The Monster Is... You

    *CRASH* You look in the direction you hear the noise and move to investigate, *whoosh* you see a shadow rush past the threshold; it’s moving in quickly. What do we do? Fireball, but only to light the area. Wait... why do they look like...? The shadow casts a spell of silence; you’re unable to finish your sentence before it cuts you off. What do you want? Are you here to hurt or help us? The shadow seems to ruminate on the question as it opens its mouth; you hear its raspy, unused voice as it answers... roll for intent. You roll your 20-sided die and get a 9. Undecided, I am just observing for now. The reply seems to slither off the walls, surrounding you rather than emitting from the shadow. “Seems like a good place to stop for this week; what do y’all think? A chorus of ‘awws’ and ‘nooooo’ answers you as everyone begins packing up regardless. 

   “OK guys, see y’all later!” “Bye, Shelbs, the campaign was scary today, nice work!” You get into your little blue car and drive off. You’re heading home, like you usually do after your Wednesday D&D sessions with your friends; I guess I’ll meet you there. I wonder what's for dinner tonight, maybe you’ll finally make that pasta you’ve been wanting to try, or maybe you’ll get takeout from the Chinese restaurant a block away...or, more likely, you’ll eat a microwave dinner for the 6th dinner in a row. Sad. Lonely. Boring. The same things you know everyone calls you behind your back...maybe they’re right too. Then you’ll get a call from your mom, struggle with letting it ring, lose that battle too, and answer. You’ll assure her everything is fine, convincing her of the same lies you’re trying to believe yourself. That you’re not lonely; you’re alone because you want to find yourself; you like staying home every night; you are eating well; you’re getting enough sleep; you are fulfilled; you promise. And she will believe you, because she always does; you were always a good liar actor. 

  You made it just in time; I almost caught you...It’s ok; I like our little game; that’s why I never actually catch you. You’re within reach, right where I like you, the perfect position to toy with. I’ll meet you inside, darling. 

     And... I called it: your sad TV dinner, a glass of bad, boxed wine, and trashy comfort movies, while you bundle yourself in your comfy pajamas and fluffy blanket. It’s ok, my sweet. You’ve had a long, hard day wearing your heavy masks; I understand better than anyone else when it comes to wearing masks. It can get wearying to keep that smile plastered on your face while you break inside. You have to pretend to be something you’re not, making everyone believe everything is okay when it’s really crumbling around you. The lies burn your skin like a toxic slime that won’t wash off; it’s not shameful, but you still feel guilty. I’m sorry for the weight you feel forced to carry. If you let me in, I can help lift some of it from your shoulders. It’s getting late; let's put this topic aside for the night. 

    You turn out the lights and go down the hall for bed...that’s my cue. You hear footsteps following you down the dark hallway; you turn...nothing, maybe it's just your imagination...at least that's what you keep telling yourself. It’s not. It’s me; it's our nightly ritual, like a loving bedtime routine we share. I run across the hall, from the office to the guest room, and you try to convince yourself that you’re just tired. You are, but that's not why you keep seeing things; that’s not why things get “misplaced.” But I’ll let you keep thinking that...for now. I escort you to our the bedroom safely and make sure you’re all tucked in. 

     Sleep takes you, but that’s ok; I’ll see you in your dreams. Good night. You feel it rather than see it; you hear your blood racing in your ears, your heart thundering in your chest. Your vision is drenched in darkness, broken by sudden flashes of red... Why is it red here? You don’t own any red light bulbs. You feel the burn of its stare on your skin; you sense it slithering ever closer. You know you need to get out, so you start searching. Frantically. Hurriedly. Ah, there it is, panic...delicious. It comes off you in waves so thick I could drown someone in it. You see a small stream of yellow light coming from a corner; you collect yourself and make a run for it. 

    Good job, my little armadillo, run; I don’t want him catching you before I can. You reach the light; it's right there, within reach. You stick out your arm, barely grasping the edge of where the light touches. You feel a large hand with sharp claws attach to your ankle; you feel the piercing of the nails, the thick heat of your blood trickling down your skin. You grab the edge of the door (?) and pull it open. Light floods across the floor; you hear a pained screech from behind you as your leg is released. You made it. You wake in a puddle of sweat and lingering fear, looking around, you think realize you’re safe. Just a dream, you convince yourself despite the burning pain of your ankle. Puncture marks and a large bruise in the shape of a hand are wrapped around the area you were grabbed in the dream. In the morning, however, you won’t even notice. You never do; the only difference is that this time you’ll remember it. Collect yourself and go back to sleep; you’ll need it. 

    Your week progresses in the same tedious way as last night, exactly as the last several weeks have—a never-ending cycle of smiles, masks, and false happiness. The lies you regurgitate so easily are starting to burn you from the inside out. More declined invitations for nights out with your friends and co-workers. More lonely nights in, but at least you ordered out once this week. It’s almost endearing how strictly you stick to your schedule. Ever since him, you’ve felt empty, tired, sluggish, predictable. You should be more cautious; it makes you an easy target. Finally, Friday arrives; perfect. I think we’re finally ready to meet proceed. 

    Darkness falls; the moon is gone from the sky, as if swallowed whole, but the night is lively with the sounds of the bugs and animals outside. It’s eerie, or comforting, depends on your perspective. With the lights out, a show flickering across the TV screen, your body bundled on the couch. It’s time to begin. 

    *BANG BANG BANG* You look around, startled. *BANG BANG BANG* It happens again; it sounds like it’s coming from down the hall. You get up, grab your phone and a nearby walking stick (in a redundant attempt at protection), and begin the journey down the dark hall. You hear your breathing all around you. Your heart beats so hard it vibrates through your body. The symphony of nature from outside is the only company you have as you search. The anticipation of what you might find is practically killing you. You look through each room lining the hall… nothing. Finally, you reach the end. 

    *BANG BANG BANG* It sounds like it's coming from above you. But that can’t be; the only thing there is...The Attic. Ready or not, here we you come. You slowly, cautiously, ascend the steps, keeping an eye on your surroundings as you do. Welcome, you’ve finally reached the top.  

    You take in your new surroundings, your phone's flashlight casting strange, mangled shadows from the items in storage. Suddenly, silence surrounds you, which is strange because you swear you could hear crickets while walking up. Whoosh, something rushes into the space behind you; you turn and come face to face with a mirror with a now-fallen covering. You chuckle at the almost laughable fright an old sheet was able to instill in you. 

     A sudden *crash* breaks through the suffocating silence...  Now what!? You think it’s nothing, just the sound of a pile further back in the room falling because you disturbed the atmosphere. You enter the space more fully, looking for what might have fallen. Finally, you see a box of old pictures scattered on the ground; behind it, another mirror leans against the wall. Why are there so many mirrors stored up here? You fail to catch the delayed movement of your “reflection” as you bend down to pick up the box.  

    As you clean, you realize that the pictures are of you. As a baby, as a child, as a teenager, and so on. You had no idea most of these existed, much less that they were up here. You lift the last of the pictures, only to find one that looks a bit too recent. You study it closer and realize that while the person in the photo looks like you, it can’t be you. The date is all wrong; you were at your college roommate’s wedding that weekend, and you were not wearing that outfit. You also have no clue who the man next to “you” is. 

     You are instantly thrown back into the memory of the screaming match with your fiancé, now ex, after that weekend. The impossible accusations being slung from his mouth; the lingering hurt and confusion after the fight. How could he think you would lie about the wedding? You showed him the invitation months in advance; he’s the one who couldn’t get the time off as it is. That’s what you remember wondering after he left to calm down. That was the start of the doubt, the beginning of the end of your relationship. Could this be what sparked everything? You, or something someone that somehow looks exactly like you- and how did this picture get up here when you didn’t even know about any of the photos in the box? Horror and confusion fog your mind. You place the picture in your pocket for later. A never-ending list of questions revolves through your thoughts; you’ve already decided to talk to someone else once you finish up here. You try your best to force your lingering thoughts away from the photograph; if you don’t, your brain might melt. You finish clearing up the mess and place the box back on top of the pile, steadier than before. 

    As you dust off your hands, you notice something in the mirror—a shadow behind you in the reflection. As you turn, the shadow comes into view more clearly than before. It’s you... No, that can’t be; it’s the girl from the picture, the girl who looks just like you. “Who are you?” You ask. She responds, but, more frighteningly, my her voice sounds just like yours. “I’m you, obviously.” God, it is so refreshing to use my voice again after studying yours for so long. “No, Wh-wh-what, how?” Your fear, confusion, and panic are all so potent; they’ll make a nice final meal of you. “Doesn’t matter; no one will know the difference anyway. I we got rid of the only one that would have been able to.” “Why?” “Because it’s what I am; I am you, or at least I will be.” “Please don’t, you don’t have to do this.” “You should save your pleas; they are of no use to me, because I do have to do this. Plus, it would be such a waste of effort to give up after all this work. Good night, darling.” Your final scream is muffled as you fall. What a shame, oh well. You I go back down, turn off the TV, clean up, and go to bed. Tomorrow is a new day, and I will make sure it's better than today was.   

3 Months later: 

    Life is finally looking back up. I am set for a promotion at work; I’m eating healthy, I go out with my friends, and I’ve even started dating again. People keep asking me what I’ve changed lately... It’s almost like I’m a different person.