Story excerpts taken from
The Cat in the Hat by Dr. Seuss
She curls on her bed in the dark waiting for the bedtime story to begin. It always begins at the same time every night. It's always the same story. The house grows quite and the big clock bongs.
Slowly, silently the door cracks open. The skylight moon creeps closer across the floor. Then the shadow, looming larger as the words of the story rattle round in her head.
We looked!
Then we saw him step in on the mat!
She squeezes her eyes shut, covers her ears. The snuffle of shadow feet scrape through the carpet pile. Her chest tightens. She burrows into the pillow and shrinks backward against the wall. She knows what's going to happen next like she knows the sun will rise tomorrow. Maybe not.
I know it is wet
And the sun is not sunny.
But we can have
Lots of good fun that is funny!
She tries to fake sleep, but her breath catches in a hiccup. Her heart pounds. She feels a hand---the hand. Barely touching, it moves across the quilt. A whispered voice, the shadow speaks.
A lot of good tricks.
I will show them to you.
Your mother
Will not mind at all if I do.
She screams in her mind but sound won't come. The words pound harder, hammer blows inside her skull. If she speaks, she will be silenced. There's no point.
He should not be here.
He should not be about.
He should not be here
When your mother is out.
The hand grabs and shakes, gently then stronger. Her eyes pop wide. She sees the silhouette against the shaft of light from the hall. Featureless, formless, it whispers.
Look at me!
Look at me!
Look at me NOW!
It is fun to have fun
But you have to know how.
Pulling, tugging the bedclothes, her huddled body hides from the night. The hand touches, pokes, probing among layers of cloth and down. The words scream inside. She curls inward, seeking shelter, invisibility.
You SHOULD NOT be here
When our mother is not.
You get out of this house!
The shadow whispers more insistently now. Fingers grope their way to the edge of the covers, grasping impatiently. She hears the story growing louder. She knows what will come next.
But I like to be here.
Oh, I like it a lot.
I will NOT go away.
I do NOT wish to go.
The breathing becomes heavier. She reaches for the sheet, the quilt . . . anything. They seem so far away. Everything seems so far away now. She shrinks inside herself. The shadow steals closer, hovering, heaving.
They are tame. Oh, so tame!
They have come here to play.
They will give you some fun
On this wet, wet, wet day.
Viselike pain surrounds her now. Hands grab, squeeze, push, tug. Her mouth opens, is covered. She fights for breath. No voice sounds. The story words keep time with shadow movements.
Then those Things ran about
With big bumps, jumps and kicks
And with hops and big thumps
And all kinds of bad tricks.
Suddenly, a sound. Not inside screams, not outside breath. Faraway a door opens, closes. She hears water running, footsteps plodding through the hall. Stair boards creak as someone approaches. The shadow stills, waiting.
If Mother could see this,
Oh, what would she say!
Oh, what will she do to us?
What will she say?
Oh, she will not like it
To find us this way!
The shadow backs away in haste. The sliver of light from the door crack widens. The shadow slips silently through. The pounding words slacken. The monotonous hum, unsilenced.
He has gone away. Yes.
But your mother will come.
She will find this big mess!
Calming, she looks for escape. The shadow returns, plucks at the quilt, smoothes wrinkles, whispers quietly, departs. Hearing hushed voices in the hall, she can't make out the words.
I always pick up all my playthings
And so . . .
I will show you another
Good trick that I know!
In soothing darkness, her breathing slows. The story comes to its conclusion. She looks for voice to tell the words. Rising, she walks stiffly to the windowseat and sits, knees drawn up. She flattens her palm against the coldness of the windowpane, feeling her reflection.
Should we tell her about it?
Now what SHOULD we do?
Well . . .
What would YOU do
If your mother asked YOU?
copyright 1995 Laura J. Ahlstedt
This story was originally published in Vibrations
The literary and arts magazine of
Everett Community College
Everett, Washington
It was an Award of Merit winner
Back to Short Fiction