No one believed him that the monsters were real. His uncle grew frustrated and impatient with the nighttime fears the boy should long have outgrown. His aunt was more sympathetic and well-intentioned, but she dismissed them as being merely nightmares.
Only he knew that, at night, the truths always revealed themselves.
After the lights went out and all was dark, the silence of his room was broken by quiet scratching and moans. He covered his ears against the screeches, but they grew louder and louder until they filled the air, and he could feel them even in his lungs.
Then, when a scream threatened to burst forth from his throat, and he could bear it no longer, there was silence. Not one sound. It was the same disquieting nothingness as in a forest filled with animals that sensed a new predator.
The monsters were still, but he knew they were there.
He uncapped his ears and glanced at his little sister, asleep in the bed next to his. Quiet and undisturbed, she’d slept through it all. He envied her peaceful slumber; she always looked like an angel.
Then, there was another noise. Whispers. “She’s coming,” they said. “She’s coming. She’s coming.”