My son’s feet pitter-pattered across the kitchen tile, lower lip puckered in a pout.

“But I don’t want to go to bed, the man with no eyes is waiting for me in the closet.”

A shiver rippled through my spine, gaze slowly trailing to him. No, I’m the adult. I mustn’t show fear.

This was the third day this week that he protested at bedtime. I’d be lying if I said strange things hadn’t occurred around the house, but— it’s a new place, unfamiliar. Toddlers; somehow, they always find monsters in the finer details.

My mind screamed that this was all part of an overactive imagination. A new home. Too many big feelings when he was still so small. I was convincing myself, more than anything.

I walked him to his room, tiny fingers grasping at mine, and reassured him.

“Look, I’ll prove it to you right now. There’s nothing he—“ The words decayed in my throat. I opened the closet, hinges screaming, and I knew in an instant: I was wrong.