I've always been scared of monsters, metaphorical, fictional, or literal.
When we were little, my younger sister used to beg my mom and dad to check everywhere for monsters. I mean everywhere. Under the bed, inside the closet, the basement, the kitchen pantry, the ceiling, the attic. The refrigerator, the icebox. The fireplace, chimney, and god, it was exhausting. Even once I turned fifteen, Emma kept me paranoid with accusations aimed at our parents.
"You aren't looking hard enough," she accused our father at age twelve, "You should be able to find the scary things."
There's this principle called thrill seeking, it's common in killers. It refers to their need for attention, the fact that they want to be caught and recognized. Killers are like monsters, in a way. Their compulsive needs and signatures have the unique ability to push them over the edge. They thrill seek to be recognized.
I'm running this idea over on a hamster wheel in my mind, and I can't help wondering something, something that occurred to me long ago at age fifteen that is only now resurfacing.
She wanted them to look for the monsters, and always said they never tried hard enough, never looked deep enough.
I pause and consider, as I watch spattered blood drip from the banister. A pale body pitches out of the upstairs window, devoid of liquid. Emma's teeth have always been sharp.
Maybe, just maybe, the problem was that she wanted them to see her for what she was all along.
Submitted July 05, 2017 at 03:57AM by girl_in_the_window_ http://ift.tt/2tmTk3j shortscarystories
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