Brown
Alexander's room was not unlike the rooms of most boys his age. It had a wall with a window, a wall with a door, a wall plastered in posters and a wall of shelves - a vast pigeon-pocketed clutter of toys and books. The posters over his bed reached across the room, spreading slightly onto the ceiling. The mysterious eyes of astronauts and racing car drivers watched him toss and turn with a certain nonchalance. Like some boys, Alexander dreamed of an exciting life in the stars of space, or adventurous dust of the racetrack.
Like most boys Alexander had a monster under his bed. The monster's name was Brown. Alexander had never seen him, but they spoke in hushed voices at night, of the things that Alexander had seen during the day, and of what Brown was thinking, under the bed. Like all boys, Alexander suspected that the world might be dark and terrible. One night he told Brown.
"I suspect," he whispered "that the world is dark and terrible." Curled under his quilt, Alexander had his ear pressed to the mattress, listening closely for Brown's rusty voice to grate through the squeaky springs. There was no immediate reply, so he continued: "It is a dangerous place. There are creatures slithering underneath the sewer grates! And dragons coiled around the church towers! And Wendigo prowl the streets looking for human flesh on which to sup! And Mr. Fowley is a wizard!" Alexander pouted. "He gave us extra homework."
Brown's wheezing laughter worked its way up to Alexander. Alexander held his breath and waited for him to speak.
"What a strange idea, that the world is dark," Brown creaked, his voice like that of an old chair at school. "Under here it’s dark. I can hardly see my posters and my toys."
Alexander clicked his tongue. "Don't be silly - monsters don't have posters and toys. Those are things that boys have," he admonished.
Brown grunted in dissent. "Monsters can have those things too, if they want them."
Alexander slid around under the duvet, until his feet were tucked warmly under the pillow. He smiled wickedly and drummed his hands on the mattress to annoy Brown. "No you can't - and you don't. Monsters can't have toys, because when they do they mistake them for boys and eat them."
"What?" Brown gasped. "Do little boys look like tricycles? Do they look like books, or bears, or blocks, or board games? Or any of the things you have tucked in your shelves?" Brown rustled - a sure sign that he was shaking his head. "Boys are not like that. Boys are soft and smooth - not like any of those things."
"Boys are soft and smooth!" Alexander giggled. "No they aren’t! I'll see if you have toys," he proclaimed. He pulled himself over to the edge of his bed and hooked his feet between the mattress and the wall. "Show me your toys." He hung over the side, peering into the shadows under his bed, his black hair hanging from his head like a brush.
There was movement in the corner, where the dark was thickest.
"I don't see any toys,” Alexander stated, with a forced innocence. "Just dust."
Brown grumbled in the black. "I was lying. I'm a monster."
"So?" Alexander scrambled back up into the protection of the bed.
"Monsters lie."
Alexander rested on the quilt with his feet under his pillow. "Mr. Fowley lies," he mused distractedly, trying to spot the soft bits on Buzz Aldrin’s smiling face. "And he can cast spells."
"What kind of spells?" Brown sounded genuinely interested, so Alexander rolled over and pressed his head to the sheets.
"He cast a spell on Tracy," Alexander hissed. "And now she doesn't talk in class. He sometimes casts spells during class - but only little ones - when he thinks no one's looking."
"You were looking?" Brown asked.
"I'm really good at looking like I'm not looking," Alexander boasted. "When really I am."
"Has he ever cast a spell on you?" Brown asked, critically.
"Maybe," Alexander whispered earnestly. "I don't know."
"I bet he has," growled Brown. Alexander felt uncomfortable - the conversation stood upon uneasy ground. He didn't like that Brown sometimes implied he was not a good boy. He rolled over and watched Buzz grin down at him.
"Has he?" Brown rasped.
"Shh!" Alexander shushed him. "Probably not, he only casts spells on the bad children - I'm always good."
"I'm always good," Brown mimicked - his voice high and squeaky. "Why would Mr. Fowley be mean to good kids?" he chirped.
Alexander tried hushing him again, but Brown ignored him. The bed rocked as Brown became excited. "How can Mr. Fowley cast spells? Why would Mr. Fowley cast spells on you? Why does he give you homework, when he said he wouldn't?"
"Shoosh!" Alexander's voice rose above Brown's for a moment, and then both fell silent. Alexander heard footsteps on the stairs.
The door opened, and light sprung into the room. Alexander peeked out from under the Duvet. His father stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the landing light, one large hand around the doorknob.
"Alexander," he said, and glared into the room.
Alexander scrambled back up the bed until his head could lie on the pillow. "Sorry."
The door closed.
"Why then?" he whispered, but Brown had been scared away for the night.
He pouted and pulled the quilt over himself. "I suspect," he told Buzz, "that the world is dark and terrible."
Like most boys Alexander had a monster under his bed. The monster's name was Brown. Alexander had never seen him, but they spoke in hushed voices at night, of the things that Alexander had seen during the day, and of what Brown was thinking, under the bed. Like all boys, Alexander suspected that the world might be dark and terrible. One night he told Brown.
"I suspect," he whispered "that the world is dark and terrible." Curled under his quilt, Alexander had his ear pressed to the mattress, listening closely for Brown's rusty voice to grate through the squeaky springs. There was no immediate reply, so he continued: "It is a dangerous place. There are creatures slithering underneath the sewer grates! And dragons coiled around the church towers! And Wendigo prowl the streets looking for human flesh on which to sup! And Mr. Fowley is a wizard!" Alexander pouted. "He gave us extra homework."
Brown's wheezing laughter worked its way up to Alexander. Alexander held his breath and waited for him to speak.
"What a strange idea, that the world is dark," Brown creaked, his voice like that of an old chair at school. "Under here it’s dark. I can hardly see my posters and my toys."
Alexander clicked his tongue. "Don't be silly - monsters don't have posters and toys. Those are things that boys have," he admonished.
Brown grunted in dissent. "Monsters can have those things too, if they want them."
Alexander slid around under the duvet, until his feet were tucked warmly under the pillow. He smiled wickedly and drummed his hands on the mattress to annoy Brown. "No you can't - and you don't. Monsters can't have toys, because when they do they mistake them for boys and eat them."
"What?" Brown gasped. "Do little boys look like tricycles? Do they look like books, or bears, or blocks, or board games? Or any of the things you have tucked in your shelves?" Brown rustled - a sure sign that he was shaking his head. "Boys are not like that. Boys are soft and smooth - not like any of those things."
"Boys are soft and smooth!" Alexander giggled. "No they aren’t! I'll see if you have toys," he proclaimed. He pulled himself over to the edge of his bed and hooked his feet between the mattress and the wall. "Show me your toys." He hung over the side, peering into the shadows under his bed, his black hair hanging from his head like a brush.
There was movement in the corner, where the dark was thickest.
"I don't see any toys,” Alexander stated, with a forced innocence. "Just dust."
Brown grumbled in the black. "I was lying. I'm a monster."
"So?" Alexander scrambled back up into the protection of the bed.
"Monsters lie."
Alexander rested on the quilt with his feet under his pillow. "Mr. Fowley lies," he mused distractedly, trying to spot the soft bits on Buzz Aldrin’s smiling face. "And he can cast spells."
"What kind of spells?" Brown sounded genuinely interested, so Alexander rolled over and pressed his head to the sheets.
"He cast a spell on Tracy," Alexander hissed. "And now she doesn't talk in class. He sometimes casts spells during class - but only little ones - when he thinks no one's looking."
"You were looking?" Brown asked.
"I'm really good at looking like I'm not looking," Alexander boasted. "When really I am."
"Has he ever cast a spell on you?" Brown asked, critically.
"Maybe," Alexander whispered earnestly. "I don't know."
"I bet he has," growled Brown. Alexander felt uncomfortable - the conversation stood upon uneasy ground. He didn't like that Brown sometimes implied he was not a good boy. He rolled over and watched Buzz grin down at him.
"Has he?" Brown rasped.
"Shh!" Alexander shushed him. "Probably not, he only casts spells on the bad children - I'm always good."
"I'm always good," Brown mimicked - his voice high and squeaky. "Why would Mr. Fowley be mean to good kids?" he chirped.
Alexander tried hushing him again, but Brown ignored him. The bed rocked as Brown became excited. "How can Mr. Fowley cast spells? Why would Mr. Fowley cast spells on you? Why does he give you homework, when he said he wouldn't?"
"Shoosh!" Alexander's voice rose above Brown's for a moment, and then both fell silent. Alexander heard footsteps on the stairs.
The door opened, and light sprung into the room. Alexander peeked out from under the Duvet. His father stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the landing light, one large hand around the doorknob.
"Alexander," he said, and glared into the room.
Alexander scrambled back up the bed until his head could lie on the pillow. "Sorry."
The door closed.
"Why then?" he whispered, but Brown had been scared away for the night.
He pouted and pulled the quilt over himself. "I suspect," he told Buzz, "that the world is dark and terrible."