Jonathan

The air in the room was thick with a silence that screamed. I was nine years old, and the night was a familiar enemy. It started subtly, a soft scratching sound from the closet, a rhythm of dread that beat against the door and against my eardrums. My fear was a living thing, growing with every step I took toward the sound, but my child's mind tried to reason with me. "It's nothing, Jonathan," I'd whisper to myself, "It's just the house."

But the closer I got, the louder the sound became. My courage would fail me just short of the closet door, a cold wave of terror washing over me. I'd retreat, my feet flying to my parents' bedroom, the only safe haven in my world.

"I can't sleep," I'd tell them, a lie I repeated night after night until it became the truth. My parents, exhausted and out of options, sent me to a child therapist.

"So, Jonathan, what's keeping you up at night?"

I fidgeted with my fingers, the words a knot in my throat. "The scratching... from the closet."

The therapist, a man with a kind smile and a notebook, jotted something down. "Have you tried opening the closet to see what it is?"

I shook my head violently. "No. It's not just clothes rubbing against the doors. The sounds don't happen during the day."

He just smiled, a patronizing curve of his lips. "That's because your senses are heightened at night. You should check the closet next time it happens."

His words, a flimsy shield against my terror, were all I had. That night, at midnight, the scratching returned. I gripped my blanket, my knuckles white, and tried to remember his advice. "Go toward the door with intent," he had said. I forced my feet to move, each step a victory against my fear. The sounds grew louder, but I didn't back down. My hand, trembling, reached for the doorknob.

That's when the scratching gave way to a new horror. A chorus of voices, hundreds of them, all children, echoed from behind the door. "Let us out! Let us out!" they chanted, their voices hollow and desperate.

I scrambled back to my bed and buried myself under the covers, but the voices didn't go away. They grew louder, a cacophony of pleas and screams, until they died down to a single, low growl. "We'll be back, Jonathan," a deep, evil voice promised. "Just open the door."

It took hours to fall asleep that night. The next morning, I returned to the therapist's office, my heart pounding with a new kind of fear. "There is no monster," he repeated, his voice calm and unyielding. "It's all in your imagination."

Something inside me snapped. "Fine!" I shouted, leaping from my chair. "If nobody's going to believe me, I'll open the closet myself!" I stormed out of his office, the promise a defiant challenge to the darkness that awaited me.

That night, at the stroke of midnight, I was ready. Armed with a kitchen spatula I had snuck from the kitchen, I marched toward the closet. The voices returned, but I ignored them, my gaze fixed on the doorknob. I twisted it, the metal cold and unforgiving. As the door swung open, a tall, gaunt figure crawled out.

"Thank you, Jonathan," it rasped, a smile splitting its face to reveal rows of razor-sharp teeth. "Now join the rest." It gestured to its cape, a black abyss where shadowy faces emerged, only to disappear back into the folds of the fabric.

I stammered, "I don't want to."

"You made your choice when you opened the door," the creature sneered, its clawed hand lunging for me.

"No!" I shrieked, sprinting for my bedroom door. The creature was fast, too fast. Just as my fingers brushed the handle, a cold, sharp talon wrapped around my ankle, pulling me back. "Your soul is mine," it hissed, its grip tightening.

Suddenly, a light filled the room, and my father burst through the door. "Dad! Dad!" I cried, my voice choked with terror.

My father, his face a mask of shock and fury, charged the creature, tackling it to the ground. "Jonathan, run!" he yelled, his voice strained.

I hesitated. "But, Dad..."

"Go!" he roared, as the creature rolled him over, its thin body suddenly heavy with an unnatural strength. I ran, my feet pounding down the hallway to the kitchen. I grabbed a knife and raced back to the bedroom.

When I returned, the creature was dragging my father toward the closet. I ran forward, plunging the knife into its back. The thing shrieked, a high-pitched, guttural sound, and released my father's leg. We both stumbled back, and together we scrambled toward the door.

I was almost out of the room when I heard my father's scream. I turned, and my world dissolved. My father was smiling, tears streaming down his face, as a black claw pierced through his chest. "It's okay, son," he whispered, his eyes locking with mine. "I should have believed you. I love you."

With a final, desperate gasp, he was yanked back into the closet. There was no sound, no trace of him. Just an empty space where my hero had stood.

I rushed to the closet and flung the door open, but all I saw were clothes and toys, the only evidence of the horror a small patch of black blood on the floor. "Dad?" I whispered, the shock slowly giving way to a terrible, heart-wrenching realization. "Dad?!" I cried, my voice breaking as the tears flowed.

My mother ran in, her face a blur of confusion. "What happened? Why are you crying?"

"Dad," I sobbed, "He's gone. The thing in the closet took him."

"Jonathan," she said, her voice serious and firm, "Your father just went to the bathroom." She tried to pull me into a hug, but I resisted, my eyes glued to the empty closet. "There's nothing in there."

The police arrived, a swirl of uniforms and questions. They found nothing. No signs of a struggle, no evidence of a creature. Only the dark patch on the floor, which they could not identify. My father, they said, was just a missing person.

Twenty-five years have passed. I grew up, moved on, and pushed the memory of that night into the deepest recesses of my mind.

And then, last night, my own son came to me, his small face etched with a familiar fear. "Dad," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "I can't sleep."