The Trap

It’s true, monsters are scary, but often, they’re not that bright. By contrast, Charles is small, just nine years old, and not very scary at all. But he’s very bright indeed. Charles has a passion for lots of things, like exploring, inventing, and entomology. This last item is much to his mother’s concern, as he is constantly collecting bugs of all kinds. So the first night he saw the monster in the corner of his room, he wasn’t scared. He was curious. 

 “Hullo,” said Charles.  

The monster made a slippery, growling sound, puffing up its horns. Gruarr-hissssssss.

Charles looked the monster up and down. “Are you a Halyomorpha halys?” he asked.

The monster raised the fins on its wide, scaled neck and answered. Gruarr-hissssssss.

“I said, are you a Halyomorpha halys?”

Gruarr-hissssssss.

“Look it’s no good hissing about it. You either know or you don’t.”

Gruarr –  

“Of course. Sorry. You’re probably not intelligent enough to speak. Better not try then, you could hurt yourself. But thanks for stopping by.” Charles rolled over and went back to sleep.

The monster paused and looked around. It took a deep, gurgling breath, thought better of it and let it out with a slump. Then it turned and left, in a blaze of dark, through the crack in the corner of the molding.

The next night, when Charles awoke, the monster was at the foot of his bed.

“Oh, hullo again,” he said.

Grunt—

“You really needn’t bother with all that,” said Charles, yawning. “If you can’t have a decent conversation I’ll have nothing further to do with you.”

“But,” growled the monster through greasy, black fangs, “aren’t you afraid? I have you trapped.”

“Hardly,” said Charles. “Although, I may have the wrong species…You do have characteristics common to the stink bug, but I don’t remember seeing fangs or hor—”

“I am not,” said the monster, “a stink bug.”

“Are you quite sure?” asked Charles.

“Quite,” said the monster.

“You do smell, you know,” said Charles.

The monster stared at Charles, six eyes unblinking.

“Very well,” said Charles. “Perhaps you’re a Boxelder. Yes. It’s your coloring that gives it away.”

“I am not,” said the monster, bending over so its head wouldn’t hit the ceiling, “a bug of any kind. Do you know what I could do to you?”

“Well, you’re considered a pest, but mostly to gardens, so I’m not really—”

“I could eat you,” said the Monster. “And I plan to. Tomorrow night.”

Charles gulped. “Nonsense,” he said, “mother wouldn’t care for that kind of talk, and…and neither do I.”

The monster began scraping its long, reddish-black, spike-like appendages across one another. Charles began to sweat but stayed very still. Then he rolled over, covering his head with blankets, and closed his eyes tight.

“Would you mind breathing a bit more quietly?” asked Charles.

The monster made a frustrated, slurry sound through gobs of drool, gnashed its teeth and left through the crack in the molding.

Charles had trouble sleeping that night, so he decided to think instead. He thought about the monster, about bugs and about himself, specifically about how he would taste. So, he snapped on his flashlight and sorted through the journals on his bedside table until he found the one labeled Detailed Project Plans – Objectives and Key Results. Flipping open to a blank page, he took the pen from the binding and began to make a list.

In the morning, Charles took his journal and went to the garden shed. He grabbed a piece of garden hose father had used to drain a pool pump. He inspected it carefully, making sure no nasty spiders were hiding inside, then threw it in a cardboard box, adding some rope, duct tape and a beach ball. He dragged a crate over to the high shelf, sorted through the cans and bottles, shaking a few, and added them as well. When he came back inside his mother spotted him as he was climbing the stairs with the box.

“What have you got there, Charles?” she asked.

“Just a few things to kill the monster in my bedroom,” he said.

“That’s nice dear. Dinner’s almost ready.”

“Ok mum,” said Charles.

That night, the monster came again. Its stomach growled. It clicked and sputtered and slurred past its gnashing teeth. It was hungry. Charles, having had dinner, was not hungry. But he was ready.

He heard the monster click-clacking over the hardwood floor. He watched it carefully, waiting until the monster was at the foot of the bed.   

“That’s quite far enough!” he said.

The monster, laughed, a thick, wet gurgle. It sniffed, long and deep. It bent over to get a closer look, chortling as the bundle of blankets on the bed begin to quiver. It imagined the boy’s head, just under the covers, face beaded with sweat and wet with tears.

“I told you,” said the monster, “this time I will eat you.”

“Go away, stink bug!” came the voice beneath the covers. The bundle shook harder.

The monster reeled back and struck. Reddish-black spikes speared the bundle, and long, greasy, black fangs clamped down.

Pop! The monster felt the boy’s head burst. The it greedily gnashed its jaws and lapped the fluids. The boy tasted sickly sweet, his juices hot on the monster’s gums. It licked and chomped, mouth burning. Then its eyes started to burn. Then its throat. Wheezing, the monster pulled back, clutched its throat and staggered back. It trembled and tripped and fell, shattering into pieces of orange mush and spreading black scales all across the bedroom floor.

Beneath the bed, Charles spat out the hose that was tucked under the bundle of blankets above. He let go of the ropes that were tied to the beach ball. The ball that popped when the monster bit it. The ball that was filled with a selection of insecticides.   

He crawled out and stood to look at the broken, slimy husk.

“Nasty old monster,” he said. “It should have stuck to hiding under beds.”