I was an impressionable child. Beyond an obsession with reading books that were far above my age-range, I wasn't exposed to that much terror. I didn't have any siblings to tell me about closet monsters or clawed creatures under my bed. Apparently, I didn't need them because my own imagination provided more fodder than you could believe for weird childhood fears.
A disgusting monster (with long talons and hand-hair) that loved grabbing child-feet lived under my bed. If I ever slept on top of the covers with bare feet exposed, he'd definitely grab them. I don't know what he would have done if he'd grabbed them but it was probably horrible. Maybe tickling. Maybe pedicures. Interestingly enough, there was also a Christmas elf that had run away from Santa under my bed. I guess he sublet from the monster.
There was a vampire in the downstairs hallway and a werewolf who lurked in the back yard and waited to behead me as I took out the trash in the evening. My childhood was filled with peril.
None of it compares to Big Bird.
Like many children, I watched Sesame Street and loved the yellow-plumed giant bird-thing. I was about 3 or 4 when I received a stuffed Big Bird doll for Christmas. He was about 4 feet tall, which was larger than I was at the time, and had a benevolent grin on his open beak. I dragged him up to my room and proudly set him on my toy box in front of the window.
Things were going swimmingly until storytime.
My father used to put me to bed with a variety of stories--most of his own creation. Come to think of it, he was probably the root of half of my illogical childhood fears. I still remember a story that involved a cave with bones strung up in the back--rattling in the wind gusts with hollow clicks. He painted vivid pictures.
On the night in question, the story wasn't so terrifying. I was curled up in my bed clutching my rag doll, Lollie. My father sat down next to me with Big Bird on his lap and moved Big Bird's open beak so that he was telling me the story. I was enraptured with my new toy and its unexpected abilities.
As the story went on, I realized that Big Bird was scooting closer to Lollie. As my dad moved the doll closer, he began to make smacking, hungry noises in between paragraphs of his story. Slowly, Big Bird lowered his head and pecked Lollie once, delicately. Then he went in for a bigger bite, nomming my poor little rag doll right in front of me. I watched in abject terror as the monstrosity lifted the pink flannel doll in his mouth and gulped like a stork.
My father was just smiling like this was a fun game but doll-murder and cannibalism was happening right on my bed! I snatched Lollie from Big Bird's clutches and scooted away. Big Bird made several more advances but I shielded the rag doll with my body.
At the end of story time, my dad (who was obviously unaware that his child thought stuffed animals were completely alive and now also believed them to be terrifying) placed Big Bird back in his spot of glory against the window. He kissed me good night and turned off the lights.
He left me in the dark with that monster.
I scooted closer to the wall, hoping to protect my back from a pointed and bitter beak. If I squinted, I could just make out the bird outline against the window. I knew he wasn't moving. Yet.
I also knew that it was just a matter of time. Eventually, I fell asleep, clutching Lollie to my chest. I woke, knowing that I'd survived the night but would have many more to go. I tried hiding Big Bird in my closet but my parents put him back on the toy chest. I tried shoving him under the bed to no avail. The next time I entered the room, he was on the toy chest.
Every night, I stayed awake for hours after my bed time, eyes riveted on the fluffy silhouette in the window. I'd fall asleep and then wake in panic because I'd dropped my guard.
My father was blithely unaware that his little game had fostered such panic and periodically continued it. I'd return to my bedroom to find different toys hanging limply in Big Bird's mouth. I could see the evil in his eyes, smell the rotten cotton stuffing in his beak from the stuffed critters he'd previously devoured. My parents never noticed the nefarious toy destruction that was happening in my once peaceful bedroom.
It got to the point where I was only sleeping about 3 hours a night. The other hours were spent staring at the window frame, plotting new ways to thwart the bird and running to the light switch and flipping on my lights, just to make sure that he hadn't grabbed any more hapless victims.
Except for the monster under the bed but he wasn't really so bad.
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1 Response to
whoa, maybe your dad should write children's books....or write a letter to Stephen King, maybe, offering his services?
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