My daughter, Katy, is 6, and has an overactive imagination. She regularly crawls into my bed at night with my husband and I, telling us about the monsters in her room.
One, she said, has a black body that looks almost blob-like, with yellow skin on his face and big black eyes.
It pins her to her bed and touches her roughly with black hands, sometimes choking her until she can’t breathe. The other one, with red scaly skin and yellow eyes, is really nice.
It lives beneath her bed and sits with her after the black monster visits; she says it makes her feel safe again.
This morning I went to do the laundry, and found blood on Katy’s pajamas. I rushed to her room to talk to her, but instead vomited once I flicked on the light.
My husband’s body lay in pieces, pools of blood taking up most of the floor. Katy curled up in her bed, her hands over her ears and her eyes squeezed shut.
Next to her was the red skinned monster she spoke about. It stared at me with sad eyes, and too shocked to do anything else, I stared back.
He started to move towards me and all I could do was stand still, even when it gently placed a clawed hand on my shoulder then crawled underneath the bed.
I looked down at my husband, now noticing his black dressing gown that was torn to shreds, and the rest of the pieces of the mask he was wearing, small yellow pieces.