Monsters Are Not Real?
I stared at the ceiling, trying to ignore the creaks and groans of our old house. I wasn’t scared—no, not scared—because monsters weren’t real. That’s what my dad always said. “Big boys aren’t afraid of the dark, Simon. There’s nothing there.” But tonight, the shadows seemed different, deeper somehow. My bed felt smaller, like the darkness was closing in around me. My parents had gone to an important dinner, leaving me with Sarah, a quiet girl who barely said two words since they’d left. She sat glued to the TV downstairs while I was stuck up here, alone. The clock on my nightstand blinked 9:47 PM in glowing red numbers. I rolled over, squeezing my eyes shut, when I heard it. Eeee-creeeeak. The door. My door. Slowly opening. I sat up, my heart hammering in my chest. The hallway outside was empty—at least, that’s what it looked like. “Sarah?” I called, my voice shaking. No answer. The door, which I had closed tightly, now hung ajar, its hinges whining like something had pushed it open....
