Free Scratch by Brian Keene

darkness, wondering why I was afraid—and what I was afraid of. Not Ellie, certainly. I was concerned about her. Worried. But not afraid.  
    I closed my eyes and the darkness deepened.

                   

    The next morning, the rain was gone and the sun returned just in time for Hannibal’s latest kill—the mangled upper-half of a red and black spotted newt. I kicked the tiny lizard carcass into the driveway. It landed with a plop, lost between the gravel.  
    When I reached my office, I spent the first hour of the day online researching childhood behavior and imaginary friends. When I was a kid, I suppose my parents would have spoken with a child psychiatrist. Our generation just uses Google. My search returned 1,590,000 websites—everything from Wikipedia to a band from Los Angeles.  
    I learned a lot. Imaginary friends usually came about when a child was feeling lonely. That made sense. Ellie was shy, and she’d been picked on a lot by the older kids. Imaginary friends often served as outlets for expressing desires which children knew they’d get in trouble for. That made sense, as well. Ellie had been mad at Hannibal for killing the bird, and had lashed out. When she realized she was in trouble for what she’d said, she blamed Mr. Chickbaum. One website said that deep down inside, children understood that their imaginary friends weren’t real, even if they pretended or insisted that they were. That eased some of my fears, but I was still concerned about Ellie’s sudden dark turn. Several sites suggested that a child’s conversations with their imaginary friends could reveal a lot about that child’s anxieties and fears.  
    Deciding to pay closer attention to Ellie’s conversations with Mr. Chickbaum, I emailed some of the links to Valerie. Then I logged off and got to work.

                   

    I was the first one home that night, so I started making dinner—baked tilapia, french fries, and canned peas. Valerie and Ellie got home just as I was pulling the fish from the oven. Ellie seemed herself—perky, happy and talkative (her shyness evaporated when she was with us). We ate dinner and talked about our day. Valerie loaded the dishwasher while I helped Ellie with her homework. Then the three of us watched TV and played video games until it was time for bed. I tucked Ellie in, read her a chapter of Charlotte’s Web (we were up to the part where Templeton the rat runs amok at the county fair), and then kissed her goodnight. I turned off the light as I left the room. Her nightlight glowed softly in the corner next to her dresser. I shut the door behind me and then stood in the hall.  
    After a moment, when she realized that I wasn’t returning to the living room, Valerie tiptoed down the hallway and stood beside me. She cocked her head to the side and gave me a quizzical glance. I put my finger to my lips and pointed at the door.  
    We waited for ten minutes, and I was almost ready to give up, retreat to the living room, and explain my actions to Valerie, when suddenly, we heard Ellie stir. From behind the closed bedroom door came the sound of her sheets rustling. The bedsprings creaked. Small feet padded across the carpet. Then Ellie spoke. Her voice was a hushed whisper. Obviously, she assumed we were in the living room, and didn’t want us to hear her.  
    “Mr. Chickbaum! I didn’t think you were going to come tonight. You always come out as soon as Daddy turns off the light.”  
    She paused, as if listening to a response. I found myself leaning forward, listening for one as well. As soon as I realized that I was doing it, I felt like an idiot. But then I noticed that Valerie was doing the same thing. It was a testament to the power of our daughter’s imagination. I grinned, shaking my head. Valerie smiled.  
    Ellie spoke again, answering some imaginary comment.  
    “He had you trapped? Why doesn’t he just leave you alone?”  
    My heart beat once. Twice.