Goodnight, Eugene

Living under a bed was entirely too cramped, Eugene thought to himself. He often bumped his head, and it was impossible to keep the dust out of his fur. Sometimes he daydreamed of roomier assignments — an attic, perhaps, or a basement — but like all monsters fresh out of monster school, Eugene was given the customary post beneath a child’s bed.

Yes, Eugene was a monster — one of the very ones you’ve heard of, or perhaps encountered hiding beneath your own. It is true that under every child’s bed lives a monster. It is untrue, however, that they are there to frighten you. On the contrary, it is a monster’s most sacred duty to watch over their young charge — a Lucy, or a Harold, or a Margaret, or a Jim — and keep them safe from the things that really do go bump in the night.

Eugene was peculiar as monsters went. He didn’t growl or moan or scratch at the walls with his claws. You were far more likely to hear him cough, or sniffle, or fussily clean between his toes. Such habits nearly kept him from being assigned a child at all — which would have been a dishonor of the highest order, make no mistake. But Eugene squeaked through monster school with just enough marks in the most important subjects. And so here he was, with a child of his very own.

Yet even so, Eugene felt like an utter failure. His child — a boy of seven named Rory — seemed as ordinary as any boy. He liked games, he drew pictures, and he often forgot to brush his teeth before bed. But to Eugene’s dismay, Rory often lay awake at night crying, quite a lot, come to think of it.

Eugene couldn’t understand it. He had kept the room free of unwanted visits from spiders, ghosts, or boogie-creatures of any sort. And still, every night, Rory would cry himself to sleep, whispering into the dark for help.

It cannot be overstated that the rules by which monsters live beneath our beds are very strict indeed. None is more important than this: never be noticed or seen. Entire monster school lessons are devoted to it. To illustrate just how serious this law was, each monster — upon graduation and their first assignment — is given a touch of magic. Just enough to make their child forget.

I need hardly tell you the gravity of this, for you must know how rare magic is in the world. But yes: each monster carried a single spell to erase the memory of a slip. Should a child wake unexpectedly and find their monster doing ballet by moonlight (yes, this has happened), the monster could wave a paw — or whatever appendage they had — and whisper the words to make the child forget they had ever seen such a thing.

Eugene had gone through most of Rory’s young life certain he would need far more magic than a single spell to cover all the oopsies and uh-ohs that seemed sure to follow his awkward ways. Yet despite Rory’s nightly tears, Eugene had managed to remain silent and unseen… until the night our story takes a turn.

The night in question was abnormally hot and sticky, as nights go. To Eugene’s aggravation, the temperature had risen to an altogether unreasonable degree and Rory’s bedroom windows were flung wide in hopes of coaxing in a luxurious breeze.

Instead of a breeze, however, the open windows invited in an invisible parade of tiny, microscopic things. Pollen. Dust. All the bothersome bits that summertime delivers, whether you want them or not. They swirled beneath the bed, tickling Eugene’s nose until it turned red and swelled to three times its ordinary size.

Eugene will tell you — and anyone else who will listen — that he tried his very best to be quiet. Later inquiries would prove this to be true. He pinched his nose, scrunched his eyes, even held his breath until his ears rang. In desperation, he wrapped a dusty winter scarf around his mouth, which, of course, only made matters worse.

At last he could hold it no longer. The sound that burst from him rattled the floorboards and shook the shadows.

“AASHHCCEEWW!”

Eugene clamped his claws over his nose and mouth and froze. He listened intently for the smallest rustle, the tiniest whimper — anything to betray that Rory had heard his embarrassingly boisterous sneeze.

Seconds stretched. At last, Eugene began to think it might all be all right.

Then, from the mattress above, a small voice whispered:

“Hello?”

Eugene’s eyes darted left, then right, as though an escape might present itself beneath the bed. What was to be done?

“I know you’re there. I heard you sneeze,” the voice came again.

Flummoxed, Eugene wrung his claws together. Should he use his bit of magic? Surely the situation wasn’t that dire.

Rory spoke a third time into the silence.

“Would you like a tissue?”

Being as fussy a monster as ever there was, Eugene shuddered at the thought of wiping his runny nose on the fur he so carefully groomed each day. Without a cautious thought in his head, he blurted out in a clogged, wheezy tone:

“Why yes, thank you.”

Eugene stayed very still as he listened to Rory shift among his covers and rummage at the small table beside the bed. Moments later, a small white tissue drifted down, landing at the very border where the under-bed shadows met the room beyond.

Eugene eyed the tissue suspiciously, but his nose soon dribbled with impatience, and he decided there was nothing to be done. With great care, he placed a single claw on the tissue and slid it across the wooden floor toward himself.

To Rory, the sound that followed was very much like someone trying to play a tune on an old kazoo, and the thought sent him into a fit of laughter.

He quickly composed himself, for he very much wanted to hear whatever this mysterious voice might say next.

“Thank you,” Eugene finally offered into the silence.

“Are you a monster?” Rory asked.

Eugene grew very nervous. He was breaking Rule Number One and would surely be punished if it ever came out that he had been caught in a sneeze — let alone caught speaking directly to his child.

And yet, he longed to continue. Rory had been ever so considerate, after all.

Then Eugene thought of a wonderful plan. Before the end of the night I will use my bit of magic, he told himself. Rory will forget we ever spoke, and no one will be the wiser.

He cleared his throat and arranged his voice into its most dignified monster tones.

“Yes, I am a monster.”

“You don’t sound very scary. Do you intend to eat me?” Rory inquired.

“Certainly not,” Eugene said. “I am meant to watch over you.”

Rory didn’t respond right away, and when he did there seemed to hover a note of disappointment in his tone.

“Oh.”

Eugene was certain of it then — even his child thought he was a failure.

“I stopped two spiders and a lizard from coming in through your window just last night,” Eugene said, puffing out his chest.

Just then Eugene felt a tremor shake the bed as Rory jostled about above him. Slowly, a dangle of brown hair lowered into sight beneath the frame, followed by two upside-down eyes darting left and right, up and down.

Eugene shrank back and curled himself into a ball.

“I… I can’t see you,” Rory said.

As his panic subsided, Eugene suddenly recalled a half-forgotten lesson from monster school.

“You won’t be able to see me while I am under the bed,” he said. “I don’t quite remember why.”

Rory yawned, long and deep, as he pulled his head back up, flopped against his pillow, and let his blanket fall around him again.

“What’s your name?” he asked, his voice slow and heavy.

“It sounds like you should be getting some sleep,” Eugene replied.

“Will you be here tomorrow night?”

“Oh yes. I am always here.”

Silence overtook the room as Rory’s breathing softened.

“My name is Eugene,” came a whisper from beneath the bed.

A drowsy hush was broken by a muffled reply.

“Goodnight, Eugene.”

And so it went. Each night Rory whispered into the dark, and each night Eugene whispered back. Eugene told himself he would use his bit of magic tomorrow, and then tomorrow again, and then again the day after that. But he could never bring himself to do it.

As the nights wandered, so did their conversations. Rory asked if monsters wore pajamas, and Eugene huffed that he was allergic to them. Eugene complained about dust in his fur, and Rory promised to clean his room more thoroughly from now on. They spoke of drawings, and games, and once of a dream Rory had about flying out his window on the back of a crow.

Little by little, the room grew less lonely, and Rory’s tears seemed to fade. Eugene, who had once thought himself a failure, began to believe he had been given the right child after all. He looked forward to their talks each night, and he was comforted every time Rory’s last words drifted down to him: Goodnight, Eugene.

Until one night, when Rory’s voice came not with laughter, but with tears long forgotten.

“Why are you crying, Rory?” Eugene asked.

“I… I’m afraid,” came a sniffle from above.

Eugene quickly scanned the room for a ghost, a spider, or one of the elusive boogie-creatures, but spotted nothing alarming.

“What are you afraid of?”

Rory did not answer at once, and Eugene waited in the silence.

“My father,” Rory said at last, his voice watery.

Eugene didn’t know what to say. Were there any lessons in monster school about this? He could not recall. In class, they had been told that mothers and fathers were simple creatures — with very little imagination and even less awareness. But never had they been described as frightening.

“What does he do that scares you?” Eugene finally asked.

And Rory told him.

He told of how his father yelled until the walls shook, how he could be mean and angry, how he forgot Rory’s birthday. He told how he had been sent to bed without supper, and how, on more than one occasion, his father’s hand had struck him.

Never before in his life had Eugene felt so helpless, so… useless. And for a self-proclaimed failure such as he, that was saying something.

“Have you told your mother?” he asked.

Rory’s answer was barely more than a whimper. “I haven’t got a mother.”

Eugene felt a tightness in his monster chest.

“Have you told anyone else?”

“I told you,” Rory replied.

Eugene didn’t say anything for a long while. “I can’t really help you, Rory. I can barely shoo away a spider.” His insides felt like a bundle of balloons someone had let all the air out of. “You should tell someone who can help.”

“How?” Rory asked.

Eugene had no idea. He said the only thing that came into his large monster head. “I don’t know. Perhaps… a message in a bottle?”

Rory didn’t reply.

Eugene tried to gather his courage, to find something useful or comforting to say. But nothing came. He sat listening to Rory cry, each sob and whimper shredding the balloons inside him.

After a few minutes — or perhaps several hours — Rory’s voice once again drifted down from above:

“Goodnight, Eugene.”

The few evenings that followed were the worst Eugene had ever known. Rory’s nightlight had gone out, and the room took on a dark blue hue that Eugene was certain only made everything worse. Their conversations no longer wandered. Many times Eugene had nearly used his bit of magic, convinced that his child would be far better off forgetting a monster as useless as he was.

Then, one night, long after Rory had drifted into a restless sleep, something slipped from above after a toss and a turn. It landed softly on the floor: a small folded piece of paper, the words scrawled in Rory’s favorite crayon.

On the front it read, in uneven letters: To: Grandmuthrs Hows.

Eugene unfolded it with trembling claws. Inside, neatly in the center, were two words.

Plees help.

Suddenly, from outside the room, came a noise. It sounded like thunder, like mean dogs barking, like all the very worst sounds Eugene had ever known. The clamor grew louder, closer, until a shadow blotted out the strip of light beneath Rory’s door.

Eugene’s fur trembled as he curled into a tight ball. The doorknob began to turn. He looked frantically for a place to hide, and his eyes fell on the message still clutched in his claws. Please help.

A new sensation swept over him, as though a cool breeze had drifted in from the window, calming and strengthening him.

No one would scare his child like this. It was his sacred duty — to protect Rory. His friend.

Light burst into the room, blocked only by a tall, shadowy figure in the doorway. Eugene squinted, feeling braver than he had ever dreamed possible.

He stretched out his paw and chanted into the night.

Make him forget. Make him forget.

The magic poured from him, spilling out through all eight claws — not toward Rory, but toward the dark figure.

The shadow froze, lingered for a moment, then turned. It slithered down the hall, and the door closed softly behind it.

Eugene shook all over as he listened to the slow, steady breaths of the sleeping boy above him. He had to get Rory help somehow.

He crawled his quietest crawl to the edge of the bed and up to the sill of the open window. But once there, he faltered. He had no conception of what to do. He could not fly, he could not leap, he had no means at all to send Rory’s message into the world.

In his softest voice, so as not to wake the boy, Eugene whispered into the night.

“If you can hear me — you spiders, you shadows, you boogie-creatures of the dark — Rory needs our help. Please take this to where it belongs.”

He set the message gently in a puddle of moonlight, his deepest hopes reaching out to anyone, or anything, that might listen.

A sudden breeze stirred, catching the paper by its edges. Eugene lunged to grab it, but it was too late — the letter fluttered from the sill and vanished into the night.

Eugene slumped back beneath the bed. The letter was gone, the magic spent. He was certain his last chance to help Rory had slipped away.

Morning came, unpleasantly bright for a monster with sensitive eyes. Rory rose later than usual, his pajamas disheveled, his steps drooping and heavy as he left the room without a word. Eugene told himself he would confess the loss of the letter when the boy returned that night.

But when bedtime came, Rory never returned.

The next night Eugene waited, ears sharp for a whisper from above. But none came. He fell asleep longing to hear the two words he had become so accustomed to: Goodnight, Eugene.

The second night was worse. He paced the floorboards, searched the closet, rummaged through the bed covers, and at last curled into a ball, sniffling into the dark.

By the third night, Eugene lay silent and still. He was certain his child was gone forever — when suddenly the door creaked open and the bedroom light flipped on.

Rory stood in the doorway, carrying a small suitcase. Eugene was just about to roar with happiness when another figure appeared behind him.

“Grab whatever you’d like to take, dear, and let’s be on,” came a kindly voice from the elderly woman beside Rory.

Rory set down his suitcase and walked to the nightstand. He rummaged for a moment, then bent low to peer beneath the bed. Quietly, he slid a box of tissues into the shadows, glancing about as though hoping to catch a glimpse of his friend. He smiled, stood up, and lifted his suitcase once more.

With a flip of the switch, moonlight bathed the floorboards again. And from the crack of the closing door, Rory whispered:

“Goodnight, Eugene.”