M Pauchet

Things That Go Bump in the Night

Tell the truth. Are you afraid of monsters? You know, ghoulies, ghosties, long-leggedy beasties, things that go bump in the night. Or do you think they’re just those cartoon characters your neighbor decorates their yard with every Halloween? Truth—real monsters don’t look or act like those caricatures in the franchise series. Sitting here on the metro, looking out my window, I feel slightly amused that others can’t see what’s reflected.  

We’re not spawned in cold, damp castles in foreign countries with names that start with Vee. Personally, I’m not fond of caskets and would prefer cremation. Maybe one of those new burial plans where they plant a tree in my ashes. If I’m in a cemetery, it’s to bury evidence, not because I enjoy the ambiance. Actually, chances are, you’ve passed me more than once without knowing.

It’ll be tonight—after dark, probably before midnight. I still have to work tomorrow. My target has no idea I’m on the way. It was an accidental bump in a store. I only wanted to pass. He wanted to impress his girlfriend. At this moment, he’s at home, doing the quotidian things that make him whoever he is, unaware that Death is riding to his door.      

For the record, I’m not all evil. I’ve helped the feeble cross the street—saved kittens and kites for children. I’ve been a hero in a fire. I hold doors and say thank you. I can be silent as the grave, strike swiftly as a mamba. But when I take your breath, it won’t come back. The people who see me don’t write memoirs—you call them victims.  

Whether my kind are born or created, I can’t say. Maybe each of us is sui generis, with a different backstory. It’s not as if we share confidences or trade craft secrets by the water cooler. By preference, we’re solitary hunters. When I speak, it’s only for myself.  

Sometimes I watch television. One night, bored, I was watching Animal Planet. There were two monkeys, doing monkey things in a tree. Suddenly, a reticulating anaconda surged up the tree. One monkey fled while the other sat there, frozen in terror. It just stared blindly in the face of death, never moving. Nietzsche was right. Stare into the abyss long enough, and it might look back. 

The subway car smells like an ancient ashtray, with vape flavors struggling for ascendancy. A fragrance catches my attention. Yves Saint Laurent, Black Opium. Her face is framed in black ringlets, her wide, brown eyes lost in the glow of her phone screen. I imagine how she would look, mouth open, eyes vacant, with ruby droplets across her neck. 

She reminds me of a kitten my parents gave me for a pet when I was five or six. Warm, fuzzy, mewing until I began playing with it. What stands out in my memory now is the looks of horror on my parents’ faces. Their mouths open, eyes bulging in disbelief. They tried making excuses. I was clawed—maybe it nipped me. I never had a pet after that. Over the years, neighbors occasionally came looking for theirs. By tacit agreement, my parents and I never spoke of those missing animals in our home.  

We always remember that first time. Whether it’s love, sex, victory, or death, those profound moments remain with us. My first was a punk in my class. Being a natural loner made me an easy target, I guess. He tried to bully me into letting him use my baseball glove in P.E. I refused. 

Too small or cowardly to do the job himself,  he reached out to an older family member who came to our school, caught me alone, and gave me a beatdown. As always, snitching was considered weak, so I told no one. But inside, I felt a blinding rage I could taste. The details are probably too lurid for your taste. Suffice it to say, my first was a package deal—a twofer. 

The train hisses to a stop, and a middle-aged man boards. He has broken veins across his nose and under his eyes. An alcoholic. He’s one of those people who were old when they were twelve. Stoop-shouldered, unshaven, in a brown trench coat, he looks like a stereotypical pervert. He would be an easy kill—no stamina, and the nicotine stains on his fingers tell me he has no wind. His death would probably be a mercy rather than murder.  

Not that I’m ever remorseful. I felt no guilt over the boys I’d killed. My concern now was covering my tracks. For the first time, I knew I didn’t need to fear the dark because it was already inside me. Taking my bloody clothes outside, I burned them in our fire pit behind the house. I sat a long time in the dark, looking up at the stars. I didn’t feel lonely, just alone. I wondered if there were more like me or if I was a one-off, a prototype? 

In the weeks that followed, no fingers were ever pointed at me. It was intoxicating. In my hubris, I was still a caterpillar breaking out of its chrysalis, not yet in my final form. For the time being, I returned to my regular routines and locked that part of me in a compartment inside my psyche. I started watching a lot of police shows, often with my parents.  But I was especially interested in procedural programs, which detailed how they caught killers. Know your enemy.

I had been living on my own for several months when a new neighbor moved into our apartment complex. He was loud, aggressive, and generally obnoxious. It was high school again, only now the students were adults who never grew up. It was a bully, beating me again. I saw him as just another glitch in the universe that needed to be addressed.  

I had learned that environmental conditions in the small hours favor surprise while reducing the risk of detection. As part of my self-training, I had practiced picking locks. It seemed like a helpful tool. Finally, on a moonless night, I made my move. 

After gaining entrance to his apartment, I listened for sounds. I heard only snoring from his bedroom. The architects who design modular buildings have no idea how much they help people like me. Every unit is a fractal of the whole. He lay on his back, snoring. Probably dreaming of all the people he’d bullied or would bully the next day.  

That was his final dream. It wasn’t a stellar performance—I was still new to the art in those days. That was long ago, the trail of corpses in my wake only beginning. Since then, I’ve honed my skills, my planning, and my reflexes. In my world, it only takes one mistake. 

We emerge from a tunnel into the night. There’s a fine mist, making the air damp and chill. My window begins to fog over. Good. Perfect weather for a killing. One day, on a bus (or was it a train or an airplane?), I felt another passenger’s eyes on me. Staring back, I felt a prickling sensation along my arms and around my neck. They were my eyes, looking back at me. When two magnets with the same poles are brought together, their forces repel each other. So it was with us. We are by nature solitary creatures. After disembarking, I never saw him again. But now I knew. I wasn’t alone.  

I feel the weight of eyes watching me again. Her face is cherubic, with golden hair and eyes the color of periwinkles. She looks to be three, at most four. Her expression is full of wonder and inquisitiveness. At the next stop, she and her mother get up to exit. I give her a wink and a grin. She giggles, and her mother gives me a grateful smile. I already have a target. Maybe another night, another train.   

I believe the universe has a purpose for all its creations. Perhaps we’re the apex predators of this planet’s dominant species, and it’s our job to take care of what nature doesn’t want around anymore—its aberrations. There could be a million explanations and rationalizations. Or maybe people should smile more. 

Sometimes, like tonight, I remember the faces, the sounds, even the smells. Looking out my window, I see the cold night for what it is—my domain, the hunter’s realm. I feel the tingle of expectation, the thrill of the act.     

Finally, the train reaches my station. Stepping out into the night’s chill heightens my senses. The shiver I feel isn’t the cold, it’s anticipation. I know the way to my destination, through alleys foul with the smell of stale booze, piss, and vomit. Through an empty lobby with peeling paint and stains on the shabby carpet. Up two flights of stairs to the first room on the right. He has no idea that death is only minutes away.    

Maybe I live far away—or next door. I may be riding this train to your residence at this very moment. What are the odds? Right now, you’re telling yourself that chances are, we’ve never met. And you’re probably right. But an unexplained noise in the dark startles you. You debate whether to investigate or stay in your warm, safe bed. Reason tells you it couldn’t be me. My advice? Pull up the covers and go back to your dreams in blissful ignorance. 

Because if you start looking, you might find me. Now, tell the truth. Are you afraid of monsters?