The Monster Under
My Bed
A True Story …
Mostly
Something brought me up from a deep sleep.
A noise of some sort. Not loud, just pronounced enough to catch my attention.
I lie still, my body relaxed and tired.
Then the noise came again. Scuffling.
I wasn’t afraid. I knew exactly what the
source of the disturbance was. Be still, I told myself, silently. Maybe he’ll
go back to sleep.
My bed was warm and the day had been long.
I wasn’t sure how many hours I’d slept, but I knew I needed a few more before I
was ready to face the day ahead.
I’d just managed to doze off again when I
felt an abrupt shove from beneath and I was bounced off my mattress. My eyes
popped open and a sound of surprise escaped my throat. There would be no going
back to sleep now.
“Sorry.”
The voice came from under the bed. It was
deep and rumbly. And incredibly sad.
“What’s up, big guy?” I asked.
I heard a sigh and more movement beneath
the box springs.
“Neither one of us will rest until you
tell me what’s wrong. Come on,” I urged.
It took him a few moments to climb from
his spot, but once he was out, he was surprisingly light on his sized fourteen
feet. He stood, rectangular-shaped head drooping from a neck that sported
silver bolts on each side.
I reached over and patted the bed. I’d
known him for a long time. More than forty years, in fact, and I could tell
when he had something on his mind. “Sit.”
He did as I asked, the mattress bowing
beneath his weight. It was hard to see him in the dark. I knew he wore black
pants, the cuffs of which didn’t quite reach the tops of his boots. His jacket
was also black, the sleeves sitting high upon his long forearms, and his shirt,
once white, had been in serious need of a washing for some time. I’d offered on
several occasions, but he was reluctant to part with it. It was hard to figure
a monster out sometimes.
“Mind if I turn the light on?” I asked.
“Nope.”
I reached over and clicked on the bedside
lamp. The room was filled with a buttery yellow light and I fluffed up my
pillows before resting against them. “Was I being restless?”
He looked up at me, his black hair mussed
and a trickle of blood that never dried coloring his left temple. He gave me a
nod.
“Mark,” he said.
The sound of the name startled me. “Where
did you find that?” I exclaimed.
“In here,” he answered, reaching over to
tap the top of my head with his long index finger. “I tried to keep it away.”
“You did,” I assured him. “Thank you.”
“That one is stubborn.”
I sighed, feeling badly that he’d had
another tussle with a memory that should have given up and vacated its space in
my head years ago.
I studied my monster’s face. I didn’t much
like calling him a monster, but he and I had been over that time and time
again. He’d made it clear back when I was young that this was one argument I
wasn’t likely to win.
The two of us met when I was five. I’d
been in California, on a trip with my family at the time. I’d always been a
timid little girl, one who was easily frightened. We were in line, waiting to
buy admission tickets for Universal Studios. The Jaws ride had just debuted
that year, and, although I was young, I remember people being excited about it.
My dad was carrying me. That in itself is
an uncomfortable recollection. I don’t have many memories of an affectionate
nature when it comes to my father. I saw the monster from across the way. He
was mingling with those who were waiting to purchase tickets, trying, I
suppose, to help them pass the time. He’s a very large monster, and easy to
spot.
He turned and caught my wide-eyed gaze,
and suddenly, I was staring up into a green face, put together much like a
patchwork quilt with dark, stitched lines of blood and a strange mop of black
hair stuck on top of his irregularly shaped head. My five-year-old self went
into panic mode and I nearly climbed myself right out of my father’s arms.
There was an exchange of words between my
dad and the monster, the latter curious about what they called me and how old I
was. I remember my dad telling him my name was Jennifer. When the monster spoke
to me, however, that’s not the name he used.
“Hello, Jenny,” the monster rumbled in a deep
and quiet voice. “Don’t be afraid.”
It was way too late for that. I’d hit
afraid and run full throttle to terrified by that point. He continued to talk
to me, but I refused to turn and look at him again. I was sobbing and well beyond
consolation.
The monster haunted me for years after
that. Literally, for since that day, he’s been with me. As a child, I would lie
in my bed, straight as a board, afraid that he would grab a wayward limb should
I be careless enough to let one dangle over the mattress. I knew he was there,
camped out beneath me. I could hear him breathing. If I had to use the bathroom
in the middle of the night, I would take a flying leap from my bed and land
with a thump several feet toward the center of my room so that he couldn’t
reach out and grab one of my ankles. The return trip was a little more
difficult, but at least my bladder wasn’t full. He never got me. Not once.
On several occasions, I’d gather up enough
courage to peek over the edge of my bed. Sometimes I couldn’t see him. Other
times he’d be lying there in the space between the wall and the bedframe. Like
I said, his size is noteworthy, and he didn’t fit beneath my twin bed all that
well. He would look up at me, but he didn’t speak. In my young, child-sized
heart, I just knew this beast meant to do me harm, and the thought of him
frightened me for years.
That is until one night when a particularly
nasty nightmare came to visit.
Fear overwhelmed me. I cried, tears
streaming down my face to plaster long strands of hair to my cheeks. My heart
was racing and I thrashed beneath the covers. The details of my night terrors
were so clear and so real to me on that night that I was without doubt that they
were real. I don’t recall any of them now. What I will never forget, however,
is what chased those shadowy demons away.
The monster under my bed.
You may know him as Frankenstein. That’s
not entirely accurate. Anyone who’s read Mary Shelley’s book will tell you that
he’s not Frankenstein, but Frankenstein’s monster. That name is not one he’s
terribly fond of, though. Early on in our relationship he asked me to call him Eli.
I think it suits him quite nicely. Besides, he’s my monster now.
It took me a long time to realize, years
in fact, that Eli wasn’t there to scare me, and he certainly wasn’t there to do
me harm. Quite the opposite, really. He was there to keep the bad stuff away, kind
of like a dreamcatcher—if dreamcatchers were almost seven feet tall and grumbly
with green skin and bolts keeping their heads on. It was his job to filter out
as much of the scary, as much of the unpleasant as he could, and to soothe me
when any of it got past him.
He explained to me that almost everyone
has a monster that lives under their bed. Those who don’t just haven’t come
across the right monster yet. That day in California, that day Eli spotted me
waiting in line at Universal Studios, that was the day he knew he’d found his
person. He’d meant what he’d said. He didn’t want me to be afraid.
I reached out and touched his arm. Eli
blinked at me and gave me a closed-mouth smile.
“Feel better now?” I asked.
He nodded his large head. “I do.” I
reached up and wrapped my arms around his broad and uneven shoulders. I felt
him pat me on the back with one of his large hands.
“Thanks for keeping me safe, Eli,” I told
him.
I heard him sniff. He’s always been the
sentimental kind.
He pulled away from my hug and gave me a
wink as he climbed back to the dark den below my mattress. Just like on many
other occasions, I thought to offer him the couch before I stopped myself. He’d
just tell me no. After all, where do monsters belong if not under the bed?
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