Please Use the Side Door

The sign had been laminated badly.

MONSTERS IN RECOVERY

WEDNESDAYS, 1:00 A.M.

PLEASE USE THE SIDE DOOR

A cloudy bubble trapped PLEASE beneath the plastic. Somebody had redrawn the arrow after the first one pointed toward a locked utility closet.

Gerald stood beneath it when Bernard arrived, stone wings tucked beneath the awning, one horn scraping aluminum.

“I object to this sign.”

Bernard stopped beside him. “You object to most signs.”

Gerald jabbed one claw toward the sign. “Why the side door?”

“Because the meeting is in the basement.”

“There are stairs inside.”

“The quilting circle uses the front lobby until twelve-thirty.”

“So?”

“You frightened them.”

Gerald’s granite brow compressed. “I entered.”

“Through a second-story window.”

“The front door was locked.”

“You perched on the coat rack.”

“There was nowhere else to sit.”

“You hissed at Mrs. Abernathy.”

“I cleared my throat.”

Inside, the vending-machine compressor kicked hard enough to tremble through the brick.

Gerald stared at the sign. “Segregation.”

“You should bring it up in group.”

“I intend to.”

“I know.”

Bernard pulled open the side door.

The basement lights stopped him at the threshold; fluorescent tubes buzzed over cinder-block walls, bleach cut through scorched dust from heating pipes, and every bright corner denied him somewhere to disappear.

Bernard stood over seven feet, though few had seen him fully straightened. His shoulders folded inward. His shirt rode short, exposing narrow ribs beneath skin the color of a bloated corpse. His elbows bent too far, useful for flattening himself beneath beds, while fingers long enough to span a child’s pillow ended in blunt black nails.

The face frightened people most.

No horns. No fangs.

Just proportions gone wrong.

His eyes sat too deep beneath a smooth brow. Two narrow openings served as a nose. His mouth seemed ordinary until it opened, revealing too many teeth.

Bernard kept it closed whenever possible.

Eleven folding chairs waited in a circle.

He liked full circles.

Enough bodies meant somewhere to disappear.

Marjorie poured blood from a thermos into a Styrofoam cup beside the refreshments table.

“You’re late.”

“It’s twelve fifty-seven.”

“You usually arrive at twelve forty-eight.”

“I regret establishing a pattern.”

“Patterns are good for recovery.”

“So is not tracking another member’s movements.”

Marjorie lifted her cup. “That sounds like something a predator would say.”

Bernard moved toward the darkest strip of wall beside the supply cabinet.

Sister Agnes looked up from her clipboard. “Bernard.”

He stopped.

“What did we say about lurking?”

“That intention matters.”

“No.”

“That lurking isn’t inherently predatory?”

“Also no.”

Bernard considered. “Don’t lurk?”

“There it is.”

“I wasn’t lurking.”

“You were standing partly behind a boiler.”

“I like boilers.”

Agnes pointed toward the chairs.

Bernard sat.

Gus occupied the opposite chair as if expecting a challenge. Thick forearms crossed his chest, one boot bounced against the tile, and dark hair covered his knuckles despite attempts to comb it flat.

Beside him sat Celeste, a siren who had once sunk three merchant vessels off Cape Hatteras and now worked in human resources. She wore reading glasses she did not need. “I actually think Bernard raises an interesting point about the distinction between passive observation and predatory lurking.”

Agnes hadn’t asked.

“From a behavioral standpoint, we may be pathologizing a species-specific regulatory mechanism.”

Gus stared at her. “You’ve been here forty seconds.”

“I’m reframing.”

“You’re annoying.”

“That response sounds defensive.”

“That response sounds like I don’t like you.”

On Bernard’s left, Lenore Dabbs dripped through her chair onto a bath towel. She had drowned in 1894 and remained irritated by the inconvenience.

Gerald came down the stairs still holding the sign.

Agnes looked at it. “We are not discussing the side door again.”

“That seems prejudicial.”

“Sit down, Gerald.”

Near the far end sat Morris, dark-furred and red-eyed. In nine months he had spoken seven words and never clarified whether he was a mothman or merely from West Virginia.

Bernard liked Morris.

Morris understood the value of not volunteering.

By one o’clock, every chair was full.

Ten monsters.

One facilitator.

Perfect.

Agnes closed the basement door. “Feet flat on the floor.”

Lenore raised one hand. “Mine don’t reach it.”

“Do your best.”

Gerald looked down. “My feet weigh eighty-six pounds each.”

“Gerald.”

“Just identifying an accessibility issue.”

Agnes ignored him. “Hands somewhere comfortable. Eyes closed if that feels safe.”

Gus folded his arms tighter. “It doesn’t.”

“Then don’t.”

Celeste pushed her glasses higher. “For trauma-informed practice, offering choice before the directive can increase participant autonomy.”

Agnes looked at her. “Celeste.”

“Yes?”

“You are not facilitating tonight.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

Celeste considered this. “Conceptually.”

Gus made a noise that might have been a laugh.

Agnes set the clipboard on her knee. “For those of you who breathe, inhale for four.”

Marjorie raised her cup. “Finally, inclusive language.”

Bernard inhaled.

Agnes counted. “One. Two. Three. Four.”

The room filled with Gus breathing like an irritated bull, Gerald’s stone chest grinding, and nothing from Lenore. Alma knitted through the count; she had informed the group that “witch” was reductive, “hag” offensive, “elder woodland practitioner” tolerable. Evelyn inhaled; her reflection followed late. Thom the revenant stayed still while his shadow’s shoulders rose. “Hold for two,” Agnes said.

Bernard’s empty stomach tightened. “Out for six,” Agnes said.

Again.

By the third breath, the fluorescent ballast above him was impossible not to hear.

Agnes opened her eyes. “Tonight’s topic is amends.”

Gus groaned. “We did this.”

“We discussed apologies,” Agnes said.

“Same thing.”

“No.”

Celeste leaned forward. “An apology is communicative. Amends are behavioral.”

Agnes stared at her.

Celeste settled back. “Sorry.”

“Was that an apology or an amend?” Marjorie asked.

Gus barked a laugh.

Agnes waited. “Sometimes the person we harmed cannot hear an apology. Sometimes they should not have to. Sometimes contacting them would cause more harm. So what does accountability look like when forgiveness isn’t available?”

Lenore’s damp fingers tightened. “My grandson died last week.”

Nobody spoke.

“He was eighty-seven,” Lenore said. “When he was little, he could see me.”

Gus’s boot stopped bouncing. “I used to stand outside his bedroom,” Lenore said.

Evelyn leaned forward. “Why?”

“He talked to me.”

A drop fell from Lenore’s sleeve. “He stopped seeing me when he was nine. I got angry. I broke things. Scratched words into mirrors. Pulled blankets off him while he slept. Once, when he was sixteen, I pushed him down the stairs.”

Marjorie winced. “He only fell four steps,” Lenore added.

Celeste tilted her head. “That sounds like a detail you tell yourself.”

Lenore looked at her.

Celeste removed her glasses. “Sorry.”

“No. You’re right.”

Gus shifted. “Did he know it was you?”

“Yes.”

“So at least he knew he wasn’t crazy.”

Lenore’s mouth tightened. “He spent seventy years believing his house hated him.”

Gus looked down. “Right.”

Lenore watched water darken the towel beneath her. “I want to apologize.”

Agnes asked, “To whom?”

“That’s the problem.”

Lenore looked around the circle. “I think I want somebody to tell me I’m forgiven.”

“That seems convenient,” Bernard said.

Ten faces turned toward him.

Lenore’s voice remained calm. “You think I’m wrong?”

“I think wanting forgiveness is understandable.”

“That wasn’t what you said.”

“No.”

Agnes leaned forward. “Bernard.”

There it was.

“What?”

“What’s the difference between making amends and wanting relief?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

Gus muttered, “Hate when she does that.”

Agnes didn’t look away from Bernard. “I heard you.”

“I know.”

Celeste drew a breath.

Agnes lifted one finger in her direction.

Celeste shut her mouth.

No rescue there.

“I suppose relief is for you,” Bernard said.

Agnes waited.

“Amends are for whoever you hurt.”

“And if they don’t want anything from you?”

“Leave them alone.”

“What do you do with the part that’s yours?”

Bernard looked toward Morris.

Morris offered nothing.

Traitor.

“I don’t know.”

Agnes held his gaze. “You’ve spent six months speaking only when you can make somebody laugh.”

Gus raised a hand. “He does that very well.”

“Thank you.”

Agnes pointed at him. “Not helping.”

Bernard shifted toward the back of his chair.

He knew how to disappear when people were afraid of him.

He had never learned how to disappear while they were looking at him.

Agnes waited. “How long?”

Bernard knew what she meant. “Twenty-three days.”

Marjorie’s cup stopped halfway to her mouth. Under the fluorescent tube, the tips of Bernard’s fingers had gone faintly translucent.

“What happened twenty-three days ago?” Agnes asked.

Bernard stared at the floor.

Blue rocket-ship curtains returned first.

A child’s bedroom, years ago. A moon-shaped night-light. Wooden bed slats above Bernard’s face.

Scratch.

Wait.

Scratch.

The boy cried the first night.

By the ninth, he no longer slept.

Bernard kept returning.

“I scared a child,” he said.

“I stayed too long.”

“How long?” Agnes asked.

“Weeks.”

Nobody interrupted now.

“His mother took him to a doctor. They gave him something to sleep, so I learned how to wake him without waking his parents.”

Gus swore quietly.

Bernard rubbed his thumb over a seam in his trousers. “The boy stuffed towels under the closet door, though I never used it. He taped bells to the bed frame. One night he wet himself and lay there until morning, too afraid to put his feet on the floor.”

Lenore’s dripping stopped for half a second. “He was frightened before I entered the room,” Bernard said. “I could taste it from the hallway.”

His mouth had begun watering. “I told myself I was only doing what bogeymen do. That fear fades. Children forget.”

The fluorescent tube above him gave a dry electrical tick. “I knew he wasn’t forgetting.”

Marjorie lowered her cup. “What happened?”

“He ran.”

“Where?”

“Outside. January. Barefoot. They found him six streets away.”

Bernard looked at his hands. “He lived.”

No one congratulated him.

Good.

Agnes asked, “Did you stop?”

“I stopped visiting him.”

“That wasn’t my question,” Agnes said.

“No.”

More houses followed. Different children. Shorter visits. Bernard made rules.

Never the same child more than twice.

Never anyone already afraid.

Never enough to leave marks.

He had called that improvement.

Twenty-three days ago, beneath another child’s bed, Bernard caught himself in the black screen of a tablet.

Not his reflection.

The thing beneath the bed.

Above him, the child whispered for his mother.

Bernard went home hungry.

He had stayed hungry.

Gus rubbed both hands over his face. “At least you stopped.”

“I stopped twenty-three days ago.”

“Still stopped,” Gus said.

“Twenty-three days doesn’t make me good.”

“No one said it did,” Gus said.

Nobody reached for Bernard, looked away, or told him twenty-three days was enough.

Celeste spoke carefully. “Maybe good isn’t the useful metric.”

Agnes glanced at her.

Celeste lifted both hands. “I know. Not facilitating.”

Lenore looked at Bernard. “Do you think you deserve forgiveness?”

“No.”

“Neither do I,” Lenore said.

She gave a small shrug. “I still want it.”

Something ticked against the basement window.

Gus’s head lifted. “Did you hear that?”

Alma glanced up from her knitting. “Hear what?”

Three harder knocks rattled the pane.

Alma’s needles stopped.

Morris rose for the first time all night, wings opening six inches. Gerald stood too.

Agnes pointed at both of them. “Sit.”

“There’s someone outside,” Gerald said.

“I know,” Agnes said.

“I could investigate.”

“You investigated the meter reader last month.”

“He survived.”

“He changed routes.”

Gus lifted his nose. “Human.”

Bernard smelled it a moment later.

Wet pavement, mud, cold skin. Beneath it all, fear.

His stomach clenched so hard that his teeth touched.

Marjorie saw his face. “Bernard.”

“I’m fine.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“You were going to.”

“No. I was going to tell you not to move.”

A small face appeared at the glass.

A girl.

Nine or ten.

Rain pasted brown hair across her cheek.

Agnes headed upstairs. “Everyone behave.”

Gerald looked offended. “That instruction feels broad.”

“It was meant broadly.”

Footsteps returned.

The girl came down behind Agnes in purple pajamas. No coat. No shoes. Mud on both knees.

Her gaze crossed the circle.

Wet ghost.

Werewolf.

Gargoyle.

Woman drinking blood.

Morris.

Then Bernard.

The transparency had spread past the first knuckles.

“What are you?” the girl whispered.

“A bad idea.”

Marjorie closed her eyes.

“That’s not a thing,” the girl said.

“No. I’m a bogeyman.”

Fear hit the room.

Warm.

Sharp.

“Are you going to eat me?”

“No.”

His jaw ached around the word. Saliva gathered behind his teeth.

The girl kept staring.

Bernard pressed his palms flat against his knees.

Her fear loosened by a fraction, enough to make him furious with his own disappointment.

Agnes crouched beside her. “What happened?”

“My mom and her boyfriend were fighting.”

“What’s your name?”

“Tessa.”

“Where do you live?”

“Park Street.”

“That’s seven blocks.”

“I can walk.”

“You’re barefoot.”

“I lost my shoes.”

Agnes stood. “I’ll call the police.”

“No.”

Tessa’s fear spiked.

Bernard’s fingers bit into his knees.

“Not police.”

Agnes studied her. “Someone needs to get you home.”

“I’ll take her,” Bernard said.

Half the room answered at once.

“No.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Bernard.”

Gus stood. “I’ll go.”

“You look like you ate a park ranger.”

“I did not eat him.”

“You chased him into a lake.”

“He had pepper spray.”

Bernard stood slowly.

Tessa flinched.

He stepped backward.

“Park Street is mostly lit. I know the way.”

Gerald frowned. “You hate streetlights.”

“I hate a lot of things.”

Marjorie came close enough that Bernard could smell copper from her cup.

“You don’t have to prove anything.”

“No.”

He took his coat from the peg.

Tessa hugged both arms across herself.

One bare heel whitened against the cold tile.

January. Six streets.

Bernard held out the coat. “But she’s cold.”

Tessa took the coat. “He can take me,” she said.

Agnes watched him for a long moment.

“Straight there. Straight back.”

“Yes.”

#

The sleeves swallowed Tessa’s hands. Outside, runoff whispered along the curb through the orange wash of the streetlights.

Bernard’s coat dragged behind her across the wet sidewalk while he kept to the darker edge of each streetlamp.

At every intersection, shadows opened beside hedges, under parked cars, between houses.

Places made for him.

Tessa glanced sideways. “Does the light hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Bad?”

“Yes.”

She shifted toward the curb, leaving Bernard the strip nearest the hedges.

He took it without thanking her.

Halfway to Park Street, a dog exploded against a chain-link fence.

Tessa jerked toward Bernard, his coat clutched beneath her chin.

Fear opened inside her.

Sweet. Immediate.

Bernard’s mouth flooded.

The dog hit the fence again. Metal bowed.

Bernard stepped between them, into the streetlight.

Light burned across his face and translucent hands. The dark strip waited three feet away; Tessa’s pulse hammered behind him, close enough to taste.

He stayed.

“It can’t get through,” Bernard said.

Her pulse took longer to believe him.

They kept walking. “Why do you scare kids?” Tessa asked.

“Some of us are hungry.”

“That’s stupid.”

“It is.”

“You could eat food.”

“I can.”

“So eat food.”

“It doesn’t feed the same thing.”

Her bare foot nudged a wet leaf.

“That sounds like an excuse.”

He looked at her. “You’d do very well in group.”

“What group?”

“Monsters.”

“Like therapy?”

“Yes.”

“Do monsters need therapy?”

“Have you met people?”

She laughed.

At Maple and Third, a porch light snapped on.

Bernard stopped before the beam reached his feet.

“You hurt a kid before,” Tessa said.

“You heard.”

“You guys aren’t quiet.”

“That defeats several stereotypes.”

“Did you hurt him bad?”

“Yes.”

Her face tightened.

Not fear this time.

Bernard preferred fear.

They walked half a block before she spoke again.

“Did you say sorry?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Bernard watched the sidewalk. “He’d have to see me again.”

“So?”

“That would be for me.”

A sprinkler clicked behind a fence.

“So what do you do?”

Bernard looked ahead.

Park Street narrowed beneath dripping maples; porch lights smeared gold across wet pavement, gutters clicked at the curbs, and one house ahead blazed around a barefoot woman in the driveway, phone to her ear, an empty space beside her car.

Tessa slowed. “His truck’s gone.”

Her shoulders dropped. “That’s my mom.”

She caught Bernard’s coat at the collar. “Thanks for the coat.”

One shoulder slipped free.

“Keep it.”

Tessa looked at him. “Why?”

“It looks better on you.”

She rolled her eyes.

The woman saw her.

The phone hit the driveway.

Tessa ran.

Her mother dropped to her knees. The coat flared behind Tessa before both nearly toppled onto the wet concrete.

Bernard stayed beneath a tree in the neighboring yard.

Her mother peered toward the neighboring yard. Beneath the tree, Bernard had already become little more than height and angles among the branches.

He stepped farther back.

#

Gerald had apparently re-hung the laminated sign.

PLEASE USE THE SIDE DOOR.

He’d added something beneath it in black marker.

UNDER PROTEST.

Bernard almost smiled.

Under the fluorescent tube, his fingers were still translucent past the first knuckles.

Everyone was still there.

Eleven chairs.

Ten monsters.

His empty place waited inside the circle.

Marjorie looked over. “Took you long enough.”

“I walked.”

Lenore leaned toward him. “How did it go?”

Bernard sat.

His stomach hurt.

Fear still had a taste. Every tooth remembered it.

“I’m hungry.”

Across the circle, water ticked from Lenore’s sleeve onto the folded towel.

Nobody told him that was okay.

Nobody told him he was good.

Marjorie reached behind her chair.

One glazed doughnut remained.

“You touched this one?” Bernard asked.

“Only emotionally.”

He took it.

The dough had gone stiff around the edges. Sugar broke loose onto his trousers when he bit through the glaze.

Fryer oil.

Cardboard.

Vanilla that had never met a vanilla bean.

Gus looked over. “Well?”

Bernard chewed.

“It’s terrible.”

Marjorie lifted her cup. “You’re welcome.”

Above them, a pipe knocked twice inside the wall.

Bernard took another bite.