SHOTGUN HORROR CLIPS just some things you never really tell anyone about.
From these night terrors, I remember a boy. There might have been lots of boys. Girls
too. But I remember one distinctly. He was always wearing one of those god-awful Christmas sweaters. The kind with jingle bells sewed on. This kid’s sweater had this hand-painted Rudolph on it, the nose this red puffball. And his name in green, pop-up craft paint. Ben.
His stupid sweater would jingle as he cracked open the door to my room. I would see
his silhouette in the doorway, red puffball and everything. I would throw the covers over my head, but I knew he was still there. I could hear the bells.
I would hear those bells as this boy stepped closer, very slowly. Step, jingle, pause. This
would go on forever--this step, jingle, pausing--up until the moment I would hear this soft voice sing from the other side of the sheet.
“You better watch out ...”
I could see nothing through the covers, my shield. It was too busy, the layers and layers
of blanket and sheets covered in stripes and cartoon bears.
“You better not cry …”
This is when I would shut my eyes real tight.
“You better not pout, I’m telling you why …”
This is just a dream, I told myself. Just a night terror. Like the Internet said.
The room would grow quiet, but I wouldn't move from beneath my sheet. I barely dared
to breathe. After what seemed like hours had passed, I would slowly take the sheet from my face. I would look around the room, and there he was. Stuffed into the far corner of the room, in the shadows. His white, shaking hand would be pointing. I’d follow the point of his pale finger, and look towards the open door. Nothing. I would look towards the corner, but the boy wouldn’t be there anymore. No, he’d be much closer, right by the edge of the bed.
So close, I could see everything.
That is when I would start screaming.
With night terrors, you usually can’t wake the child. And even then, you’re not supposed
to. The parents have to wait patiently at the foot of the bed while their child is trapped in their own mind of nightmarish things. Like a prison. Like hell.
With night terrors, the child wakes up confused. My eyes would open, and I’d see my
parents scrambling into the room. My eyes were open and I was awake, but my mouth would still be screaming without my permission. I didn’t know why. Just that lingering hint of a familiar 28