Closet: Monster

“Because,” Felix said, slumping onto a pile of scarves, “a closet monster without a child is just a rat with anxiety. The door won’t let me leave until I’ve done my job. It’s magic.” He gestured a claw toward the white mask still in Connor’s hands. “That’s my last resort. The Smiler. Put it on, and I can finally scare you. Properly. One good terror, and I’m free.”

Felix’s ears flattened. “That’s the problem. I’ve been in this closet for twelve years. Twelve years, and not a single nightmare. Not one good scream. I’ve tried everything—scratching, whispering, making the hangers clink—but the kid who used to live here outgrew me. And your mom just stores shoes.” Closet Monster

Some monsters, he realized, aren’t the things you run from. Some are the things you finally let out. “Because,” Felix said, slumping onto a pile of

Connor turned the mask over. Inside, someone had scratched the words: Be careful what you wear. “That’s my last resort

The vision lasted only a second, but it felt like years. When Connor opened his eyes, the mask was back in his hands. His cheeks were wet.

Connor laughed despite himself. “So why are you still here?”