Kim Fahner

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