleep when the clock strikes midnight. But remember, he’s a big birdbrain—he can’t tell the difference between a sleeping child and a dead child. If the lights are off and your eyes are closed, even if you aren’t really asleep, The Midnight Dinosaur will just keep…on…walking.”

To end her performance, she reached under her pillow and turned the flashlight off. The absolute darkness swallowed us both. “Nighty night,” she whispered. “Keep those eyes shut tight.”

I didn’t move a muscle for the rest of the night, terrified that a single twitch would signal my wakefulness to the world. I projected this new terror onto every shadow that moved across our window, every noise that came from somewhere outside. My sister had found yet another tool to keep me in line—a method so effective that even now, decades later, I still have a hard time sleeping with the window open.