Bogeymen: A Black Comedy With a Moral

         Though he was at the age where you start to exaggeratedly complain about your back, the bed was sized for a six-year-old, so Gerald didn't have too much trouble dragging it away from the wall at first. But then the left leg caught on something.

         Letting go of the bed and stooping down to take a look, he found an ancient-looking iron latch, medieval in that sense of awkward thickness and a foreboding coal-black colour. Attached to it was a similarly Gothic oaken trapdoor, so covered in dust he was certain his wife Martha had no knowledge of this ominous portal beneath her son's bed, or she would have put her feather duster to task on it with righteous fury.

         Gerald finished moving the bed into the hallway (Jacob's room was crowded with toys, and much too small to accommodate it anywhere other than its rightful place), picked up the wood axe that had last seen use some distant winter at his grandfather's ranch, and took a wanton swing at the lock. Of course, Gerald never had occasion in his privileged life to chop firewood, and he only knew one end of the axe from the other by using elementary logic. His heart was true, but his aim was not, and the axe bit deep into the wood planks, causing clouds of dust to fly everywhere and provoking a violent coughing fit.

         When the grey haze cleared, he found a splintered mess scattered along the steps of a stone staircase, descending into darkness. It did not in any way resemble the spotless and thoroughly modern kitchen with granite countertops that resided directly below Jacob's second story bedroom. But Gerald was undaunted; he knew there was something wrong with his son, and he was determined to thwart whatever bogeyman was haunting him. Grabbing the flash-light and hefting his trusty hatchet, Gerald descended into the creature's lair.


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         “Our poor boy is failing kindergarten!”

         Martha's wailing on the sofa, clutching a slip of paper with a stylized insignia and something Greek emblazoned on one side. Snatching it from her hands, I read with rising frustration the source of her dismay.

         “What the hell- Martha, is this a report card?!”

         “Yes, oh god, his first month at school and he's failing in all his subjects!”

         “Martha, he's six. What the hell could they be grading him on? Arithmetic With Sums Under 10? Coloring inside the lines? Scientific Observation of Lima Beans Growing in Paper Cups?!”

         “He doesn't follow instructions! Ms. Rakowski says that all he does is tell wild stories to the other children that upset them, and draws the most dreadful pictures on the walls.”

         “Well, don't they have time-out for that or something? Why do I have to decipher his misadventures from these numbers on a mock transcript?”

         “Jerry, we agreed to send him to the Aristoddlers Academy so he could be prepared for grade school. He needs to learn valuable skills like cooperating with the other students and obeying his teachers! I don't want my baby to grow up as an unruly, tax-evading, pot-smoking rascal.”

         “He's just new, sweetie. He needs time to adjust. Give him a few weeks, and if he's still having trouble, we'll talk to Ms. Rakowski and try to deal with the problem. Okay?”

         “...Alright. As long as you promise that if this goes on, you'll do something about it. I'm afraid he hasn't received enough discipline here at home, and it reflects poorly on us now that we're members of the Aristod-cracy. You know how judgemental those other mothers can be...”

         “Sure, honey. Look, I'm tired, I'm gonna go get a glass of wine and watch the news.”

         “The fridge is empty. Check the cellar.”

                                                                              *          *          *

         Gerald cursed as he heard his Prada leather shoes splash into a puddle of- Blood? Urine? Drool? Monsters aren't known for their housekeeping, nor are Italian six-hundred dollar designer shoes known for their resilience to bodily-fluid stains. He glanced at his watch and cursed again. The meeting with the Indian investors would have to be cancelled, risking their ire; this definitely qualified as a “family emergency” in Gerald's eyes, but would be hard to explain to his foreign associates. Or domestic ones, for that matter.

         The staircase wound down and down, and Gerald was just beginning to think that whoever designed this excessively deep dungeon had no intention of actually using the stairs himself and maybe it wasn't really necessary to actually kill the monster, that perhaps boarding up the entrance and putting a heavy desk on top of it would suffice, when he finally reached an iron door with dim orange light flickering underneath it.

         Gerald set down the flash-light and was about to lift his axe for another test of mettle when it occurred to him that he might try the knob. The hinges creaked menacingly as the door swung open, but aside from that the obstacle was overcome without incident.

         Inside, torches placed in brackets along the walls blazed in an oily fashion and cast unsettling shadows about the chamber. Statues of fearsome gargoyles and paintings of fangsome counts and countesses added to the sinister mien. Torture devices so grotesquely whimsical they didn't even make anatomical sense were proudly displayed, and the cobwebs blanketing the scene suggested an unhealthily large spider population.

         But by far, the most hideous and terrifying thing in the room was definitely the huge, slavering beast growling at Gerald, sitting atop a great pile of old bones at the far end of the chamber.

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         “Jacob, you and I need to talk.”

         He doesn't glance up from his work; he is busily directing the stage movements of his toys, filling in the mute actors' lines and providing admirably gutsy sound effects as the play unfolds. Dammit, I don't have time for this.

         “Jacob, dammit, I don't have time for this. Ms. Rakowski called and said you got in a fight today. You've been misbehaving all year, young man, but this crosses the line! Son, look at me when I'm speaking to you!”

         He sets down the toys and turns to look at me straight in the eyes.

         “Steve was being evil to Mark. I asked him to stop, but that never works. So I punched him.”          What the hell? 'Being evil?' What does my six-year-old son know about evil?

         “Jacob, what was Steve doing to Mark that upset you?”

         “Saying evil things. Mean stuff. Said he was a little dork, and he must miss his mama so much he wanted to pee his pants. Mark was scared and crying. Steve reminded me of...”

         His words catch on a lump in his throat, and he glances at his bed. His face turns red, but he fights back tears.

         “...of the monster.”

         What? Is this about that monster he thinks lives under his bed? Hell, he used to complain about that, used to keep us up at nights bawling and wailing about the big scary monster that wanted to eat him, but I thought he got over that! Every child thinks there's oogie-boogies going bump in the dark- hell, I sure did when I was his age!- but most kids forget about it when they wake up. Kids don't have the attention span to worry about stuff like that. Why does my son have to be the freak?

         “Monster? You mean, the one under your bed?”

         “Y-yes. He whispers nasty things to me, about how everyone secretly wants to hurt me and how the teacher thinks I'm stupid and how the other kids are afraid of me because I talk too much and how what a coward I am and how Mommy doesn't understand anything and how daddy doesn't love me and-”

         “What? Jacob! Of course I love you. We wouldn't be having this talk if I didn't care about you! I'm a busy man with important appointments, but I've taken the time out of my day to deal with this problem of yours. So don't say I don't give a damn, because I do! And what do you mean by saying your mother doesn't understand anything? Do you think she's stupid? Shame on you! Why, if she were here to hear you say that, what would she-”

         “Nobody understands me! Everybody just ignores me or talks to me like I'm still a baby, or else they yell at me or run away and cry when I try to talk to make them understand! There's scary monsters everywhere and scary people too! Only nobody sees the monsters and they don't act like they're scared of the mean and nasty people, they just ignore it! Or maybe they don't care. And that's evil. The monster says I'm a big scaredy-cat because I'm afraid of the nasty things, because I want to run away from them. But maybe everybody else is just too scared to talk about them.”

         Finished with his rant, his temporary composure collapses completely, and tears pour down his red, shaking face.

         Poor boy! He's afraid of the world outside! I can understand that- strange places full of strangers everywhere, separated from Mommy and Daddy for eight hours each day, now. He has trouble adjusting to school, to the social world, to life. And who is this sick fiend to take advantage of his fear to taunt and torture him? Thanks to him, my son's so confused and paranoid his grades are failing and he's getting in fights! What if next time my poor baby gets hurt? I've half a mind to crawl under that goddamn bed and put the fear of God in his freakish hide! Yeah, that's what I'll do! I'll kill the bastard!

         I hold him to me and whisper to him, “It's okay, Jacob. I know exactly what you're going through. There's nothing to be afraid of. I'll take care of everything. That monster won't ever trouble you again. Okay?”

         No response; he's fallen asleep. That manic outburst must have taken a lot out of him. I gently carry him downstairs and lay him down on the couch. He can sleep peacefully here, for now. God, do I need a drink! The phone rings. It's Martha.

         “Hey, honey, I talked to Jacob. He's fine now. He can sleep on the couch tonight; he's afraid of being alone in his room. Just stressed, is all. You know school these days, the academic rigor's a trick to get used to. Hey, while you're at the store, could you grab a few bottles of wine? We're out. Yes, I checked the cellar...”

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         It was a Gothic surrealist's muse: an admixture of bizarre imagination and unfathomable nightmare. Dozens of bat wings sprouted from its back at crazy angles and flapped madly in a futile effort to fly in every direction at once. Legs of varying length, shape, and texture awkwardly supported its weight, causing it to tilt and shift its massive bulk to and fro. A massive canine jaw lay limply on the floor, too heavy for the tiny stalk of a neck to support it; the tongue, sized and shaped like a ligamented tree, flickered hither and thither, and on its tip was a gargoyle's savage face sans eyes. The eyeless tongue-face spotted Gerald and froze, eyeing him curiously. And then it chuckled, and the huge mouth from which it protruded chuckled in unison. At last they grinned and spoke, the great jaw bellowing in a slurred, bassy tone while the tongue screeched several octaves above:

         “What an honour it is to meet a true bogeyman. Here I am, a deformed charlatan, merely playing at monstrosity while you-”

         His villainous monologue was cut abruptly short with a piercing scream and a bellowing roar. Gerald yanked the axe out of the trunk of a tongue and took another swing. This one lopped off the soprano head and sent spurts of blood and ichor spewing all over Gerald's Talia Sartoria navy suit. Successive blows tore through the bulky brute, and soon legs and wings and chunks of flesh lay strewn about the chamber in a gory mess. Still Gerald fought like a man possessed, determined to reduce each 27th of the erstwhile monster to a grade A pulp. He tore off his coat as he toiled, and then his shirt, and soon resembled a kind of lumberjack/butcher maniac.

         “Daddy...”

         Daddy stopped and turned around. Jacob was standing at the door, dressed in his PJ's and ready for bed. He stared wide-eyed in horror at the gruesome carnage. Gerald had a look of vicious ecstasy on his face as he shouted, “Ha-HA! It's DEAD, son! The bastard's DEAD-er than a hamburger! I TORE it to pieces! I CHOPPED it up to little bits you could fit in the compost! HA-ha, HAH! You could package it up and sell it as 95% lean ground beef at the supermarket, Jacob! Heehee-HA-hee. That's how goddamn dead it is. Why don't you take a picture, JACOB?? Bring it to show and tell! Ms. Rakowski will LOVE it! All the kids will puke and you'll be the COOL-est kid ever- you'll be their FREAK-ing idol! Come here, son, wanna hold the axe? C'mon, come a LIT-tle CLOS-er. No, it's okay, don't be a-FRAID, he can't HURT you. He's as DEAD as your old goldfish. GOD, haha, what was his name again...??”

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         I'm so proud of Jerry! Word got around the block about his little adventure, and now he's absolutely the hero of the subdivision. Everybody wants us at their backyard barbecue to hear the story of how he killed that awful beast that was haunting poor Jake. How exciting! And the impressions he does when he gets to the butchering part are so vivid, why, Jerry's such a good storyteller, he really gets into it. Mrs. Laney down the street nearly fainted with giggles! And all the men come to Jerry's wine-tasting parties. He's the neighborhood connoisseur. We even got our names in the paper! September 16 issue, third page, “LOCAL DAD DOES KNIGHTLY DEED”. It's got a lovely picture of the family, with Jerry propping his axe on one shoulder like the Brawny man and Jake looking so mature in his little suit (the photographer said it wouldn't look natural, but I insisted. And I think it turned out beautifully. Of course, motherly intuition, you know) and I must say, my hair was quite fabulous in the shot, as well it should be, I spent an hour styling it when I heard they'd be coming to take pictures...

         Jake's doing so much better now, I couldn't be happier for him! He makes straight A's, and at every conference his teachers congratulate us on how mature and disciplined and quiet he is in class, and I smile and say, well, you know, obedience starts at home... He never gets into fights anymore, or scribbles on the walls or tells foolish stories or any of that nonsense, he just does his chores and his homework and his violin practice and eats his vegetables and it's off to bed at 8:30 sharp (he hasn't missed his bedtime once in six months!) All the parents at the PTA meetings are jealous, and I always get calls asking if Jake can come over and play with their sons. I always knew he'd fit in, just give him time, I said, he'll work it out... Thank God Jerry rescued him from that wretched monster! I simply shudder to think what my son would have turned out to be with that thing being such a terrible influence on him...