I Know Your Mother

A short story about a girl, her strange strange father, and the monster beneath her bed.

I Know Your Mother

Written By Kane Hagwood

I

Father is a good man, and I will die on that hill if I must.

As a little girl, he taught me important life lessons, one after another. The type of lessons they don’t teach you at school. But that’s just what father told me, and I know he hated the school I went to. In his own words, he “disapproved” of the structures of all modern day schooling. Claimed it didn’t teach kids to protect themselves and that it raised lambs rather than dragons.

For you see, my father claimed to know many dragons, though I never saw them growing up. From time to time, one of the statues in my fathers study seemed to move its head, or a shadow would race by the corner of my eye. Father never talks about what he does for a living, but I knew what he was truly capable of ever since the prank that happened a week after I turned 13.

I had just endured the worst night a teenager could. I was stood up, as a joke, with my heart left at the scene of the romantic crime. Some of the jocks had wrote a letter, claiming it was a boy I liked. It was too good to be true, and I should have known. But sure enough, my foolish self went to the bowling alley, spending half the night waiting near the front door for him to show up.

Father comforted me by reminding me that harsh lessons came to those who brought harm to our family. I asked him politely to go easy on them. Although father never explains his ways, when he enters his study, things happen. But Father assured me he would only do what was necessary, and no serious harm would befall anyone. I would have argued with him to just let it go, but the feeling of embarrassment ate me alive before I could find the energy to do so. I gave him a kiss on the cheek goodnight, telling him I was going to bed early.

I just laid there in my room for a while. Crying. Holding my stuffed cat Rupert, staining him with my sorrows. The blankets hugged me close as the water works ran, with an endless supply of tears. Thinking back on that night, I don’t even remember the name of the boy I felt my world revolved around. However I will never forget the scratching that emanated from beneath my bed.

I stopped crying, panic gripping me. The darkness in my room seemed to form a large cloud. Darker than usual. I blinked my eyes, unable to see a thing. My breath shortened as I gripped Rupert tight, fingers crushing his body. Doing my best impersonation of a wooden board I could muster, I couldn’t help but tremble.

A black hand raised from the corner of my bed, inches from my face. That much, I could see.

Unable to break the hellish grip of fear, my eyes were forced to look upon the black form that seemed to slither into view, face moving closer to mine. There were no eyes. No lips. No nose. No ears. Just darkness outlined by even greater darkness. My mouth opened, wanting to scream. That was about the time I heard my door kick open.

Light poured into the room, with the dark creature remaining. It seemed stunned. Locked in place as I was in my own fear. This much, now, we had in common. I could hear footsteps approach, followed by my fathers voice. To this day, I don’t understand what he meant. But it only took four, simple words for the monster underneath my bed to submit.

“I know your mother….” My father hissed.

At this, the creature cowered into the corner of the room. I felt myself able to move again, pulling back to the point of falling off the other side of the bed. I fell with a thump, nearly hitting my head on my nightstand. I found myself crawling under my bed out of a frightened reflex, despite it being the same origin of the monster who had put me in such a frenzy.

Without shame, I admit I cowered. But soon I wasn’t the only one to cower under the bed.

I felt something soft brush against my side, shaking in fear as it cowered beside me. Looking down at what it was, I once again found myself stunned and turned to stone.

A tiny, black puppy. At least, the outline of one. Just as the bed monster, this little creature was nothing more than a dark silhouette. It trembled, ears folded into its void of form, looking more like a scared rabbit than a puppy. But then, as the thought raced through my scared mind, the puppy did turn into a tiny, terrified bunny.

Father reached for the black bunny first. Then, he called my name, coaxing me to come out from my hiding. In the stillness of my room, light still pouring in from the hallway, I saw my father hold up the bunny. He stared directly at it, refusing to blink.

“He will be yours now,” my father spoke. I blinked, at a loss for words. Before I could inquire as to what he meant by such a claim, he threw the bunny. Over my head it went, landing behind me. I didn’t hear a thump, clatter, or wince of pain from the dark creature of many forms. But when I turned, all that was there to greet me was my shadow.

“He will need a name,” my father added, leaving just as he had entered: unannounced, and without explanation.

Father always just seemed to know when there was trouble needing fixing. But then again, he wasn’t known for giving any explanation as to what the trouble was in the first place. I went to bed that night in a state of shock I can’t even begin to describe, but sleep did come easy.

I dreamed of puppies; I remember that much at least.

II

It was the start of my senior year at Midview High when I first heard the rumors about my father. When they first began, you couldn’t get me to stop defending his honor. My father provided everything for us. He was there when I needed support. He always offered guidance, even in his silent ways. And to hear, from a bunch of high school students no less, that my dad “worshiped the devil” made my blood boil. But to my father, it all seemed like one big joke.

“I take it they didn’t specify which one?” I remember my father chuckling at the dinner table. He had left it at that, but assured me that he would be more than alright. We lived in a small town, and rumors happened all the time. The local church in Midview had always hated my father. When I asked him why, he always told me it was because he didn’t look good in white, and he actually read the book they themselves failed to understand when they took the context litterally. All I knew for certain was that my father was not a christian, and because his religious expression did not mirror that of our local church, rumors about my father surfaced at the expense of his reputation.

Although the kids at Midview High were ruthless about these allegations, I did what my father asked of me.

Rupert was no longer just the name of a stuffed cat.

Father gave me several books to read, and from time to time would offer suggestions about raising Rupert. He assured me that it could fend for itself, though would always thrive better when handled by myself directly. My father taught me how to feed it with simple and innocent methods. How to bond with it. It wasn’t long before Rupert and I were best of friends, with him always in my shadow.

He would always appear upon request, lurking from the shadows into that of an animal, or even a person on some occasions. Rupert learned how to mask himself to blend in better with the rest of society when he was needed in the flesh. Or, perhaps from what I’ve read, in the spirit. My familiar friend is as real as you and I, but rests on planes of existence just out of reach.

Imagine, taking a deep breath before diving under the water. How long can you hold your breath? How long can you exist in an environment you were never fully equipped to exist in? With practice, tools, and training, one could stay under the water for quite some time. And for Rupert, in many ways, this was no different.

Rupert loves books, and often helps me read. In public, I can feel his energy hidden within my own shadows, helping me flip through the pages with ease, reading each line with perfect comprehension and clarity. Before Rupert, my reading speeds couldn’t compete. But him, he seemed to have a thirst for books. That, and cheese puffs. Before Rupert came into my life, I couldn’t stand the stuff. Now? From time to time I feel his cravings until I pour a small bowl for him on the shrine in my bedroom.

Not only did Rupert crave cheese puffs. I’m not one for sharing information that is too personal about myself. But there’s no denying hormones. I’m technically single if anyone asks. As for when it started, I refuse to answer. My friends still think I’m heartbroken over that dumb jock from high school, whose name I still can’t remember. Just last week, a close friend of mine practically begged me to create an online dating account to get back into the dating world.

I tell her it’s because I’m too stressed about getting a promotion.

What I want to tell her is that she’s missing out.

I’ve said too much already.

As a grown woman in her mid-twenties, the rumors about my father still linger. He claims to have retired from his trade of unspoken craft, but from time to time when I visit I can still smell incense burning from his study. I don’t think my father will ever quit his practice. Just like I don’t think I could ever take Rupert for granted.

My shadowy companion of many forms is now far better at anchoring himself in our dimension than ever before. His most recent record is about three hours of solid existence. This record was broken one winter afternoon when he and I strolled through the park of our hometown, with Rupert in the form of a woman who looked almost exactly like me. He claimed that he knew the most about me, and the form was the easiest to take. The only difference was the color of our eyes and hair, and with our winter coats and hats, nobody was any the wiser. Rupert merely appeared as a “gal pal” who walked with me that winter Saturday.

“I really do think I’m worried about this promotion,” I mentioned to Rupert as we walked side by side, along the pathway through the park we had circled a dozen times already. “What if it goes to someone else? What if I can’t handle the pressure?”

“Oh, you worry too much,” Rupert assured me with a feminine wave of “her” hand. It was strange, hearing my own voice, thrown right back to me.

“You always say that,” I reminded him.

“And we always figure it out,” Rupert giggled. He did this almost far too often, with his depiction of how a woman should act being rather comical at best. From time to time, I would look over our shoulders, ensuring nobody else was around to hear us speak.

“You know, Rupert,” I told my lovable companion. “You’ve really grown a lot since we met.”

“I would imagine so, silly,” Rupert needlessly giggled once more. “We were only kids!”

My thoughts soon moved to my father. His health was good, but I worried about the rumors.

“I’m really glad you tried to eat me,” I found myself suddenly laughing.

“Oh, I wasn’t going to eat you,” Rupert giggled once more. “We were kids, remember? I just wanted to play. But even if your pops is a tight-a*s, he’s good people. He let me stay with you, after all, didn’t he?”

I smiled, thinking about how good my father has treated me. How well he prepared me. I had advantages most people did not; the kind most people don’t even believe in. No matter what people say about my father, it doesn’t matter. At the end of the day, my dad still helps people, even if he claims to be retired. He helped me, for certain. Even if I have a lot to learn about Rupert, and the ways of my father, I knew I was on the right track. But above all….

….I craved cheese puffs.

“You want an offering, don’t you,” I sighed, unable to help myself from laughing as Rupert did a little curtsy, again overplaying his disguise.

“Only if my best friend will humor me,” Rupert spoke.

Smiling at what was essentially a reflection of myself, Rupert stepped behind me, melting into my shadow, feeling how giddy he was as we walked our way to the corner store near our home.

Just as I assured him, we got cheese puffs.

And just as he assured me I got the promotion.