In the Closet with Monsters

There was only one rule: don’t open the door. It’s a rule I made up, but Biter never wants to listen. He pushes me out of the way and jiggles the doorknob with his filthy devil’s claws just to hear the moans of fear from the other side. Even though it used to be my room on the other side of the door, Biter says little boys like me can’t make rules for things like him.

It’s better during the daytime when I’m alone. Biter comes most nights. I think he likes the game of making me mad almost as much as what happens when he does manage to get the door open. Sometimes others come, but they rarely talk to me. I am terrified of The Crooked Woman. She never speaks, but sometimes she laughs. I don’t try to stop her when she opens the door. Those are bad nights with lots of screaming and crying from the other little boy.

Rarely, The Radiant King in Wretched Repose will appear, and all I can do is cower at the back of the closet, attempting to avoid His terrible luminosity and the searching hands of the blind host that accompanies Him. Biter basks in it, growing twice as large and ten times as bold in the crimson light. They always open the door. Those are the worst nights.

Biter says if I were still alive I could banish him and the others by speaking their true names, and he taunts me by reciting them, reveling in my powerlessness.

Sometimes I break my own rule, opening the door slowly so as to not wake the little boy. I cross the dark bedroom and whisper the secret names of monsters in his ear, hoping to give him the chance I never had.