Creaking. She wakes up to a long screeching, scratching, savage noise. It’s the kind of noise that sends a chill down your spine; like scratching a chalkboard with a fork or a poorly played violin, it makes her go cold. She tries to turn over- to pull the covers over her head, to ignore the wretched sound, but it echoes in her bones, the tune going straight up to her head.
She slowly unveils the covers, getting up slowly from her bed, it too, creaky. She puts one foot onto the ground, but cannot help but falling with her other; her bed was a tad too bit tall. Her other foot hit the ground and thumped.
And all became quiet.
Cold sweat. She can feel the sweat on her face. Something- something had surely heard her. Why else would the noise stop? Who had been making that horrid noise just seconds ago? Would it creep over to her room? Is it creeping over? Surely it must be- surely! She clenched- she closed her eyes- she took a step backwards and another and another until she hit the wall, and then-
Nothing. Nothing came. The house, silent.
Where was the monster? Where was the rampaging blood-thirsty limb-ripping monster? Ah, she knows what her parents would say. “You just have an overactive imagination sweetie,” or “dear, monsters aren’t real!” Of course. It must have just been her thoughts, but in that case, where had that sound come from?
She slowly approaches the door, before opening it slowly. The hinges creek. She had always hated the layout of the house- her room being on the opposite side of the house from the parent’s. It’s terrible. She takes a step- hesitant, scared, but curious. Slowly, she creeps out into the hallway.
With each step down the small hallway, her anxiety increases. One of the steps in the hall is audible. Distracting herself- she stares up at the stained walls, the wallpaper peeling. Pictures, framed, are hung up. Some of herself and her parents, eerily smiling, while some are older, her parent’s parents. They never smiled in the older photos, and when she asked, she was told people back then weren’t supposed to smile.
How strange. Now their faces, forever locked in place, stare down at her scornfully. She shivers, not sure what to-
A loud creaking sound emanates from her foot- the floor- she had stepped on it. The sound makes her back arc up, she stands up straight. The silence overwhelms her, but then…
There it is again. The savage scratching noise screeching ever so louder than before, ever so closer than before, ever even more so terrifying. She stood in shock- the floorboard beneath her still squeaking with every shake of her trembling leg.
She waited with her breath held. The weight in her body started to shift back to her other foot- the one not on the creaky floorboard- the one that was in safety, but then she started to get that nagging feeling. The feeling any human gets when presented with situations such as these. Curiosity.
They say curiosity killed the cat, yet satisfaction brought it back, but which definition truly was correct? Regardless of the truth- that twinge of curiosity- that anxious question of “what truly is making that sound?” the wish to understand- she would not back down. She could not back down.
She had noticed that even as the terrible sound continued, it was not getting closer. Whatever had been making it was staying right where it was. The safety in that realization- no, there was no chance she would have ever gone back to her room, and back to sleep, and back into safety. No, her decision was sealed then.
Slowly, she took her foot off of the squeaking floor, each movement so deliberately slow that that the noise the floorboard would have made was drowned out by the horrid screams of the scratching. She moved over the small part of the floor that had made her so surprised, and then moved down the hall, and into the den.
it wasn’t exactly an office space, but that had been what it was primarily used for by her father. Every day he’d come home, and upon still having some final thing he had to finish, or if there was some other unrelated paperwork, he would sit in here with a clipboard and pencil, working on it. She’d watch him- either by the doorway or by sitting in the large chair in the corner, while he’d sit on the couch.
Her father’s bag would be placed beside the coffee table, which would be littered with work papers, in the middle of the room. The window outside bringing in natural light onto the table, she loved watching her dad do his work. She wanted to help him if she could, but most of the time he’d shoo her away- saying “I’m busy sweetie.”
The room now, however, was covered in darkness, and the bright vibrant colors of the wall and furniture were now desaturated and gloomy. The once friendly room only seemed like an empty shell of its former self- it almost seemed like a different place.
The screeching noise became louder as the crossed the room- seemingly coming from the kitchen. She glanced through the doorway into the living room, but it was too dark to make anything out in there. The only source of light she had was from the moonlight- which was very, very dim. Slowly, nervously, but curious, she creeps towards the kitchen.
It was voracious, like it was eating away at all around it- the sound drowned out all else. It almost seemed improbable that no one else was awake- her parents, despite their heavy sleeping habits, should have woken up. The sound reverberated so loudly it should have woken up the neighbors- so who, or rather what had been making the noise?
As she approached the entryway of the kitchen, every bone in her body told her to turn back- but that twinge of curiosity kept her going. Any moment now she could turn back, go to sleep, and forget that this night had ever happened, but-
Thunk. Something, something- something. A gaze, so cold, so focused, so abhorrently inhuman; she could feel it, like something at pierced straight through her. For the longest time she stood still- her eyes not adjusting, she couldn’t see. It was now or never. Her hand shot out for the light switch in the kitchen and-
The light flashed on. She recoiled backwards, her eyes burning- not literally, of course, but it felt as if she had seared them. Slowly, she rubbed her eyes and, while still being terrified, slowly opened one eye, shivering in fear. She wondered what could have possibly been making that noise- the question now about to be answered. What possible nightmare-inducing wretched hell-monster was residing in her kitchen?
In front of her, in the middle of the kitchen, from the hit PBS/HBO children's television show Sesame Street, stood the Cookie Monster, otherwise known as Sid. “Hi!”