My Worry Stone

When you look up the etymology of the word monster, it means “to warn.” For as long as humans have been around, and even before the genesis of written language, we’ve found ways to communicate this word.

Whether it was with clay tokens or cave paintings, monsters have appeared in our histories, our stories, and our lives, time and time again. And though they might haunt and horrify in a variety of shapes and sizes— some baring claws and fangs, others decorated in clown makeup or Halloween masks— they all have one, undeniable factor in common: instilling fear.

And that’s why I’m here today, writing this post. Because I need to warn you about the monster in my life and tell you, someone, anyone, how incredibly afraid I am. Afraid, because this all happened to me before a long, long time ago. 

And now, it’s happening again.

I know this, because I just found a rock on my front porch. And not just any rock, but a smooth, worn, river stone with an odd picture painted in red on it.

I nearly froze when I saw the rock, and memories I thought I had buried were, in an instant, resurrected, real, and right there.

Fear took hold of me, then panic, and then all that was left was the truth.

And the truth, my truth, is as scary as the monster itself.

When I was little my mom had to work a lot. Double shifts and working weekends was the norm; she had to find a way to support two kids all on her own. I missed her, I missed her very much, but even that young I knew she was working hard for us.

The only time I really hated her being gone was at night.

Like most kids I was terrified of the dark, but for me, it was so much more than that. The doctors called my weekly manic episodes “night terrors;” they really thought each night I was actively and disruptively dreaming. But I knew whatever was happening to me wasn’t a dream, or even a nightmare.

It was something else entirely.

Each night when it was time to sleep, I would quickly shut off the lights then sprint across my bedroom floor, trying to reach my bed as fast as possible. Once I did, I would pull the covers tight over my head and lay very still.

Then, the noises would begin.

Like clockwork, I would hear my closet door creak open, slowly. Then, heavy footsteps as something drew closer to the foot of my bed. After what felt like ages, the footsteps would stop, and a deafening silence would fill the room.

But even within the canvas of quiet and still, I could feel whatever it was watching me.

Some nights it would stay like that, never moving and just staring at me for hours. But other nights, the nights when I accidentally shifted in bed or let out a breath, it would touch my leg or pull at the blankets. And many nights, most nights, I would feel the weight of something heavy sitting down on the edge of my bed. Then, the whispering would start, and my name would be murmured in a raspy, low voice over and over again. 

I never peeked out from the covers, or got a good look at my monster, but I promise you, it was real. And it was there. Those long nights hidden beneath blankets seemed to have no end, and I really tried staying still and silent for as long as I possibly could, until… Until I couldn’t.

Until the fear and terror of my tormentor swallowed me whole and all I could think and all I could do was scream, and scream, and scream.

Then the lights would switch on and Brandon would be there. He’d be standing in the doorway with a small smile on his face, one hand over the light switch. And as soon as I saw him, all of the fear would wash out. As soon as I saw him, I knew everything was going to be ok.

Because there was my big brother, my bear, my protector.

Brandon would walk over and touch a cool hand to my forehead, calming me. Then he’d smile and tell me all the things big brothers are supposed to say: monsters weren’t real, it was just a dream, you’re safe now, everything’s going to be alright because I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.

And every time he would say these words, these words that became a mantra to ward off the monster, I would wholeheartedly believe him.

Even as he left my room and flicked off the lights, I believed that I was safe. But then, as soon as it was dark, and I was alone once more in my room, the noises would begin again, and I knew my monster had returned.

These so-called night terrors continued for months and got worse and worse each night. They got so bad, in fact, that Brandon started to sleep in my bed with me. And even though he’d be there, holding me close, the night terrors never stopped.

Furniture in my bedroom would move from one wall to the other, scraping against the wooden floors as it went. Pictures in the hallway would shift then shake until they fell to the floor with a crash. And my bedroom window, which always remained bolt shut, would fly open without warning in the middle of the night.

I didn’t know how to tell Mom about what was happening, but I begged her to stay home at night. I told her I was really afraid and that we needed her here. I remember tears filling her blue eyes as I talked to her, and she told me she wished she could be home too, but that there wasn’t any other way. We needed the money; she needed to work. And I needed to be her brave little boy.

Then suddenly she sat upright and turned to me. A smile was beginning to spread across her face, and I knew she was up to something. Then she said, what if I told you I knew how to make the monster go away, just like that. She snapped her fingers as she finished.

I was curious what Mom meant and so I nodded. She was beaming then, and grabbed my hand, pulling me off the couch.

We walked outside into our grassy yard and Mom started to pick up rocks from the ground. She told me to do the same and to look for rocks with smooth surfaces. I squatted down and picked up a few I thought were suitable.

After we gathered a handful of rocks, we went back inside and Mom pulled out brushes, an assortment of paint colors, and acrylic pens. She spread some newspaper down on the kitchen table, laid our rocks down on top of it, then looked me in the eyes again. She picked up the smallest stone, the one that would, in time, fit just right in the palm of my hand.

Then she said, honey, I want you to paint the monster you’ve been hearing down on this rock. I stared at her, then swallowed. I could tell she knew I didn’t want to do this, that I didn’t want to force myself to think about the monster.

But she was smiling at me again, so I nodded, not wanting to disappoint Mom. Then I began to paint.

I started with the color red because I thought it best depicted the way my fear felt, burning blindly. After the red coat of paint covering the stone dried, I grabbed a black acrylic pen and began to draw my monster. Even though I had never seen it before, I could picture it in my mind, all too well. So I drew a slim body, long arms and legs, slits for eyes, and a wide, gaping mouth.

When I was done with the picture, I was pleased with how it turned out. I felt like my fear had manifested itself onto this tiny rock that was no bigger than my hand. Mom seemed to have read my thoughts because she said, see? It’s not so big and scary huh?

I gave Mom a half smile and she ruffled my hair then whispered, you’re so much bigger than it, honey. Next time you feel afraid, or scared, or anxious, I want you to hold onto this rock, ok? And I want you to remember, you’re in control of your monster. It can’t get you as long as you have your worry stone.

In time, we would come to learn how terribly wrong she was. But at least for that moment and that moment alone, I looked into my mom’s eyes and saw truth there. So, I chose to believe her. I chose to feel safe, prepared, and ready for the night.

And when the night finally came, I clutched my worry stone tight against my chest, shut off my bedroom light, and ran to bed.

Like clockwork, I heard the creak of the closet door opening, the trail of footsteps, and then the weight of something heavy sitting on the edge of my bed. And when the first wave of panic washed over me, I squeezed my worry stone as hard as I could and thought about how small the monster was, how it could fit in the palm of my hand, and how I could crush it if I wanted to.

Suddenly, the weight at the end of my bed was gone and the whispers came to a stop. I held my breath, not quite believing that the monster was really gone, so I waited a good while before peeking out from under the covers. But once I did, I saw…

Nothing. My closet door was closed shut and nothing sat at the edge of my bed. I let out a breath, a long, slow breath, and smiled. It worked; my worry stone had really worked.

And so for the first time in a long time, I rolled over on my side and slept straight through the night.

The next morning Brandon asked me if everything was alright, because he didn’t need to rescue me in the middle of the night like usual. I looked up from my bowl of cereal, smiling at him. I pulled my worry stone from my pocket and held it up.

I told him how Mom had helped me find this stone and how it had protected me from the monster. I thought Brandon would be happy for me, because then he could get better sleep, too.

But he wasn’t happy for me. Instead, he just stood there and stared at the stone.

After a few seconds, his face twisted into a sneer, and then, he called me a baby. He said my stone was like a doll that little girls needed, and that a stupid rock wouldn’t be enough to keep the monster away. He told me even a thousand worry stones wouldn’t be enough to keep the monster away.

I considered this, then chose to stick my tongue out at him. Brandon grinned then stuck his tongue back out at me.

I wouldn’t let Brandon scare me. After all, he was just doing what all big brothers did, having fun messing around with his kid brother.

Plus, the worry stone had worked. I watched it work with my own eyes the night before, so I was certain it would protect me again.

And it did. 

That night, and every night after, I would run to my bed with my worry stone tight in my hand and eventually fall into a steady sleep. There were no more noises, no more moving furniture, no more night terrors. It was how I had always wanted it to be.

That is, until one late November night a few months later.

It was as normal a night as any other. I remember completing my bedtime routine in flash. I took my worry stone out of my pocket, held it tightly, switched off the bedroom light, then sprinted over to my bed. I was just dozing off when I heard it.

A slight rattle, a distinct twist of a doorknob, then silence. I wasn’t sure if what I heard was real, but then the same noise happened again, only a little louder this time. My eyes shot open and immediately I located the source of the sound. 

It was my closet doorknob, twisting slowly from right to left. The doorknob remained still for one second, two seconds, three seconds, then, out of nowhere, I heard the unmistakable POUND, POUND, POUND, of something knocking hard against my closet door.

I could see the closet door was shaking, the doorknob relentlessly twisting, and that awful, terrible POUNDING was beating faster and harder on the door.

I pulled the covers tight up to my chin and held onto my worry stone, squeezing it as hard as I could. I started to think about how small the monster in my closet was, how I had control.

I’m not sure how long I laid there listening to whatever it was try to get into my room, but I never let go of my worry stone. 

After what felt like hours, the closet doorknob stopped twisting, and the pounding ceased. It was quiet again. I let out a breath I had been holding and that was when my closet door drifted ajar. And as the door swung aside, I saw something I would never forget.

There, standing still amongst the shadows, was a tall, slim figure, with slits for eyes and a wide, gaping mouth.

It was a monster, my monster, the very creature I had painted on my worry stone. And it was staring at me, watching me, taking one step closer to me—

At that moment when it moved, I couldn’t help it. All I could think and all I could do was scream, and scream, and scream.

Suddenly, the lights flicked on, and my room came into focus. The figure within my closet disappeared, and there was Brandon standing by my bedroom door, a small smile on his face. I was panting, sweating, and shaking. I tried to tell Brandon what I had just seen, but all I could do was point at my closet door, still open.

Brandon walked over to my closet door and gently closed it shut. Then, he turned to me and sat at the bottom edge of my bed. He began his big brother mantra, about how monsters weren’t real, it was just a dream, you’re safe now, and everything’s going to be alright because I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.

I shook my head, still trying to tell him about the monster from my closet door. But Brandon wasn’t listening to me. Instead, his eyes fell to the worry stone I was still clutching in my hand.

Then, he told me to give him the stone. I sat there, stunned, and thinking that maybe I didn't quite hear him correctly.

But I did, and Brandon held out a hand, gesturing for me to give him the stone.

When I didn’t move, Brandon told me that all of my problems were because of the worry stone. He told me that just by having it, I was acknowledging that monsters were real, and if I really wanted to be brave, I needed to give him the stone.

It just didn’t sound right, and I was hurt Brandon would say that. He knew how much the stone meant to me, and he knew it really helped me. But before I could say otherwise, he reached over and grabbed the stone from my hand.

I was too shocked to fight back and so I watched him get up from my bed and walk over to the door. When he reached it, he flicked off the lights, turned back, smiling at me, then shut the door behind him.

As soon as he left, I jumped out of bed and ran to my bedroom door. I twisted the doorknob hard, but it wouldn’t budge. My bedroom door was locked. Which meant I was locked in, trapped with a monster in my, in my…

I turned back only once to glance at my closet door. I didn’t want to look, but knew I had to. And as I turned, I watched it swing open just slightly. And then a pair of long, thin hands emerged from the shadows, curling like claws around the doorframe.

I was screaming then and beating at my bedroom door. I tried the doorknob again, but still, it wouldn't budge. I was yelling for Brandon to come back, begging him to come back. But he never came, and I knew he was having fun listening to me cry.

I sank to the floor, covering my face with my hands, and prayed I would make it to morning light.

And somehow, I did. Because as soon as the sun peaked through, and daylight drenched my room, I tried for the doorknob again and it opened with ease. I sprinted down the hallway and found Mom in the living room.

I ran straight to her side and told her how angry I was at Brandon, how I wanted her to go into his room right away and take my worry stone back from him. 

I didn’t understand why, but my mom’s face crumpled, and she slumped down onto the couch. I sat down next to her and asked her what was wrong. She stayed sitting like that for a long while, until she finally turned to me and said the words I can still, to this day, feel the weight of:

Honey, you don’t have an older brother.