[ WP ] the monster in the closet finally lures the child into the darkness , only to realize something is very very wrong

The Illustrious Shade. 
 
 I heard that term once. I forget where. Adopted it. I ’ d thought it beautiful, and I carried it with me, for years and years - imagined that I wrapped all my loved ones in it, throughout their tremblings. 
 
 To illustrate through darkness, to have a presence, an aura, a projection, that conjured everything inside the imagination from a basis of nothing, I take great pride in that. A rich tapestry, that no one can see, and which is all the richer for it. The Illustrious Shade. 
 
 It only recently occurred to me, sometime in the last few hundred years, that it didn ’ t actually mean what I thought it meant. Of course my reputation precedes me, that is to be expected. People carry their stories long after they ’ ve forgotten them. They betray weakness through goodwill. Bedtime is a ritual. A parent reads a story, kisses their child, tucks them in. They create an event. To the parent, the bedtime story is their last act. It ’ s their grand finale, and after a perfect performance there is no encore. 
 
 For the child, it ’ s the overture. 
 
 They don ’ t realise they do most of my work for me. So of course my reputation precedes me. It ’ s ingrained in their very behaviour, long after they ’ ve forgotten what any of it might mean. 
 
 Fear isn ’ t an event. Not done properly. It ’ s not a fright in the night, a jump, a startled leap of the heart through the illusion of safety in the mind. One can not feed on a fright. One feeds on fear. Fear stalks; it preys on the consciousness until the consciousness becomes a prayer, over and over and over. 
 
 Amy doesn ’ t pray. She ought to, her parents have raised her that way. Something I ’ m not fond of, by the way. Those ones, they always misdirect their prayers. And their fear. Afraid of something that isn ’ t real. 
 
 I am real. The Illustrious Shade. 
 
 Amy doesn ’ t sleep, either. Most children don ’ t, of course. But Amy, she stays awake longer than most. She ’ s afraid. I can feel it. I haven ’ t been with her long, but I felt it straight away. Almost immediately, on that first night. The bedtime story, and the lights out, and the door half closed. All the usual things. Even one light left on, further down the house. As if it makes a difference. She was scared, almost immediately on that first night. And she stayed awake. I could feel her trembling. I could hear her breathing. The closet door swung imperceptibly to her little breath. For hours. 
 
 The next night, too. The same introduction. The same insomnia. Hours she lay there. Her terror was a roaring fire deep inside, and I could feel it. Amy was a glory. Glories were rare, and I would love her dearly for it, for a long time. 
 
 She would always sleep, eventually. Early in the morning, only hours before the sun, she would turn, and I would lose her, and sweep away to another of my loved. 
 
 Tonight, I had decided, I would not lose her. She was mine, and I would keep her, until the sun embraced her, and led her away in its grasp. 
 
 The first night I had been purely physical. Little motions for little eyes, little sounds for little ears. Little tastes, of a multitude of little fears. The second night, I briefly intersected her dreams as she fell asleep. Ever so briefly. I was a perfectly formed song in her half-wake daze. The fully formed symphony to a mind who can ’ t conduct. 
 
 Tonight, I would not lose her to a dream. I had tested her waters, and I knew it to be possible; I would enter her mind and plant my seeds; seeds to water and exploit the fruits of for years to come. Amy would bear my terror for a lifetime, for she was a glory, and I would be her deity. And it would begin tonight. It would begin with a song. 
 
 -- - 
 
 Jesus Christ, or whoever those misguided little devils pray to; Jesus Christ. A wolf; a lion, or tiger, or bear; some savage beast; there ’ s no room for me in there. 
 
 I ’ d arrived in a nightmare. Nightmares don ’ t begin that early, but this was one. Had I lost time in the song? I don ’ t know. But I know what I arrived in. I used to think it was the devil they prayed against, but I know now it ’ s just fear, far worse than mine. Something worse, a curse against nature itself. Fears, The Illustrious Shade, are nature. But this; 
 
 A mother holds her child against the night; and the air itself seems to curse them both. They look outward, and the mother seeks to protect her baby. But the darkness laughs; the curse is pressed against them both. It ’ s with them, inside them both. And the mother can not defend her child. It ’ s alive, and she is afraid, and the fear is insurmountable, and so I leave. And too shocked, am I, to move to another love. I sit, and wait, and I observe. Amy is asleep; and she is afraid, but I take no pleasure or sustenance now, for something is wrong, and it is not the gentle caress of mine own hand. And I have never seen this before, for I am not omniscient, nor omnipresent. 
 
 -- - 
 
 The mornings. Oh, the mornings. I don ’ t stay for these often, and so I forget, but oh, how they have it all backwards. The morning holds no bedtime story. No song, or prayer, no unfolding of the sheets. No ritual to steel an uncertain mind against the uncertain events ahead. And most of it seems alright, as most things get lost in the bustle of bodies and activity. The fear of the night subsides, and I am left alone. And so I don ’ t stay for these, not often. 
 
 But the fear hasn ’ t subsided. And as her little mind crawls into consciousness, and I am sure the savage beast is disappeared from her state, I take a tentative step into her half-waking daze. She crawls; the light and her mother ’ s voice pull her back into the world, but she doesn ’ t want to come. And oh, this isn ’ t uncommon either, but this is different. Her mind is a nightmare, and she would rather stay there. And I felt it, the savage beast. She should come out. Even I am not so bad in the light. And her mother ’ s voice calls again, and it pulls, but I stay here with her, somewhere between her nightmare and the light. And I wonder why we are here, why she dwells. How she dwells. Great artists would die to know how she does it, I am sure. She dwells for so long. 
 
 And then it ’ s her father ’ s voice, and again I am kicked out, as she crashes back into the world, and slams against it. She is awake, and immediately aware, and it is morning, and the sun is here, and she is still afraid. 
 
 And that voice; that voice as it calls for her now, I know it. A mother holds her child in the night, and that voice is the sound of darkness laughing; it is the voice of the curse who is pressed against them both. And it is inside them both, and I am but a shade.
