The Monster in the Wardrobe

I was crying when Mom came to tuck me in for the night.

“Come on, Jamie, dry those tears. No more of that silly talk about monsters in your wardrobe,” she whispered, stroking my cheek. “You know how cross Bill gets.”

Bill, my stepfather, was a horrid man, always shouting at me. Ever since he moved in, the scary noises started.

“But they’re real, Mom. I hear them.”

She sighed, walked to the wardrobe, and opened it, revealing only my clothes.

“See, sweetheart? There’s nothing to fear.”

I swallowed, nodding slightly. Bill stood watching from the door, giving me a sideways look that Mom couldn’t see. He warned if I disturbed them again, I’d be confined to my room the next day. Mom turned, kissed me, and walked away with him.

“Look, we’ll leave your nightlight on,” she said. “Goodnight now.”

Shivering woke me up at exactly three. The clock downstairs had chimed three times. My duvet had fallen, and my fingers and toes were numb. The wind howled outside, rain hammering against the window. I reached down, grabbed the duvet, and wrapped it around myself, blowing on my fingers to warm up.

That’s when I heard it: the soft rattle of someone fiddling with the wardrobe door. I longed to scream for Mom, but I knew Bill would be furious. I buried my head under the pillow, but the noise continued. I heard the familiar creak—the wardrobe door was slowly opening.

My heart raced, loud enough to fear the monster would hear it. I curled into a tight ball, biting my lip to keep from crying. Through clenched eyes, I dared to peek. There, in the glow of my nightlight, stood a small figure at the end of my bed, no bigger than me, but somehow pure evil.

I lay frozen, wetting the bed in terror but trying not to make a sound. Maybe if I prayed, it would leave me alone. I whispered the Lord’s Prayer, desperate for protection. The figure stared at me for ages, then hissed, “It’s time!”

It stomped to my door, knocked, and I heard Bill groan, demanding to know what I was up to. Suddenly, their bedroom door flew open, and there were horrifying sounds—scuffling, Bill’s angry shouts, heavy crashes, and then Mom’s screams, high-pitched and unending.

I lay paralyzed, hands over my ears. The silence afterward was even worse than the screams. I peeked, watching the figure slink past my bed and back into the wardrobe, clicking the door shut. I scrambled out of bed, ran to their room, and found Bill sprawled on the floor, lifeless. I leaped over him, desperate to find Mom. She was lying half-on, half-off the bed, her eyes wide, a kitchen knife in her throat.

I tried to pull the knife out, but it was lodged deeply, and when it finally came free, more blood poured from her neck. The coppery smell overwhelmed me, and I screamed. I was still screaming when the police burst in, alerted by our neighbor.

To this day, no one believes me. Not about the monster, not about anything.

The room is stifling hot, and I wipe my sweaty palms on my scratchy orange jumpsuit. My jaw clenches as I look at the psychiatrist across from me.

“Why doesn’t anyone believe me, Doctor?” I whisper, my fists clenched. “That’s all I remember. I swear, it’s the truth of what happened the night my mother and... that man were killed.”

Dr. Simpson studies me. “All right, James, I think that’s enough for today.” He removes his glasses and sets them aside. “This is progress. You’re starting to open up about your feelings toward your stepfather. That’s important.”

He hands me a small plastic cup, and a nurse appears to escort me back to my cell.

“See you next week, James,” he says with a reassuring smile.