The Crawler from Under the Bed
The Crawler stinks dark purple. The color of a nasty bruise. I see the haze of violet before the smell hits my nose, before my cartoon monster hisses from behind three rows of needle teeth. He’s not the first monster to come to life from the pages of my sketch pad.
There’s a wet slurp and dragging claws on wood. My teeth ache from the scraping sound. I keep drawing, faster, and messier towards the monster’s death.
Alligator claws curl over the edge of the bed, tearing my comforter in four thin slices. The purple in the room is thick as black and I’m drawing for my life.
Scratches of lead on paper mimic the sound of scales scraping wood. I don’t look up. Scribble. Rub. Smear. The last comic panel is almost finished. The knife in the cartoon girl’s hand is only half drawn before I hear a grotesque voice, “Hungry,” it says.
The monster pulls its long tail along the floor. But as fast I can draw, I’m not fast enough. Not this time. And not ever again.