I'm scared of my room.
I don't want to go there at night.
See, there's a thing, a man maybe, that is in my closet and it looks like a floating eyeball and it kills ladies who are blind or mute or crippled and it spies on them from a crack in their closet doors until they're asleep, and then it sneaks across their rooms and kills them by first cutting off the part of them that doesn't work.
It's in my closet too, I know it, because I have to go to speech therapy because I can't talk right and I'm a "tongue thruster" or something, so now I have to repeat a bunch of words every night until I can say them the way everybody else does without letting my tongue slip through the gap over here in the right side of my mouth where I used to suck my thumb until I got too big to suck it anymore. Mom had to paint gross-tasting stuff on my thumb to get me to stop, but even that wasn't too bad if I sucked it all off really fast. It just made my stomach hurt a little bit.
Anyhow, the thing in the clost has one black eye that peeps out, all watery and floaty and scary, and if my closet door is open even a little bit I can't sleep at all. I also can't sleep if I don't check under my bed, then in the closet, then under the bed, then behind the door, then in the closet again. Then I run across the floor and jump into my bed to keep out of the reach of whatever monsters got under it in the minute I was checking the closet, and pull up my nightgown and blankets until they're wrapped around me so that I look like an unappetizing mummy, and only then can I fall alseep.
My room is also scary because the street light shines in and my teddy bear on my rocking chair looks much bigger and his eyes get all wet-looking, and I can't look at him because if I do he'll hypnotize me and make me go to the closet and open the door a tiny bit so the thing in there can stare at me and decide what it needs to chop off first.
I begged my Mom every night NOT to shut the door to my room. She doesn't anymore, not since I started screaming in my sleep. I guess my imagination got to there too.
I sure hope I can talk right real soon, so the eyeball thing leaves my closet and goes someplace else.
Like maybe to the girl up the street; she has glasses and is mean to me. I wouldn't really CARE if she died.
Sorry about that God, but you know who I'm talking about and I'm sure you agree with me. OK, she shouldn't die, but maybe just she should get scared a lot a bit. It might make her nicer to me.
A word to Moms and Dads:
This story is part of my past, and it's a bit of a warning. Your children's dreams and fears are real, and if you don't believe them now they'll never let you in on anything else, ever.
Listen to them.