Portal
At first, she
wasn’t even sure that there was something under there. Under the bed. At first,
occasionally, a sock or two that she’d taken off would disappear without
warning, or she’d think that she’d felt the blanket move at the end of the bed
in the middle of the night, while she was half-asleep. She started to think she
was losing her marbles, to be honest.
One
night, she tried to stay awake, to listen more closely, to try and see what was
born of the shadows that gathered in the corners of the room, hopeful but also
dreading to figure out what was going on. Maybe…there was a vortex under her
bed, a doorway to another dimension. It was possible. She knew. She had grown
up reading science fiction and fantasy. Maybe Gaiman, LeGuin, and Bradbury knew
more than they were letting on. Stories, after all, always had an origin in
some sort of truth. Same thing with cliches.
She
hadn’t told anyone she knew that she suspected a monster infestation. That
would be madness. They would call her bonkers. She would be institutionalized
or, worse, made a social outcast for the rest of her life. Not that she was a
social butterfly, anyway, but to be further set apart—because of a belief in
creatures that hadn’t yet been scientifically proven to exist—would be psychologically
scarring. No doubt.
It
never worked, though, trying to stay awake to see what happened in the middle
of the night. Every time she tried, she seemed to get sleepier and sleepier. It
was as if something was off. The harder she tried, the harder it was to stay
awake. One night, she had an idea. She crossed to her bookcase, pulled out the
Scrabble box, upended the little Crown Royal bag of letters onto her duvet and
spread them out wide with her hands. She sat there, cross-legged, talking to
herself, or to whoever was living under the bed.
“I
don’t know…whether you can even speak or read…but I figure…if I can’t stay up
to catch you…to prove that you’re real…we could start this way…” She picked out
the tiles she needed and placed them on the floor next to the bed. She put the
Crown Royal bag on the floor next to it, in case the monster needed other
letters.
Do you exist
She wanted a question mark so badly,
perhaps because it would be the catalyst to a hoped for answer. Then, she got
into bed and tried to stay awake. In vain, of course.
***
The sound of
birds woke her, even before the sun began to show itself around the edges of
the curtains. A shimmer of something, maybe, and she sat bolt upright, took a
breath, swung her legs over the edge of the bed and….
Yes
The air swept up out of her, and she
made the tiniest sound deep in her throat. Yes. There was a monster under the
bed. She knew it. She had figured it for a while now, but only needed to be
sure. That it understood English—or…Scrabble?—seemed fitting.
She
got down on her knees next to the bed, took a breath, looked under it. Nothing.
Of course not. Portals, after all, were just that—portals. Doorways. Entrances
to other places. They were like Rowling’s horcruxes and Lewis’s wardrobes and
mysterious things like that. She ran her hand along the floorboards in a wide,
arcing sweep. Caught a sliver: hissed, cursed, pulled her hand out from under
the bed and sucked on the wounded finger. A drop of blood on hardwood. Fuck.
“I
can’t even…” she sat there, panicking a bit. “First, a monster. Then, a
sliver.”
No one responded to her complaint,
of course. Monsters are busy in other dimensions in the daytime, as everyone
knows. They wouldn’t answer, even if they could.
***
Again, before bed, down on her knees
and spelling out the next question in Scrabble tiles.
What is your name
Again, the next morning, a response.
You would think Monster
She puzzled over that one. Couldn’t
figure it out. Tried again that night. Continued the chat, drawn into it now.
No Maybe not
What is your name
And so they began, back and forthing
as it were.
Monster And yours
Surely, Monster must know what her
name was, if it lived under her bed, if it had lived under there for a very
long time.
Megan
Now Two questions
Will you hurt me
How old are you
More letters the next morning, just
that much more of her curiosity piqued.
I am ancient
Bare feet on floor then, and a
shiver that ran from the soles of her feet up to the crown of her head so that
goosebumps rose on the skin of her legs and arms, even down the sides of her
neck.
Monster
had not answered the first question.
***
She put the mug
of tea next to her, on the bedside table. Drank it slowly. Read a bit of a
half-finished book. Found herself nodding off. Jerked awake when she remembered
to write her next question. She thought about it for a bit. What would be the
best way to speak to her Monster? Would it want to talk again? She was a bit
seduced by it now, this back and forthing, through Scrabble tiles.
She formed the
line:
Where do you live
Tucked herself back into bed, under
the duvet, gathered herself into the shape of a fiddlehead fern, curled up and
warm. She slept. Deeply.
***
The
dawn light crept around the curtains. It edged into the room in silence. (Light
is like that, somehow.)
The bed, empty
now.
The mug of tea,
half-drunk and cold.
The words next
to the bed the only thing left to be read.
Come and see
Kim Fahner lives and writes in Sudbury, Ontario. Her most recent book of poems is These Wings (Pedlar Press, 2019). Her new book of poems, Emptying the Ocean, will be published in Fall 2022 by Frontenac House. Kim is a member of the League of Canadian Poets, the Ontario Representative for The Writers' Union of Canada, and a supporting member of the Playwrights Guild of Canada. She may be reached via her author website at www.kimfahner.com