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Mark is nervous.
His parents have reassured him time and time again, but he’s still apprehensive about going to this new school at the start of fifth grade. His parents had bought a new house, and rather than delay moving until he finished elementary school, they decided it would be best to have him start fifth grade at a new school. They said this way he could make some friends in the area before going into middle school, but Mark hadn’t really liked the idea. He’d wanted to stay and graduate with the friends he already had, especially since he lived so far away from them now and would likely never see them again. He hadn’t even wanted to move in the first place, but he supposed he trusted his parents — and it’s not like he ever had a say in the matter anyways.
He sighs, adjusting the straps of his backpack as he waits for his father to unlock the car. He just hopes he makes some new friends quickly, this summer was lonely without anyone to talk to. He’s sure it’ll be fine, though, he had made plenty of friends at his old school, he’s sure he can make new ones here, too.
—
The other kids hate him.
Well, maybe they don’t hate him — hate is a strong word, afterall — but they certainly don’t like him, either. When he tries to talk to them, the conversation dies out, replaced with darting eyes and uncomfortable whispering. When he tries to play games with them, they stop and switch to another game they know he doesn’t like. He doesn’t know what he did wrong, he’s thought over every single thing he could have possibly done for them to dislike him, but he can’t pin down a reason why . Did he talk too loud? Speak too fast? Maybe he was just too much for them, he knows he gets a bit enthusiastic sometimes, but why didn’t they like him now that he was quieter?
He even stopped trying to talk to them for a bit, “giving them space,” as he’s heard before. He’s stopped trying to talk or play, and instead buries himself into a book during recess, but this only seems to make his classmates dislike him more . Everything he does to try and fit in just makes him stand out more, and he’s starting to lose hope he’ll ever make friends here. He’s even starting to believe they might truly hate him, because why else would they shun him every time he tries to be friends with them? He doesn’t understand, all he knows is that this is not the “fresh start” he was promised. He misses his old friends — his real friends, more and more each day.
—
He can’t find it.
He’s lost his math workbook, again , and he has an assignment in it due tomorrow, and he can’t find it anywhere . He rakes his hands through his short hair, and tries to take a deep breath, but still feels tears pricking at his eyes. His teacher had said if he kept failing to bring in his homework then it was going to become an issue , and Mark didn’t want that, couldn’t bear the thought of it. He’s always been a good kid, a good student, so why was everything falling apart now? This had never been a problem at his old school, he never got in trouble there, but there were new rules he didn’t understand — and not just with his peers. They were less patient with him, more demanding, and his parents said the pressure would only increase in later grades. He felt like he was drowning, sometimes, just barely able to make it through each day before something new was thrown at him.
He rifles through his backpack, binder, folders, and room for the fourth time tonight, his search still fruitless. He clasps his hands together, and once more he prays, prays that God would let him find it — it wasn’t really a huge request, so why wasn’t he getting an answer? Doubt trickles into his stomach, and it makes him feel sick. He shouldn’t be feeling this, shouldn’t be doubting God like this, but he couldn’t make it go away no matter what he does. This wasn’t good, Mark Heathcliff was supposed to be good , but he feels like he’s been doing a very bad job of that lately.
He grasps his hands together even tighter, fingers pressing into the space between bones so much it begins to ache a bit. Could God not hear him? He chews the inside of his cheek. This week they had taught about sacrifice in his religion class — about how God told Abraham to kill his only son, Isaac. About how Jesus suffered, how much pain He went through. Maybe that’s what Mark was missing, maybe he needed to show God that he was serious about how much He meant to him.
He swallows a lump in his throat, and brings his hands to his mouth. He bites down on the back of his hand, around the knuckle of his pointer finger, and it hurts . He cringes, stopping immediately. He hadn’t expected it to hurt that much, the area he had bitten down on burns faintly as the pain fades. There are condemning marks left on his hand from where teeth dug in, and he rubs the skin harshly, trying to make them fade quicker. Maybe that wasn’t such a great idea. He gingerly threads his hands together once more, and sends another prayer to God, hoping that this act would prove his devotion.
He repeats his cycle of rummaging through every place his workbook could be and praying, now with the addition of biting his hands, with more and more fervor each time. He grows frustrated, no, angry — why wouldn’t God listen to him? Why wouldn’t his parents and teachers listen? Why did nobody ever just listen to him? He finally gives up, tears in his eyes and hands aching as he gets ready for bed.
A few days later, his religion teacher reads aloud a passage from 1 Corinthians, about how the body is a temple, and must be taken care of. She reads another about the prophet Elijah defeating the false prophets of Baal, how they cut themselves with swords and spilled their own blood but their god did not answer. His teacher tells them that God didn’t listen to people that hurt themselves, and Mark feels sick . No wonder God hadn’t answered him, he was selfish . Shame roils in his gut for the rest of the day, but he can’t stop thinking about the feeling of teeth sinking into the flesh of his hands.
—
He can’t do this.
It’s been hours of staring at pieces of paper with words that swim in his head, trying to find ways to answer them but he can’t . He doesn’t know why, he’s trying so hard, and he knows the answers to these questions, but he just can’t . None of his sentences make sense, so he erases them and starts over, but he forgets what he was going to write, so he rereads his textbook, but he’s already read it, and he can’t read it again without losing focus, so the words swim off the page and he can’t make sense of it anymore, and by the time he figures out how to word what he wants to say, it’s hours later and he’s exhausted, and he knows it shouldn’t be like this; he knows something is wrong .
But when he tries to tell his parents, he never knows how to explain it, and they just tell him to keep trying because “it’s not that hard,” but it is . He knows he’ll never get them to understand, though, so he tries again anyway, hoping that maybe they’re right, and this time he’ll be able to do it right. He never manages it, no matter what he does differently. Now it’s 10:15 pm, he still has three whole assignments left, and they are all due tomorrow. He’s tired, his head keeps falling to the table and startling him awake, and he knows there’s no way he’s going to finish them all tonight. But his parents won’t let him give up.
They’ve gone to bed now, leaving him alone in the dining room, but he knows if he goes to bed now they won’t take any of the excuses he gives them in the morning. They will call him lazy, and a liar, and all the things that hurt him because it’s not true , but they don’t seem to care. They don’t care how much it hurts him, they don’t care if what he says is true, they don’t believe him. Anger burns in his throat, hotter than the shame he wears on his shoulders, filling the hollow pit in his stomach with a raging ocean. It isn’t fair. None of this is fair, he’s trying his best, and his parents always say that as long as he’s trying his best nothing else matters. But his best isn’t good enough for them anymore, and he hates it, hates himself, hates them . Maybe he doesn’t wish he could disappear, maybe he wishes they would disappear instead.
He wishes his parents would die .
He’s still, for a moment, so startled by the thought taking root in his mind that he loses awareness of everything else. In the blink of an eye, the shock gives way to a searing, all-encompassing guilt . How could he even ever think that towards another human being, let alone his own parents ? He gasps for air, not realizing he had stopped breathing, and curls into himself tightly; drawing his feet up onto the chair and tucking his knees underneath his chin. Tears slip down his cheeks, and he can’t seem to catch his breath as he stifles his sobs so his parents won’t hear him. His fingernails leave indents on his knees from where he digs them into his skin, and he half-wishes he would bleed.
Mark is a terrible person. A terrible son. How could he wish for his parents to die ?
He rips the sinful thought from his mind like uprooting a weed from a garden, and frantically replaces it with a haphazard, almost frenzied prayer.
He’s sorry, he loves his parents, he should be so grateful for everything they give him, he doesn’t deserve it, but they love him anyways, he didn’t mean it, he’s sorry, it wouldn’t happen again, he would never let himself think like that ever again, he would do anything, he’s sorry, he loves his parents, he would be lost without them, he would be lost without God, he’s sorry, he would do better, he just needs to try harder, just like his parents said, he just has to listen to them, he’s sorry, he deserves something horrible to happen to him, he’s been so ungrateful, he’s been so selfish, but he hopes God will forgive him anyways, even though he doesn’t deserve to ever be forgiven, because God loves him, and God would understand, and he’s sorry, he’s so sorry it hurts.
He knows, now, that hurting himself will not make God listen, but he cannot help biting into his palms and wrists. He is disgusted with himself, and he wants to never think those sorts of things ever again, so he will use the pain to remind himself not to. He digs his teeth into his skin, closing them tighter, and tighter, until he cannot bear the sting of pain anymore, and releases it with a choked whimper. As soon as the pain fades, he bites down again, somewhere new, and repeats his self-flagellation.
After what seems like an eternity, he calms down enough to breathe without his breath hitching, or new tears to shed, and he goes still. He looks down, eyes vacant, and sees his hands are littered with angry red indents left by his own teeth. He sniffles, and drags his gaze up to the clock, seeing it is now 12:08 am. Three hours past his bedtime. He feels hollow, drained of everything from the effort of feeling so many emotions at once, and he decides this simply isn’t worth it. He slides his chair back and stands up, flicking the lightswitch off and beelining it for his bedroom, barely able to keep his eyes open enough to see where he is going. He doesn’t bother to brush his teeth, or change his clothes, or do any of the things he usually does before bed. He just crawls onto his mattress, hides under the covers, and tries desperately to forget the past hour and just fall asleep, to have just a moment of peace before the disappointment and anger he will face tomorrow morning.
He does not succeed, and gets little sleep anyways.
—
His parents are fighting again, and as it usually is these days, their argument is centered around him.
He’s been lying recently. At first it was just a panicked fumble, a hasty, “Yes, I finished my homework,” or, “I forgot it at home, but I can bring it in tomorrow,” nothing more than a rushed excuse in hopes it would distract whichever adult he was talking to long enough for them to forget it. He hadn’t even realized it was a lie at first, because he was planning on finishing his homework and handing it in! He just… needed more time, and didn’t want to admit he wasn’t done with it yet.
It wasn’t until later that the realization he had actually lied dawned on him, dread flooding his veins with ice as he sat at the dining room table, fist clenched around a pencil, pressing lead into the paper so hard the point had broken off. His head felt scrambled by the barrage of thoughts that accompanied the revelation, running rampant through his head as he tried despairingly to think up a penance for his transgression, and a solution to his newfound problem. The mere thought of admitting it to his parents had made him flinch, his own scorching fear rendering that option impossible. So he had decided to hide it — if nobody found out he had lied, then it wasn’t hurting anyone, was it?
In the end, he had managed to finish the assignment and turn it in the next day, just as promised. No harm, no foul. It was almost vindicating it a way: he had proved he wasn’t a liar, not really. He knew he just needed more time, but the adults wouldn’t let him have it, so he took it himself. Was there really anything wrong with that? Was it lying if he delivered on his promise in the end? No, Mark decided, he was learning that adults weren’t always right about things, and when they were wrong he would take matters into his own hands. That’s what he told himself that night, shoulders hunched and wide eyes staring into the dark when he was supposed to be asleep. Liars are sinners, but he was no liar.
But the time he had spent working on that one assignment had cut into the time he had to work on the others, and after just a few days he found himself in the same position. He knew the solution, he knew he could lie, but this time he knew he was lying, and it made his skin crawl with a prickle of shame.
This repeated, until he had lied more times than he could count now, and he was finally caught. He had told his teacher he had , in fact, turned in his assignment, she must have just lost it. He had planned to turn it in the next day, to slip it into the assignments bin while nobody was looking. He had not expected his teacher to spend hours looking for it, only for her search to be futile. He had not expected her to hold him back after class, eyes narrowed into a glare of suspicion .
He had broken easily, immediately confessing with eyes fixed on his shoes, voice barely audible as he admitted he had lied to her. She was furious, hours wasted for him , she had said, and he had never felt so ashamed in himself, queasiness coiling in his gut as she chewed him out. He couldn’t even remember most of it, he felt sick to his stomach even recalling a moment of it. He had never considered that this might happen, that his lie could ever affect someone other than himself, and remorse poisoned every fiber of his body with blistering anguish. He had felt like the floor had vanished from beneath his feet when she had informed him she was telling his parents. Despite his despondent pleading, endless tears, and choked apologies, she had refused to change her mind, and dismissed him to go to his next class.
The rest of the day seemed to drag on infinitely, leaving Mark hollow besides a horrible buzz of shame and dread. He had almost considered hiding from his father when he came to pick him up, but decided that was much more trouble than it would ever be worth. From the moment he got home, he delayed the inevitable. He had half-hoped that maybe if he said nothing, and prayed hard enough, that his teacher would miraculously forget to call his parents, and they would never know. But she had not forgotten, and he was called later that night to the kitchen by his mother with a tight, almost pained expression, and his father with crossed arms and furrowed brows.
His parents had not been happy.
He curled up on his side even tighter as he heard the word liar be whisper-shouted by his father. They thought he was asleep, that he couldn’t hear them, but he could hear almost every word through the cracks in his bedroom door. His pillow was drenched with tears and snot, and he felt utterly pathetic. He prays for his parents to stop, for him to be able to fall asleep, for him to sink into his mattress and never wake up.
Then again, why would God answer the prayers of a sinner? His parents had been right: he was a liar, and God does not love liars.
—
There is a boogeyman in Mandela County.
That’s what the newspeople call him, at least. He steals children, they say, whisking them away into the night never to be seen again — and nobody knows how he does it, who he is, or if it’s even a human being at all. There have been all sorts of rumors from the kids at school: aliens, demons, even an evil laboratory kidnapping children for their experiments. Mark isn’t really sure what he thinks of it all — he’s far too old to believe in monsters under the bed, and he’s more of a skeptic to things that stray from his faith. Whatever the case, the adults don’t seem to know what it is either, keeping a closer eye on the younger kids, and sending out broadcasts that make Mark feel sick with worry.
They say it’s taking children as young as newborns to as old as six. Sarah is five, and their parents have talked in hushed whispers about moving again, for her safety. He sits with her now, using a binder as a surface to write on so he can keep an eye on her while he does his homework, just like his parents told him to. She plays with her dolls on the carpet in front of the television, chattering to them as she weaves a story only she can comprehend. As Mark watches her, he almost feels… jealous. She’s been the favorite since she was born, and it’s not that he wants her to disappear, no, he loves her far too much for that, it’s just that…
Mark is too old to be taken by the boogeyman. He’s ten years old, far beyond the target age-range. Yet every night he almost wishes it would take him anyways; away from school, away from his parents, and bring him somewhere he didn’t have to worry about anything. He doesn’t know what happens to the kids that are taken, nobody does, but at this point he doesn’t really care. If something terrible happens, then maybe he would deserve it. It isn’t fair, that it could take Sarah instead of Mark. Sarah doesn’t deserve to be taken, she’s never done anything wrong, but Mark deserves to disappear, he wants to disappear. He’s pretty sure his parents wouldn’t even miss a liar anyways, and they would still have Sarah, so really it would be the best for everyone, wouldn’t it? Mark would get to disappear, and nobody else would be upset by him ever again.
He watches over her, and he feels an envy for something he knows he shouldn’t want.
—
There is someone in the house.
Mark holds his breath as he hides under the dining room table, squeezing his knees to his chest so tightly his body aches. He had been staying up late again, working on homework he would never finish, when the television turned on by itself, and a far-too-large hand pushed itself through the screen. There was no time for him to do anything else but kill the lights, throw himself under the table, and pray.
His lungs burn, but he doesn’t dare to take a breath. He can’t risk making a single noise, not when a living shadow lumbers through his home, head nearly scraping on the ceiling as it trudges past his hiding spot, achingly slow, each step it takes feeling like it shakes the very foundations of the house. He cannot breathe, so instead he prays, pleads that whatever it is does not find him. He has no idea what the intruder even looks like, he hadn’t gotten a good look at it, but what little he did see is enough to set his pulse hammering against his ribs. His heartbeat is so violently loud that he’s already half convinced it will hear him anyways, and spindly arms will reach down to rip him out of his shelter and tear him to shreds.
Achingly slow, it claws its way past him, and Mark squeezes his eyes shut, too terrified to look at what might be his doom. His head is filled with images of monsters, demons, and a faceless Boogeyman that haunts his town like a phantom. He hears more shuffling, more thuds, each one makes him curl into himself even more, but they slowly sound further and further away. He just barely opens his eyes, and he nearly sobs in complete and utter relief. It has gone past him, shambling out of the dining room, and into the hallway. It had not noticed him. He finally allows himself a breath when he is sure it is out of earshot, stifling the sound with his hands. Joy floods his veins, he is alive . That relief crashes like a vase to the floor when he hears the click of a doorknob turning, and the accompanying creak of a door being opened.
It had gone to the hallway, he realizes. The hallway that leads to Sarah’s room.
He unfurls from his hiding spot stiffly, urgency thawing out the sheer panic that had kept him frozen. Whatever that thing is, he was not going to allow it to hurt her. What if it really was the Boogeyman, and it took Sarah away? He couldn’t let that happen, wouldn’t let that happen.
He creeps down the hallway, pulse pounding in his chest as he slides his sock-covered feet along the wooded floors. His legs are shaking, and he feels like he might fall to the floor at any moment, but he keeps going. He briefly looks to his parents’ room, considering waking them up, but if it’s already opened Sarah’s door, then by the time he wakes them she might be gone. He has to face it alone. He steels himself, placing a hand upon the doorframe of Sarah’s room as he looks inside, and has to choke back a scream at the sight of something far too tall to be human hunched over Sarah’s bed, reaching something that must be a hand towards her. He almost backs away, frightened out of his mind just by seeing something so obviously inhuman, but instead he steps into the room, and opens his mouth to speak.
“What are you doing?” he croaks, his voice strangled by fear.
It turns to face him, and what small amount of bravery Mark had mustered up is gone in an instant, replaced by a soul-devouring terror. Although it is dark, there is enough light seeping in through the window for him to make out the features of the monster clearly. It has no lips, just a gaping mouth carved into an uncanny smile, filled with far too many teeth. Its lower jaw is split into two, weaving together and undulating in a way that almost resembles an insect’s mandibles. Its face is smooth, catching light in a way that makes it look as if it has molded clay in place of skin, sculpted around a blank eye on one side of its face. The other eye is set within a void, a glowing pupil flickering to focus in on his face.
It cocks its head to the side, considering his question, before it speaks, “I am taking her away.”
He can’t breathe, he feels as though his ribcage has collapsed in on itself, and he’s forgotten how to even inhale. Its voice digs claws into his head, static erupting in a horrid cacophony of incomprehensible noise, and he would raise his hands to clamp over his ears if he wasn’t petrified, if his arms weren’t so weak. His gaze is locked on it, but he remembers the reason he ever entered the room in the first place, and his eyes flit over to her. Sarah is asleep still, clutching a stuffed animal as she slumbers peacefully, blissfully unaware of the danger looming above her. It strengthens his resolve, and he remembers how to breathe, wheezing in a weak breath, as he looks the monster in the eye once more.
“L-le-ave,” he demands, voice cracking, “Le-ave her alone . T-take someone el-se.”
Its pupil flickers, and it blinks its vacant eye, perplexed by his request. “Who else would I take?” it inquires.
Mark can feel its gaze burning a hole through him as it awaits his response, and he scrambles for something to say. He has a feeling if he does not answer its question correctly, something terrible will happen, and it will take Sarah anyways. This vague fear sends his mind racing, half-formed thoughts clambering around the inside of his head, as though his brain is overturning each of his memories for something, anything to save his little sister. He remembers many, many things at once, but the recollections he latches onto the most are those of guilt . Of shameful lies, clenched teeth, crushing despair, and unanswered prayers. He remembers coveting a fate he shouldn’t want and couldn’t have. He remembers a wish he made as his little sister puppeteered toys in front of the very television the demon before him had emerged from. He knows his answer. He hopes it is one the monster will accept.
“ Me ,” Mark breathes, “T-ake me inste-ad.”
The Boogeyman, for that’s what it must be, drags itself towards him — hands that are gnarled and twisted like the roots of a tree pulling its sunken body forwards. He notices its chest is see-through, and he can see what look like ribs, but on closer inspection appear to be segmented insect legs. He gawks at them as they twitch and writhe, before snapping his attention back to its face. He forces himself to stay still as it lowers its head, arms creaking as it bends itself down until its eyes are level with his own.
“Why?” it implores, voice still buzzing with static, but no longer unbearable.
“Be-because I-,” Mark swallows, trying to clear the lump in his throat. “I don’t want to-to be here anymore. I-,” his voice warbles, and his breath hitches, but he continues. “I w-want to dis-appear, I’m a-a bad person, and I d-don’t want to stay here,” he gasps, fully crying now. “I d-on’t deserve to sta-y here, I d-on’t w-ant to stay here, please ,” he wails, voice muffled as he buries his face into his hands. His chest heaves as he trembles, barely holding himself together enough to stay upright. He had never admitted his wish to anyone else before, and it felt like the dam he had built around it had finally burst, forcing him to feel the full brunt of the emotions he had locked away for so long.
He feels something drape itself across his shoulders and back, and can’t even find it in himself to recoil. He leans into the touch, letting it guide him through the doorway, and out into the hall. The weight on his back distorts, shrinking until it feels more like a real, human hand, now resting on just one shoulder. He looks to the monster, and sees it has condensed itself into the form of a man, no longer craning down to fit under the ceiling. He crashes forwards, burying his face into its side and wrapping shaking arms around it. He doesn’t care anymore, if it’s going to take him then he’s going to be selfish, and take as much comfort from it as he can get. It pauses, evidently not expecting Mark to cling to it. He feels a trickle of dread, had he made a mistake? He expects to be shoved away, for it to change its mind, but instead he feels an arm wrap itself around his shoulders, resting upon his back tentatively. He sniffles, and leans further into it.
They stay like that for a moment, before the monster starts to walk, and Mark forces his legs to move along with it, stumbling to keep in step with the other. It does not rush him, simply waiting for him to match its movements, almost like it wants him to copy it. It leads him out of the hallway, and he follows it blindly, not bothering to check where it is taking him. He doesn’t care, as long as it’s away, far away.
After a short while it stops, and stays still — but they had not walked for nearly as long as Mark had expected, he’s pretty sure they hadn’t even left the house. Mark forces his head up, blinking tears out of his eyes to look at their surroundings. It has brought him to the living room, right in front of the television. It makes sense, that it would take him away through the same thing it had come from. He supposes this is it, then. Something crosses his mind, and he balks, suddenly, tugging on its arm.
“Where… where are you going to take me? What will… happen to me?” His voice is small, he is already resigned to his fate, but he wants to know what his doom will be before he commits to it.
It tilts its head, gaze boring into him. “I am going to make you like me. And then we will go to the others,” it states.
The words catch Mark off guard. He isn’t sure what he had been expecting it to say, but it certainly hadn’t been that . “So… I’m not going to die?” he asks haltingly, almost apprehensive. He isn’t even sure which answer he wants to hear.
“No ,” it vows, “ you will not die, but you will be different.”
Mark can’t help but feel a strange mixture of relief and disappointment. He doesn’t know exactly what it means by ‘different’ but he doesn’t care enough to question it. He can guess well enough what it means anyways, with the way that it had looked before he agreed to go with it. He shivers as he imagines his jaw breaking in two, and his eyes becoming blank and lifeless. He shoves the images out of his head, and reaches out to grasp one of its hands to ground himself. He can’t let himself second guess his decision now — he has a feeling it would not react kindly to that. Besides, he was doing this for Sarah , whatever was going to happen to him didn’t matter.
The thought makes him realize that he should probably make sure the monster understands what he wants from it in return. “...What about Sarah? You… aren’t going to take her, are you? Just me?” he rasps, barely able to even make his voice audible.
“No. Just you, ” it affirms, “ unless you want me to take her as well?”
“No! No, I don’t- I don’t want that,” he yelps. “Just me, not her.”
“Then I won’t,” it assures, turning its face towards the television. Before it can so much as step towards it, Mark stops it once more.
“Will it hurt?” he whispers, the question itself feeling like a condemnation.
It freezes, stiffening like a statue as it considers the question. “I don’t know,” it admits.
Mark looks down, staring at the floor as he considers asking more questions, before deciding he doesn’t want to know more. Instead, he grits his teeth and squeezes its hand, trying not to show how much its answer scares him. It seems to take this as a sign that he is ready to go with it. It squeezes his hand back, then pulls away, prying its hand from Mark’s as it steps forward. Mark takes his hand back, but watches with curiosity as something occurs to him. How did it even fit in the television? Even in its more ‘human’ form, it towered over him, surely it couldn’t just cram itself through, right? He supposes he’ll just have to wait and see.
It straightens itself out, and then its body lets out a series of cracks as it begins to jolt and shake, and it buckles forwards. Mark suppresses a shout at the sudden noise and movement, then stares, transfixed, as its body breaks apart even further.
Mark can see its bones bend, twist, and snap under the thin cloth covering its form — its very skeleton seeming to fold in on itself as though being pulled apart by invisible hands. It hardly even has a shape that could be considered close to human as it drops to the floor and crawls towards the screen, its form distorted and broken beyond recognition. It’s the most horrific thing Mark has ever seen, and although he hastily darts his hands up to cover his eyes, the afterimages of it flash in his mind’s eye. It is as mesmerizing as it is repulsive, like watching the inner workings of some ghastly machine. Mark cringes at each sharp crack and wet tear of muscle, until finally it goes quiet.
He peeks out from behind parted fingers, only to be met with an empty room, the television still blaring white noise. He blinks, bringing his hands back down as he slowly inspects the room for any sign of the creature, yet finds nothing.
Had it… left him?
Just as he feels his heart sink to the floor, the television’s static changes pitch, and something emerges from it. Mark feels a sense of deja-vu as he watches a hand claw itself out of the screen, but unlike before, it is turned upwards. Its palm is open, inviting him to take hold of it once more. An offer, waiting to be fulfilled.
He hesitates — how could he not? He knows, deep in his bones, that whatever was beyond the screen would change him; that the static would devour him wholly and his life would never be the same. If he would even have a life at all, the monster could very well be lying to him. He considers, briefly, going back on his promise. He imagines running down the hall, bursting into his parents’ room and waking them up, taking solace in the inherent safety adults provided. But this is what he had wanted, wasn’t it? If he went to them, things would just go back to the way they were before, and he couldn’t bear the thought of that.
He reaches out, and grasps its hand tightly, his palm tingling from where it touches the skin of the monster. It reminds him of static electricity. It tugs his hand through the screen ever so gently, and his hand is swallowed by prickling white noise.
Static ripples up and down his arm, electricity coiling in his tendons and nerves as it boils in his veins. It does not hurt, but it surges under his skin, overwhelming as it floods his nerves with noise and colors and all sorts of things that should not be held within human flesh. He can hear an endless cacophony of radio channels and transmissions, the signals reverberating with his skull and skittering into nothingness. His teeth ache as they buzz in their sockets, and he feels the need to clench them tightly, lest they rattle themselves out of his jaw.
He can no longer feel his own hand, as if his flesh and bones have unraveled into radio waves and beams of light, no longer bound to such a simple, human shape. Despite this, he can still feel the monster holding it, as if it is grasping the concept of his hand, rather than a physical object. He thinks it might be the only thing stopping him from falling apart into nothingness. It is reassuring, a beacon of stability amongst the overwhelming chaos he has plunged himself into, and he tries to hone his attention to it and it alone.
The sensation is unbearable, just barely bordering on a painless agony, but he surges forwards anyways. He shoves his head through the screen, and falls . Down through the screen, far away from his home and humanity, he falls, but there is something there to catch him. He has no body, no mind, he is nothing more than a tangled, writhing mass of channels and currents and light, but he does not fall apart. He is cosmic dust, held together only by the gravity of a star as he is remade anew, into something whole again. He opens his eyes, that are not quite eyes, and an angel stares back at him.
Mark Heathcliff disappears — leaving no trace other than unfinished homework on the dining room table, his little sister’s door left ajar, and a television pouring out an incessant hiss of static.