A Bump in the Night

Perry tried to breathe as quietly as possible in his bed; the monster might hear him and come out of his closet.

He had the covers pulled up to his nose, resting on his upper lip, and tucked in tightly all the way around his body. His small frame shuddered as he dared to think about what the closet monster could do to him.

Was that faint sound its claws tick-tacking on the hardwood floor? The covers inched past Perry’s nose. His eyes widened with fear.

He pulled the covers over his head, and a soft weight jostled him. It was on top of the covers. Perry stifled a scream.

Small rhythmic vibrations roused his curiosity, and since he hadn’t been murdered yet, Perry dared take a peek at the foot of his bed.

No monsters, only his cat Harold.


Monsters and Mash

Phil peeked around the corner to see if it was still there.

It was still there.

A figure lying in wait for him if he dared go around the corner alone. He was only six, and he knew better than to cross the street without holding someone’s hand, but he’d gone and done it anyway. Spitefully. His mother told him and told him all the horror stories about children being stolen away when they didn’t listen to their mothers, but had he listened? Of course not.

But all he wanted was to ride the swing at the park. His mother was busy cooking dinner and refused to take him, so he’d opened up the door quietly, so quietly, and slipped out by himself. He played for so long that all the other children were long gone with their families, probably eating dinner and getting ready for bed by now.


Phil imagined that his mother called for him until she was hoarse, and that now she was crying, rocking in her chair. His father was away on a business trip, and Phil wondered if he would come home early if Phil was missing. Probably not.

It was so late, so far past dinnertime that Phil grabbed at his stomach as it growled in hunger. He wanted to go home so badly. This was a poor decision, and he knew it. Still, swings. Phil loved the swings.

The problem now was that he couldn’t go home, no matter how much he wanted to. The monster was between him and home. Between him and dinner and his soft, warm bed. Between him and his mother.

He rummaged around under the picnic tables to see if anyone had dropped any snacks and came up empty-handed.

One last try. He leaned around the side of the building with the bathrooms, but it was still there. Phil sniffled a bit as the tears began to set in. He was so sorry for not listening to his mother. So sorry. He took a deep breath and brushed the first tear away with a small grubby fist. He had to make a break for it. It was going to be rough, but if he did it, he’d be home in no time.

Phil took off running past the monster, but he only made it four steps before he tripped on his shoelace and fell face-first onto the hard concrete walkway. One day he would learn to tie his shoes. He cried out in pain, reaching up to feel how much blood was pouring from his face. In truth, it was more than enough blood to warrant panic, but Phil actually felt much better when he looked to his left at the monster.

He almost laughed aloud at himself. It wasn’t a monster at all; it merely looked like one in the shadows and fading light. It was an overflowing trash can. And that claw that Phil feared was outstretched waiting to tear out his throat? It was nothing more than a rusty old nail.

Phil stood up without even brushing off his wood-chip-coated knees. He laughed at his younger self, because now he didn’t believe in monsters anyway. He ran home, where his mother was so happy to see him that she cleaned him up without a word and sat him at the table for a lovely dinner of meatloaf and mashed potatoes, his favorite.


I have no idea what my time was; I had a household emergency in the middle. It’s all good now, though.

The Berwick Monster

Y’all, I am creeped out just from googling images to include in this post for you. Here, let me start you off right:

Oh my goodness, now I have to look at that scary thing as I type. I better type a lot, and quickly, so I can scroll down enough to not have to look at it anymore. I may have to delete it until I’m done writing. Deep breaths.

Who’s heard of the Berwick Monster? Wait. I should probably give you some background on me first.

I am a huge weenie.

There. I’ve said it, it’s posted on the internet for everyone to see. Things that scare the crap out of me: monsters, aliens, Bigfoot, ghosts, supernatural whatever, anything and everything along these lines. Seriously. The Blair Witch Project
scared me. Okay?

Now you know.

Anyway, the Berwick Monster. Ugh, I had my feet up on another chair under the table, and now I’m scared to put them on the floor. I’m that bad. And I will tell you, it looks like there are more articles debunking or scoffing than supporting.

So, five years ago, a hunter claimed to have footage from a camera strapped to his deer stand of this swamp monster. At the time, my parents lived in the town next to Berwick, so the next time we went down there to visit, Ian decided we would go monster hunting.

I am not a stranger to the idea of going somewhere creepy and doing stupid things. In fact, my friends and I used to drive around all night looking for small country cemeteries or unused dirt roads to nowhere. Maybe bring the Ouija board, scare the crap out of each other, good times were had by all.

But I had never gone specific monster hunting, and I had never gone to hunt some scary viral internet newsworthy monster in my parents’ back yard.

Ian and I and my brother and his best friend got in the car and drove to Berwick to find some dark, deserted roads. In the middle of the night in a small town, that’s not a challenge. Then we found a dirt road.

I was not coping well.

And then someone decided we had to turn the lights off and get out of the car.


Fortunately, we did not see any monsters. Because there probably isn’t one. But that doesn’t affect my fear.

So if you like driving around and getting scared, we have plenty of places for that, all over Louisiana.

Tues Truthiness: My Country ’tis of Thee


I can’t leave my room. They’re waiting for me out there.

I saw one, once. It was tall and slender. Its arms were longer than they had any right to be. The fingertips that dangled at the ends of those arms were offensively bulbous. And its head was misshapen. It had this weird protrusion sweeping back from its forehead, like a parasaurolophus.

And it didn’t have any eyes.

My mom keeps calling me and telling me to take my medicine, that they’re not real, and she’ll do something if I don’t, but it doesn’t matter. She isn’t real anymore.

Nothing is real anymore.