JEAPers Creepers Page 10

  “It’s okay, love. Go, deliver your letters and collect your candy!” She slung over Greta’s slim shoulders a long-strapped satchel containing “Glad Pask” or “Happy Easter” cards and bits of wax-wrapped caramels. She wrapped her daughter in another hug, saying, “You sure are the cutest Paskarringar ever!” They rubbed noses, then girl and cat left Momma to tidy the egg mess and complete evening preparations. Family would arrive from town as the light faded, since in Sweden, holidays were spent in the natural beauty of the country. The Eriksson’s invited them to their bonfire.

  They stopped at their neighbor, the Jorgenssons’, blue-shuttered house first. Their family scampered among the grasses, hiding painted cardboard eggs. They smiled when Greta approached.

  “Ah, a Paskarringar! Quick, get the candy!” they laughed.

  Greta grinned and reached into her satchel, retrieving the spring-themed card she made for them.

  “Oh, Greta, this is beautiful! Thank you, and Glad Pask to you, too!” Mrs. Jorgensson slipped candy into her satchel and reached down to scratch Trollerri’s ear. “How did you train your cat to follow along?”

  “I didn’t. She just comes along when she wants to.”

  “Well, puss, you make Greta’s costume authentic-looking!” The girl and cat took their leave. She handed cards to all of the neighbors along the way in exchange for candy.

  The Eriksson’s bonfire pit was piled high with wood, ready to illuminate the night sky and confuse witches on the way to their nefarious doings at Blakulla. Greta’s pulse increased when Ander Ericsson started the blaze. The muscles in his arms bunched, and Greta found breathing difficult. He was nearly twenty and, with long, dark blond locks and chiseled features, could easily advertise the benefits of healthy country life. He noticed her stare and flashed a straight-toothed smile that would put Hollywood actors to shame. She ducked her chin to her shoulder, looking for the cat, as a blush burned its way from collarbone to hairline.

  She heard his hearty laugh follow as she limped after a group of disguised classmates.

  “Hey,” she called, breathless, “Can I walk with you?”

  The three girls turned their rouged-cheek faces to her. The tallest, Kim, cocked her head to the left and made a pout. “No, you can’t because you don’t really walk, now do you, Hop-a-long?” Kim crossed her arms in front of her white-starched apron before turning on her heel and setting off at a rapid pace. “Come on, we don’t want to go so slow that we miss all of the fun tonight!” The other girls shrugged and followed their friend.

  Breathing rapid with suppressed emotion, Greta swallowed an angry retort. The cat bumped its little black head against her ankle brace with a soft thud. Greta’s nostrils flared, but petting the cat calmed her. “Stupid girls. It’s not my fault I can’t walk fast. And it is not nice to call me names.”

  Fireworks screamed into the sky from the Eriksson’s backyard, making her and the cat jump. She laughed to dismiss her embarrassment. “Let’s go! It will be dark soon.”

  She felt fatigued. She did not feel like wearing the Easter witch costume any longer, nor did she want to be left behind by her classmates.

  “I’ll eat all of the caramels that momma made for the kids from school all by myself. They aren’t nice to me, anyway.”

  She decided to take the short cut home through the woods.

  The sound of crying, though, stopped her crunching through the decaying leaves. The cat arched its back, fur fluffed, and she hissed.

  “Who’s there?” Greta called.

  The crying stopped, and another Paskaringgar stepped from the shadows, wiping her nose on a patchwork sleeve. Greta did not recognize the girl.

  “Hello! Are you lost?”

  “Yes!”

  Greta considered. “Come with me, then, and my momma will help you.”

  She sniffed. “Okay. Thank you.”

  The girls walked through the deepening dusk. Trolleri’s eyes glowed golden as she kept watch.

  Greta introduced herself.

  The girl said, “I’m Inga.”

  “It is nice to meet you, Inga! Are you from town?”

  Inga’s brows knitted together, then she nodded.

  Greta stopped to catch her breath. She reached into her bag and asked, “Do you have family close by?”

  “My sisters should be somewhere about.” She searched the smoke-streaked sky.

  Trolleri hissed again and streaked ahead, an elongated velvety shadow.

  “Your cat is beautiful. I would like such a friend.”

  “Thank you,” said Greta, wondering about Trolleri’s strange behavior. She did not typically hiss. When she was shy, she hid. Greta pushed off with the broom to walk the short distance home.

  She looked sideways at her companion. Inga was older than Greta or her classmates, probably about twenty, with flaxen hair peeking from a red headscarf. She wore no ruddy makeup, but freckles revealed a love of the sun. She had delicate features and a slight build, and she did not mind slow walking, nor did she call her names or comment on Greta’s braces or spastic hand.

  They reached her home. Relatives enveloped Greta in familial cheer.

  “Happy Easter!”

  “My how lovely!”

  “Did you grow a head taller since last I saw you?”

  She found her momma and turned to introduce Inga, but the girl had vanished in the holiday hubbub.

  That’s peculiar.

  After eating, Momma handed everyone flashlights or lanterns, and the group stumbled to the bonfire. The sooty smell reached them first, then the crackling pops and conversation. An occasional burst of light and bang announced a firework.

  Greta spotted Inga illuminated by the firelight. Her uncovered hair hung in soft tangles to her waist, and her patched clothing lent an exotic, gypsy-like appearance. Inga touched Ander Ericsson’s muscular forearm and held Greta’s cat. Ander stared and grinned, chuckling at Inga’s every word. The cat slept, slumped over her arm.

  Greta felt breath leave her as though punched in the gut. What’s that Inga doing with Ander and Trolleri?

  She stomped heavily, thumping her way to the girl she had found crying in the woods. She ignored Kim’s muttered “Hop-a-long,” focused and filled with purpose.

  A firework shot silver sparks whistling overhead. Greta did not start. She marched up to the strange girl and interjected herself by standing between the flirting pair.

  “Hey,” Ander exclaimed, but Greta left him in her shadow.

  She focused on the girl. Why was Trolleri slumped in her arms like a doll? “Found your sisters yet, Inga?”

  The beauty stroked the sleeping cat and smiled. “I may have found one after all.”

  She pointed to Trolleri. “Why do you have my cat?”

  “Why, this is my cat.” Her smile broadened.

  People overhearing murmured. Some backed away, but others leaned in to catch the gossip.

  Greta looked for a friendly face. She did not know who to trust, so she raised her voice and pointed to the sleeping feline. “Whose cat is this?”

  The hissing of the bonfire was the only sound for several seconds.

  “Hop-a, I mean Greta, that cat probably just looks like your cat,” reassured Ander.

  She spun and looked at him, shook her head, then said even louder, “Trolleri is my cat. He has a white spot on his stomach.”

  Most of her neighbors knew Greta as a quiet, non-confrontational girl. This changed behavior alarmed them. Mr. Eriksson said in a slow, calm voice, “Honey, what seems to be the problem?”

  Momma rested a hand on his shoulder, saying, “Obviously, this girl is trying to claim my girl’s pet. Let’s see its stomach, please, young lady.” Momma’s arms reached for the limp cat.

  Inga’s eyes glinted in the firelight, reflecting the glow the way an animal’s might. She turned away with the sleeping cat.

  A calm overtook her, and Greta understood.

  “You lost your way when the fires smoked, didn’t you,
Inga?”

  A gasp and whispers rippled through the crowd.

  Inga pressed her lips together in a thin line and narrowed her feverish eyes. “What nonsense are you spouting, hopping girl?”

  Her nostrils flared, but Greta ignored the gibe. “I was nice to you. I helped you. Now give me my cat.”

  Inga scoured the area as though scoping out an escape. With no easy route available, she threw the cat toward Greta. “Fine, here, have your darned cat!”

  Trolleri woke mid-air, paws splayed in needle-sharp claws, eyes saucer-wide with terror. When the cat hit her chest, Greta stumbled back toward the fire. Someone screamed. Momma rushed forward. Inga laughed and turned in a swirl of material and glistening hair. Ander reached out and stopped Greta from falling.

  Trolleri purred an apology, licking Greta’s scratches. Ander shook like a marathon runner, muttering. Momma hugged her daughter and pulled her away from the fire’s heat. “My baby girl, thank God you are okay.”

  No one saw Inga the witch again. Despite disparaging murmurs of ‘superstitious country folk,’ the tradition of lighting bonfires prospered with renewed urgency. Trolleri remained a prized family pet. Best of all in Greta’s estimation, she earned a new, respected nick-name, Hjalte, hero, and some even call her friend.

  Our Bundle of Joy

  Lemmy Rushmore

  from the deepest inbreeding

  and the most twisted of genes

  came a freak of a thing

  with a series of screams

  out it plopped in our lap

  the most hideous of creatures

  was a baby of sorts

  but with mangled up features

  it lacked ears, but gained eyes

  there were seven at least

  and its feet were more hooves

  like you'd find on a beast

  there was an arm on its back

  and there was one on its hip

  and it's head was deformed

  with a most awful dip

  there were growths of some kind

  'neath the scaliest skin

  till one wondered what horrors

  you'd find hiding within

  it had two rows of teeth

  as it sprang from the womb

  and its nose wasn't missed

  the mouth took up the room

  t'was a mutated mess

  a most horrific sight

  like it battled grotesque

  and it was losing the fight

  just a baby it was

  that though ugly was shoved

  was our bundle of joy

  and to death it was loved....

  What Can You Tell Me About the Monster Under the Bed?

  Tristann Jones

  You don’t know the history. No one ever told you the story. But you knew; you always knew it was there.

  No questions needed. No answers spoken. Because you knew the fear. So…it had to be real.

  However, I’ve decided that you’re ready now. You’re old enough, strong enough, to handle the truth. So prepare yourself.

  If you’re reading in bed, you may want to stop. The couch would be safer by far. Because once you know the particulars, you may be scared to ever step down, and face the monster under your bed again.

  Are you still reading? Are you ready? Last chance to put these pages down, and rest peacefully in your bed tonight. All right.

  You know, children didn’t used to worry about the monster under the bed. But that was because they didn’t used to have beds. Back when children slept on straw on the floor, they didn’t worry about it. They had other worries, death and disease, but they didn’t worry about it.

  And, then after children did start sleeping in beds, they would share the bed with their siblings. Safety in numbers, you know. But not anymore. Now, you’re all alone, in your big cushy bed, in your very own room. And maybe you’re not worried about death and disease, but you do fear it.

  And rightfully so. It is terrifying. Even as an adult, I fear it. And you will continue to too, because no matter how old you get, the monster under the bed lingers on.

  You see, that’s the secret I’m here to let you in on. That’s what the monster under the bed is. Fear. Did you hear me? It is fear. How do you fight fear? I don’t know.

  It all began a long time ago. At least, that is what I’m assuming. But it has been around for so long that the truth is shrouded in legend these days.

  It began with a boy, a rich boy, the first boy to enjoy the luxury of his own bed and his own room. The first night, it was amazing. He stretched out across the entire bed. He flailed about enjoying the freedom, the softness, and the warmth as the covers enveloped him. The second night was enjoyable too, except he woke up in the middle of the night with his foot dangling off the bed. And that’s how it all began.

  His foot felt chilled, cold, exposed. And he had the distinct feeling that if he didn’t move it something was going to reach out and grab him. Maybe at the time, he was wrong. But his fear, the knowledge of the possibility, brought about the terrifying reality for all of us.

  His fear grew. It grew with every bump in the night. With every shadow that moved. With every chill that ran up his spine and spread through his whole body. And with much nurturing, fear can grow into a very powerful thing. And it did grow, and grew to have great power.

  It started in the corner, in the dark, ever so small. And each night as that boy worried, it grew. Eventually, the fear couldn’t hide in the corner anymore, it had grown too large. So when the boy wasn’t looking, it scurried and dashed, and slid under the bed. And there it stayed, and there it thrived.

  The boy didn’t want it to know, but he caught it as it made its way under the bed. He saw it, out of the corner of his eye. So, he knew it had taken up residence under his bed. This only helped it grow, because now the boy knew he could never again let his foot hang over the edge. He could never take the covers off when it was hot. He could never let his toes disappear into the shadows as he

  crawled into bed for the night. In fact, he discovered that he felt better if he kept his feet far away from the bed as he climbed in. On especially dangerous nights, he’d get into bed by running from across the room and just leaping to safety.

  For years, the boy kept up his vigilance and managed to avoid danger. But one night, when he was just too sleepy, it got him. No one knows for sure if he slept without the covers, or if he finally looked under the bed, but when his mom went to wake him up in the morning, he was gone, just vanished. The only clue they ever found where claw marks leading under the bed, that and a single fingernail, stuck into the floor, as if he had dug his nails in, determined not to be sucked in. But he must have been, because no one ever saw him again.

  Of course, parents talked. Neighbors talked. Then, the children began talking. And the fear spread. And the danger spread. And then, it spread. Every child began to feel it. And fear it. They sensed the danger.

  A few brave souls, or possibly a few of the most scared souls, told their parents of the monster. They tried to expose it. But the parents never saw; they couldn’t see. And the children quickly learned, their parents could not protect them. They were on their own. You are on your own.

  As more children went missing, the fear only spread. No longer did the monster live under just one bed. No longer did it live in just one neighborhood. It spanned cities, states, then countries. It made its way across rivers and oceans. Soon, all children knew the legend. Boogeyman? Shadowman? Monster? Creature? Specter? You can call it what you will. Names are just labels; they do not matter.

  But you know. I know you know who I am talking about. What I am talking about.

  As I did my research to learn the truth, I heard of another boy who greatly shaped the course of this legend. His name was Thomas. And he faced the monster.

  His monster was born early on, and grew quickly. Thomas had always been a skittish boy, which unfortunately meant his monster was exceptionally strong. It just grew an
d grew and grew. And eventually, it got so big that it couldn’t fit under the bed anymore. It spilled over into the closet, into the shadows in the corner, and on stormy nights, it would creep out the window and hide amongst the tree branches. It would blink with the lightning and howl with the thunder. And then it would creep back into the room by the time morning rolled around.

  Thomas knew of his monster, and its existence was of great concern to him. He was barely sleeping, trying so hard to be alert to protect himself. Possibly to even protect his family. But the more alert he was, the larger the monster seemed to be. Thomas knew something had to be done before it was too late. So he made the fateful decision to face it.

  Have you ever tried to chase a shadow with your light? It is not an easy thing to do. It seems like it would be; you just shine your light, and the darkness goes away. But that’s because you think darkness is a thing. Oh, it is not a thing. It is alive. It is thinking. It can move. It can evade. It won’t give up without a fight.

  Solid. You know it’s there. Liquid. It won’t stop moving. Gas. You always almost see it, but not quite, never.

  How do you catch it? Can you? Thomas tried to find out. Huddled in his bed, covers up to his nose, camping flashlight ready. Every breath of the house made him jump. Every creak made him tick. He flicked his light constantly around the room. He felt it all around him, enveloping, surrounding, suffocating. But he couldn’t even tell if anything was actually there. How do you know if it is really real? How do you know? How do you know?!

  Thomas finally caught hold of its path. He followed it out of the corner, up the wall, across the ceiling, down to the floor, and then under the bed. Under the bed. It stayed. He knew it was down there. So, with fear trembling in his heart, he lowered his head down the side of the bed, flashlight lighting his way. He saw the bright orange of his basketball and lowered his hand to push it out of the way. And as he caught his first glimpse under the bed, a chill overtook him, and his hand froze as if grabbed.