She walks, steps brisk, heels clacking on black pavement. Chill night air swims in the dark, circling, nipping. Reaching into her purse, she feels for her keys, the metal gently chiming. By touch, her fingers automatically sort through the key ring as she nears her Toyota Tercel.
She Pauses.
Her legs tense, preparing. For the life of her she can't tell what set her off, a sound, a smell, but somewhere deep inside of her she knows she's not alone. Her eyes dart scanning edges of the light, half certain she can see something.
Then she was four years old again, staring into the black, and she knew, absolutely knew there was something there, just out of eyesight, staring right back. Her eyes dug into that black, but it was like shoveling at an ocean. Her mom's voice called to her again telling her there's no such thing as monsters.
She was seven now, and sneaking downstairs when she knew she shouldn't, but she had to try, and she saw her father placing presents in bright red glossy gift wrap with curled silver ribbon under the tree, and treasonously eating the cookie. At nine, Mom's the tooth fairy, and surely you’re too old for this now.
Nine and a half and she hears that noise, night after night, but she won't hide under her covers this time. Before her line of courage could snap, she threw the blanket off and fell to the ground flat on her stomach. She didn't want to open her eyes, but she's terrified to be there out in the open, unprotected without seeing, without knowing, and she opens them, and looks at...two old socks and her pajama pants she was supposed to throw in the laundry.
Years fly on past dares and horror movies and ex-boyfriends and other things worth being afraid of. Bumps in the night are settling buildings, no monsters are to be found, and ghosts on the TV aren't even convincing. Lights fill the night and the holes in the map are filled.
The mysteries of the world are so gone it's nearly painful. There's no world on the other side of the mirror. God is a fairytale for grownups, even the religious don't believe in the devil, and crashing planes and bombs and cancer are real life horrors.
But then she was four again and staring at that dark. Her mind keeps trying to see eyes in that black staring back at her, because she knows, she knows there is something in that darkness. And part of her, that four year old part, wonders if in her hurry to grow up and fill in holes in the map, she might have missed a spot.
Perhaps somewhere in her rush, she started looking past the dark instead of into it. And somewhere, in that sea of black there was something, forgotten by the world, unseen in the shadows listening to us repeat to ourselves, there's no such thing as monsters. And maybe, it likes it that way.
Her fingers on the keys, she takes the last ten steps to her car. With a click, the door unlocks as her hand reaches for the door, and in two seconds she's in the car, the doors are locked, and she already has checked the backseat, just in case.
The key turns and headlights flood the darkness where those eyes lurked, and once again she is nine and a half, laying on her stomach in her room, staring at two socks and an old pair of pajamas.
She wasn't sure how long she was holding her breath, but she breathes now, feeling a little silly, and even laughs out loud at checking the backseat. She turns on the radio and pulls out of the parking space, driving only a slightly faster than necessary.
The red taillights shining out of black metal feels strangely like a reflection as I watch her drive off. She never looks over her shoulder. She hasn't for years. I can't help but smile.