April 11 2007, 11:09 PM Struck

Consider monsters.

There are noises at night, most nights. Living in the age we do, we have explanations for most of them. The season is changing, and the house creaks to rid itself of the cold and puff deep with new found moisture lingering outside and in. The furnace murmurs gentle to itself with an occasional beep, and the water heater belches contentedly. The dishwasher goes thump, on down the hall. In the day time, birds fill the yard: sparrows, robins, cardinals, crows and blue jays (chatty, those) with occasional creel from the hawk holding a hovering post over the highway. At night, all of these are to bed, and the dim world is given over to scamperings of shadows, and the occasional moan of trees in wind as they attempt to embrace the house. When I put on the headphones, the machines deliver happy music. I understand what gives rise to these sounds: some sound, though, I do not.

This is lightly worse. When the thing in the walls was a squirrel, it was uncomfortable. As the evidence mounted that the tearings and thrashings in the inner spaces were perhaps something more, it got worse, then. Locking eyes with the raccoon in the closet was a bad moment, to be sure, but one minor blessing of that moment was that once again the environment was known. Paths became apparent. Actions could be taken.

Let us move forward.

The monsters, though, the true ones, try very hard to live entirely outside of that sort of ken. They step through dreams and bring down protections that seem safe and sane, most often in sleep but sometimes in waking. Their hallmarks reach the senses but cannot be explained, no matter how hard we try. Even with their power, they so rarely get us, though: life can be tough on the edges of reality.

Consider the poor plight of the species of monster that is always right behind you. I would submit that there is a very heavy selection for the subspecies of this thing that is not able to interact with the material world. The reason is simple: each time you turn your head, the poor beast gets rudely thrown to one side or another, more like than not through or against whatever is in the way of that particular trajectory. It gets worse for them if you're lying down: a haphazard toss from one side to the other will put them down a hole or fling them through the sky, depending. It gets easier they closer they get, of course, but few seem to make it. It helps my case somewhat that we very rarely see random damage occurring as if by magic in major cities, except perhaps Tokyo. I pity the ones assigned gymnasts.

The immaterial ones likely don't want to have anything to do with you, either. While their environment is far more survivable, they must have the largest collective case of specific motion sickness on record. The line at the company commissary for hot towels and anti-nauseals is, I can only imagine, a nightmare. Their lot is the same as their brothers and sisters, as the closer they can get to the back of your head the better things are, but they can't really do much once they get there.

If you hear whispers (or gagging) in your ear, you might have one. Be kind: watch good television, do not dance too much in the living room, and nod with care. You might offer it tea: put it on the table behind you, sit still, and try not to flinch when the phone rings.