Dustbunnies

Ben Wallace, now a full grown 21-year-old, stood looking up at the white, blue-trimmed, two-story Victorian house, a red plastic gas can dangling from one hand as heavy as his desire to burn the place to the ground. The place where she had died. The place where he had grown. Where his mother and he had lived alone, except for them. The ones who killed her.

The call had come that morning early. Just after the sun had risen. Had woken him, and still groggy with sleep, he tried to grasp what he was being told. A neighbor had found her. Dead. In his old room. The coroner’s report stated that there was a mass of dust, lint, and hair lodged in her throat. And with those words he knew. And that knowledge tumbled him back through the years to a past he’d tried forever to forget. Until he was 8 years old again and hearing them for the first time.

He and his mother had just moved into the two-story Victorian his mother had bought with money from his father’s life insurance, and a settlement from the company where her husband had worked and eventually died. It was larger than the two of them needed to rattle about in, and the majority of it that was left empty made Ben nervous. It echoed and creaked when the wind blew. And the uncarpeted wood floors were alien to him.

The bedrooms, three in all, were on the second floor. He took one of the small rooms at the front of the house, overlooking the street. And she took the larger one at the back. There was  a  short  hallway  that  connected  their  rooms  that  had  a  bathroom on one side, and a closet on the other. So, she didn’t seem so far away.

Since his father’ s death the world had become an uncertain place. And, now that she was all he had left, Ben feared for the sudden and unexplained.

That first day had been a long one. What with the packing, moving, and unpacking. So, by the time they had finished dinner and the dishes, and the sun had set, they were both ready for bed. She tucked him in, then knelt down and stroked his shaggy brown hair .

“I love you, doodlebug,” she told him.

“I love you, too.”

She stayed a moment longer, taking him in. With the hair, his green eyes flecked with gold, and olive colored skin, he was a virtual miniature duplicate of his father. Her nose was the only sign that she’d had anything to do with his conception, for she was blonde, blue-eyed, and snow-white. 

She stood and kissed him on the forehead, “Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

“Okay,” he giggled.

She pulled the door after her as she was leaving, but he called out, “Leave it open.”

“Okay ,   she nodded. “I’ll keep mine open, too.”

As she passed the bathroom, she flicked on the light and propped the door open slightly to act as a night-light, and a beacon in the night if he needed to get up to pee.

Ben listened for the “snick” of her door closing and, when he didn’t hear it, settled in to try for sleep. That, in itself, was a tall order. The strange new environment, the different shadows in his new room, and the creaking of the house’s old timbers conspired to keep him awake. Still, he closed his eyes and willed himself to drift off. He just hoped the nightmare

didn’t come.

The frightening dream came nearly every night since his father had died months ago. Ben wished he’d never picked up the other line to listen when they called to tell his mother the

news. And now the gruesome details haunted his sleep.

After he’d fall asleep, sometime during the hours that Ray Bradbury referred to as “the closest to death”, Ben would find himself standing in the foundry where his father worked at helping to smelt precious metals and form them into ingots. Ben could feel the oppressive heat emanating from the cauldrons they melted the metals in. Could hear the clank of machinery, and the roaring of fire.

Ben would look, among the men dressed in their leather smocks, and face-shields, for his father. Even though his father’ s face would be covered, as well, he could be recognized by the way he moved with a powerful, confident grace. Finally, having found him, Ben would wave and call out to him, even though he knew his father could never hear him over the dissonance of industry. Ben would stand and watch the cauldrons swing across the

room and into place on cables as thick as a man’s arm. He was always amazed at the synchronized ballet at play there. And he never felt afraid because, even though he’d had this nightmare many times already, to the him in the dream it was all new and happening for the first time.

He would watch with pride as his father motioned with his muscular arms to direct the person at the controls as to how to move the next cauldron into position over the field of molds. Then, with dawning horror, Ben would see a fiber in the cable spring loose, and the whole thing start to unravel. He would scream his father’s name in warning, but it was lost within the foundry’ s wall of sound. His father remained oblivious to the danger.

Ben would run towards his father, screaming, waving his arms, all to no avail. And all too late, as he would watch the cable snap and come whipping down to slice through his father’s torso, then whip away again, spraying a ribbon of gore along its path.

His father would fall to his knees, trying to keep the upper half of his body together with his hands, only to have the untethered cauldron crash down to the floor, ejecting a wave of

molten silver to engulf him. Even over the mechanical din that filled the air Ben could still hear his father’s tortured screams. And they would become Ben’ s own as he was shocked awake to shiver in the darkness. Alone.

Lying there in his bed in his new room Ben was too afraid of the nightmare to allow himself to fall asleep. He tried to think of something more pleasant to distract himself, but bits and pieces of the nightmare kept playing over in his mind as it often did when he was awake, ever since the first time he’d suffered through it.

He stared at the ceiling. For how long he didn’t know. But long enough for the night outside to turn black, and the world to grow silent. And that’s when he heard something beneath his bed.

At first it was just a soft sound. Like something made of cotton brushing across the wood floor. But, to Ben, it seemed unnatural, and he found it disturbing. He pulled his blanket, clenched tight in both hands, up under his chin. A trickle of pee leaked out into his underwear.

He pressed his lips closed to keep from calling out to his mother. Didn’t want to see that perpetual look of worry she always had on her face when she came to his rescue as he screamed himself awake from the nightmare. It was just an unfamiliar sound, for Pete’s sake. Probably not even foreign to this unfamiliar room in this unfamiliar house.

‘Stop being a baby,’ he told himself.

That’s when the sound changed. Now it didn’t sound like something made of cotton rubbing on the wood floor. Now it sounded like some things. First, just a couple. Then a few. Then many. Then an indeterminate number. Until it became what his mother referred to as a “dull roar”. As in, “Keep things down to a dull roar”.

Suddenly, he couldn’t stop shaking. And, unbeknownst to him, he was emitting a quiet, high-pitched whine. Unrestrained tears ran down his cheeks, but, still, he would not call out. Would not worry his mother on their first night in their nice, new house.

“Please,” he whispered. “Go away.”

To which they responded.

At first it was just a slight buzzing in his ears that tickled the hairs in their canals. Then, it slowly rose to a nearly inaudible static of unintelligible words, filled with its own special brand of menace.

Which caused another trickle of pee.

And then, amused by his fear, they started to giggle.

Ben couldn’t hold back any longer and screamed if the Devil himself was in the room. He heard his mother’s feet hit the floor an instant later, and the rumble of the wood floors as she ran down the hall. His bedroom door flew wide open, and she was on his bed, and he in her arms in what could have been only seconds .

He choked on tears of fear mixed with blessed relief as she rocked him.

“Sssh,” she whispered. “Sssh. It’s okay.”

Ben began to calm.

“Was it the nightmare?” she asked.

Ben shook his head, “There’ s something under my bed.”

She held him at arms length and looked into his eyes. Seeing that he truly believed this, she had no choice but to look under the bed to assuage his fears. What she saw there made her laugh.

She looked back up at him, “They’re only dustbunnies, silly.”

She smiled to include him in the humor of it, but he only stared at her with those eyes and said, “I heard them.”

“Oh, Ben,” she replied. That worried look on her face. The one he’d promised himself that he’d never cause again.

He smiled bravely, “Maybe it was just a dream.”

She smiled, although obviously still worried by this new turn of events. This new night terror.

“Well. If it will make you feel better I’ll sweep them out of there tomorrow. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” she confirmed. Then kissed his forehead, tucked him back in, and left him to go to sleep.

But he didn’t sleep. All night long. Couldn’t sleep while he knew they were still down there.

Morning came, at last, and, having not heard the dustbunnies for the past few hours, Ben decided it was safe to decamp. He counted three, then leapt out of bed and ran for the door, not even daring to glance over his shoulder should there be a pursuit. He slowed at the stairs and walked down to the kitchen where his mother was already cooking breakfast.

She turned when he came in and gave him a bright smile, “Morning, Ben. “

“Morning,” he said as he sat at the table, and she served him a plate of bacon and eggs with toast.

“Did you sleep okay?” Worry tinged her voice.

“Oh, sure,” the lie came easily to his lips.

“Well,” she said, letting it pass. “Eat up and then we’ll sweep those little buggers out from under your bed. Sound good?”

“Yeah,” he said, the relief showing.

He gobbled down his food to show that his appetite was good, and she had nothing to worry about. When he finished, he placed his dishes in the sink, and his mother grabbed the broom from

the pantry.

They mounted the stairs and climbed to the second floor, a safari feeling to the whole affair.

As they got to his room his mother said, “Be vewy quiet. We ‘re hunting wabbits .”

Ben giggled but still stayed behind her, apprehensive, as they entered the room. His mother bent down and looked under the bed. The broom’ s handle in her hand, at the ready.

She whistled, impressed, “Whew. There sure are a lot of them under there. Take a look.”

Ben just shook his head, still standing, ready to run if the need arose.

“Alright. Fine,” she told him. “Go get me the little waste-basket out of the bathroom so we have somewhere to put them.”

He hesitated. Not sure if he should leave her alone with them. There being so many.

“Go on,” she laughed.

Ben ran to the bathroom, grabbed the waste-basket, and ran back to his room in a flash. She was already poking the broom under his bed when he returned. What he saw coming out from under the bed brought him to a dead-stop.

There seemed to be a hundred of them. These fuzzy little balls that seemed to swarm around each other with their own motility. He had no idea they were only hair, lint,a nd dust. And, being stirred by the draft from the broom, to him, they seemed alive.

“Watch out,” he called out, much as he had to his father every night in that horrible nightmare. But, unlike then, he was frozen to the spot, unable to move.

“Don’t be silly,” his mother told him, playfully, as she corralled the mass of little beasts with the broom. “Bring me the waste-basket.”

Ben forced himself to move, holding the little waste-basket in front of him for protection against, what he was sure was, an imminent attack. She took the waste-basket, and he scurried back to the doorway, just in case.

With a deft and practiced hand his mother swept the mass of dustbunnies into the waste-basket. Then checked under the bed to make sure she’d gotten them all.

She looked up at him and smiled, “All taken care of.”

“Now what are we going to do with them?” his voice, uncertain.

“Put them out with the trash, and tomorrow the trash man will come and take them away to the dump. Far, far away. Okay?”

“Okay,” he acquiesced, relieved.

“Okay,’ she confirmed.

Even though the dustbunnies were now gone, Ben avoided his room throughout the day, preferring to stay by his mother’s side. You know. In case she needed him. In actuality, the house, due

to its newness to him, still seemed creepy. It sort of reminded him of the house on that old TV show “The Munsters”. Only his was smaller and didn’t have the weird architectural touches.

His mother didn’t mind his clinging, of course. He was all she had left in her life and poured all of her love into him. Giving him sweets, even though she knew they were bad for his teeth. Snacks, even though she worried about him growing portly. And all of his favorite meals, even though she knew that not all of them were healthy. Anything at all to help him forget what she never would.

So, they moved about the house that day, together, tidying up from the move, unpacking the remaining boxes to their proper place , and adding all the touches that would transform the house from something bereft of personality into a home of their own. By the end of the day they were both exhausted.

For dinner they made a salad of tuna crumbled over lettuce with all the fixings, and ranch dressing. Washed the dishes, together, when they were finished eating. Then she gave Ben a bubble bath with lots of tickles, dressed him in his ‘jamas, and tucked him into bed.

“You going to be okay?” she asked.

Remembering that she’d disposed of the dustbunnies, he nodded.

“Okay,’ she said.

“Okay,’ he confirmed.

She laughed and gave him a kiss on the forehead before leaving his bedroom door open, the bathroom light on, and her door open, as well.

He snuggled down into his bed and, for the first time, felt at peace in his new room. There was still the possibility the nightmare would come, but that could happen anywhere. At least, now, the dustbunnies were gone, and that knowledge was enough to let him close his eyes and relax into sleep.

Just before he drifted off, Ben thought he heard the nearly inaudible static of unintelligible words from beneath his bed. But that had to be his imagination. Didn’t it? His mother had swept all the dustbunnies away. So, he surrendered to sleep. And was even spared the nightmare.

The following day proceeded in much the same way. Except, with all the unpacking done, Ben mostly just followed his mother around, keeping her company, and helping with any of the household work he was able to do. She even made him his own list of chores, which gave him a “man of the house” feeling.

He still avoided his room because he thought he’d heard something during the night that might have been them under his bed. So, he was uneasy being in the room alone.

But later that day one of his mother’s friends came to visit. “Why don’t you go occupy yourself in your room so I can do some “Grown-Up” stuff for awhile?” his mother suggested with a pleasant smile.

Even though he was apprehensive, he didn’t want to disobey her in front of her friend. So, he trudged up to his room and decided to play Rush Hour with his Matchbox cars, which usually provided complete distraction.

While unpacking the cars from their parking-garage shaped carrying-case, Ben had the sense that he was being watched. No. Not just watched. Surveilled. He tried to shake the feeling, but the silence of the room lent to his unease.

Attempting to lose himself in activity, he put all of his concentration into the meticulous formation of the three lanes of bumper to bumper traffic traveling in one direction, and three traveling in the other, approximating “Stop and Go” traffic. But he still couldn’t free his mind of the idea that there was someone else in the room. Or something. His heart fluttered in flight response, but he told himself it was only his imagination, and that if he abandoned his room for the reassuring proximity of his mother and her friend, his mother would be disappointed in him.

After all, he was her “Big Boy” now, her “Man of ‘the House”, wasn’t he?

So, he stayed.

But he did opt out of his game of Rush Hour and decided, instead, to play Destruction Derby, if only in an attempt to banish the unnerving silence. To silence his irrational paranoia.

So, as not to destroy his nicer Matchbox cars, he selected several that were already old and damaged. The better suited to high-impact collisions that would produce the type of echo inducing crash he felt would fill the room with distracting noise. Would, perhaps, even chase away what was watching.

The first collision was a doozie. His hands stung with the impact, and the sound of metal colliding filled the room. Satisfied, Ben smashed the two cars together again and again. Until, at last, one of the cars banged the other out of his hand to roll under the edge of his bed. Just barely in the mattress’s shadow but still visible. Ben could have sworn he heard giggling coming from the dark recesses beneath.

He wasn’t sure what to do. Even though the car was old and damaged, it was still part of his favorites. It had been part of his father’s boyhood collection that Ben had inherited when he was three. They were one of the few things he still had left of his father. He didn’t want to just abandon it. Didn’t want them to have it. Still…

Finally, having gathered his courage, Ben crawled toward the bed to retrieve the car. The closer he got, the clearer the giggling became,  as  if  the  things  under  the  bed  were  brimming 

,

with excitement. He could also hear the soft brushing that had alerted him to their presence on that first night.

When he reached the bed, he peeked underneath to see where the car was so he could grab it. But then froze. Along the far wall he could see a mass of the grey balls of fluff moving about as if agitated. Swarming around each other like angry bees protecting their hive. Their domain.

Ben was transfixed by the sight. He knew his mother had said they weren’t really alive. That they only moved about on drafts of air. But they certainly looked alive to him. The way they moved. And he sensed an intent. Could hear them chattering away to each other. Could hear the malicious glee in their giggling.

He took a deep, calming breath, then reached out to grab the car. And that’s when they swarmed from beneath the bed as one. Ben stood and tried to scramble away, but his feet tangled and he slammed down onto his back. They were on him in an instant. He felt a deluge of tiny bites as they enveloped him. Some of the dustbunnies disintegrated to grey smears as he attempted to brush them off in a panic.

That made them even more frenzied. Blinding him and trying to worm their way into his nostrils, between his clenched lips. He didn’t dare scream. Not only for his mother’s sake but also out of fear they would suffocate him. Their very mission appeared to be to kill him. He rolledon the floor like he was trying to smother flames and slapped at his body in hopes of crushing them all to stop their attack.

His chest burned for breath. His sight darkened at the edges. As he was losing hope, silently telling his mother how sorry he was that he hadn’t fought harder, there was a diminishing of the bites. Some clearing view through the weakening horde.

Seeing a light at the end of the tunnel, Ben blew blackened snot from his nostrils. Then wiped an arm across his face before taking a single, desperate breath. He coughed as he inhaled several of the more diligent attackers. But was able to stand and thrashed at the remainder in one final attempt to free himself from the living nightmare.

Finally, the dustbunnies that were left dropped to the floor and fled for safety under the bed. It was over. He was alive.

Ben dropped into a sitting position on the floor, heaving air and sobbing uncontrollably. Trying to come to grips with what had just happened. Hadn’t his mother swept all of the foul beasts from under the bed and sent them off to the dump? Had they returned, somehow? Or was there a secret nest somewhere from which these new ones emerged? Or had all these spawned in the short time between the previous eradication and now? And, if so, would there be more?

Fearing what his mother and her friend would think if they saw him in his current disheveled and filthy state, Ben snuck to the bathroom with a fresh set of clothes to take a shower. It was hot enough in the house that he could always use the excuse that he had gotten sweaty and wanted to cool off, if his mother asked. He stuffed his grey-streaked clothes in the bottom of the hamper so no one would be the wiser.

The water felt good, even though it turned the dust and lint covering him into sludge, momentarily. His nerves calmed as the hot water ran down over him. He scrubbed with soap until

his skin was red and even washed his hair twice. Having the thing’s remains off him, and the lack of any visible bite marks helped him put the incident, at least partially, out of mind. He wouldn’t tell his mother, for fear she’d give him that half-disbelieving/half-concerned look he’d come to dread since his father’s death.

Ben got dried off, dressed in fresh clothes, then went back to his room. He sat on the floor and started to pack his Matchbox cars away when he noticed the sound of the few survivors chattering away, giggling occasionally, as they (Ben was sure) made plans for their next attack. The war had only just begun.

He tossed the rest of the cars, the carrying-case, and himself up on the bed. There was no way he was giving them another chance. After he got all the cars back in the case, he sat listening to the enemy (the sound as if their numbers were already growing). And for the sound of his mother’ s guest leaving.

At last, he heard the front door open, their cheerful goodbyes, and the door close again. Instantly, he was off the bed, out of his room, and down the stairs.

Ben didn’t tell his mother about the ordeal but did explain away the shower when she asked. He didn’t want her to worry. Never wanted her to worry.

That night they ate pizza in front of the TV as they watched a couple of DVDS: a special treat for him having been so good during her visit. And because he’d already taken a shower she allowed him to stay up later than usual. Which was great because the fewer hours of the night he had to spend with them, the better. But, eventually, bedtime did come.

With reluctance and apprehension he trod up the stairs to his room. His mother tucked him in and gave him a kiss, all the while, apparently oblivious to the chattering and giggling Ben could hear coming from under his bed.

Was he imagining it all? Was he losing his mind? Had he really been attacked by a swarm of inanimate fluff-balls?

“Love you,” his mother told him as she turned off the light.

“Love you,” he replied, trying to sound brave.

Thankfully, she left his bedroom door, the bathroom door and light, and her bedroom door in the same configuration as the previous night. But it did nothing to allay his fear. Only provided a lighted path of escape, should it be needed. And as the night dragged on, him still awake, he became convinced he wouldn’t have the nerve to use it.

One of the things he’d learned about his adversaries was that they stayed near the floor. Apparently, they were unable to scale objects higher than a foot tall. So, as long as he stayed up on the bed, he was safe. If he was down on the floor, he was not. So, the escape route was pretty much useless.

As the moon fell down its arc, and silence descended in the night-time world, Ben began to hear them more clearly. Chattering. Giggling. Obviously at the deliciousness of his fear. Were there more, again? When morning came would he be able to make it out of the room before they were on him in a flood, again?

All these worries stole his sleep.

As the hours passed, his bladder filled. At first it was just a tickle at the end of his urethra: the bubble waiting to be broken. But, then, it escalated to a fullness. A pressure in his stomach. Then grew to a series of cramps. Then a feeling as if he might burst. And there was nothing he could do about it.

Ben looked at his bedroom door and could see the light from the bathroom. So close! But he knew he didn’t dare get down off the bed. From below came the sound of increased activity, as if the creatures had, somehow, discerned his need.

He finally reached down and pinched his penis between two fingers. That allowed him to relax his bladder some and lessen the pressure. But, no sooner than he released his hold, the sensation that he would lose control of his bladder returned. In the end, he did the only thing he could. He relaxed and let his bladder empty into his pajamas, bedclothes, and mattress. It filled him with shame for his own cowardice.

When morning finally arrived, his mother came in to wake him up. Ben saw the gentle smile on her face and burst into tears because, even behind the smile, he could see the ghost of worry

in her eyes. She pulled back the soiled blanket and sheet, gathered him up in her arms, carried him to the bathroom, stripped his wet clothes, and put him in a nice, hot bath.

All the while whispering, “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

The smile never left her face, even while she was removing the soiled bedclothes and carrying the mattress to the backyard to air out.

Ben was finally calm but remained subdued all day, seeming to be at war with something inside. She just let him be. And he didn’t speak the word of the truth.

Over the next several weeks the incident repeated on a near nightly basis, always accompanied by her gentle smile, and the ghost of worry. And neither spoke of it.

On a few occasions Ben heard her talking on the phone with her friends that had children his age, or the parents of his previous classmates, discussing the incidents. What she heard seemed to ease her worry some.

But the longer it went on, the more despondent Ben became.

Finally, his mother spoke up, “I’ve talked to a lot of people, and even a couple of doctors, and they have reassured me that wetting the bed is a relatively common issue for children your age. Do you understand?”

Ben nodded, even though he could hear the undercurrent of doubt in her words. Still, he didn’t say anything. Besides, what could he say in response?

“Is it a relatively common issue for children my age to have evil dustbunnies under their beds?”

In an effort to cut down on the episodes Ben stopped drinking any liquids after lunch. He hoped that would make him able to hold his pee until morning, and by doing so, drive the worry from his mother’s life. But he was only now approaching nine years old and had no idea of the potential physical consequences.

The first couple of weeks it worked like a charm. He made it all the way through the night without having to pee. But he was still having trouble sleeping. Eventually, the combination of fewer liquids and lack of sleep burned dark circles under his eyes. And, although his intention had been to lessen her worry, his haggard appearance seemed only to make it worse. She finally had no choice but to take him to the doctor.

After an examination and a number of tests, the doctor came back with his pronouncement, “It seems that Ben, here, is suffering from dehydration and exhaustion.”

“Are you not sleeping well?” the doctor asked Ben.

Ben shook his head but didn’t speak.

“Is there anything keeping you awake? Any worries?”

Ben just looked at his hands.

“His father passed away last year,” Ben’s mother offered.

“Ah,” the doctor nodded in understanding.

He put a finger under ben’s chin and lifted the boys head so they were looking at each other, “Have you been drinking plenty of water?”

Ben shook his head.

“Well. You’ll need to do that.”

“Don’t wanna pee the bed,” Ben finally answered.

The doctor turned to Ben’s mother, “Has this been a problem lately?”

She frowned as if she were to blame and nodded.

“You’ll just need to make sure to get up and go when you need to,” the doctor told Ben.

“I can’t,” Ben whispered.

“Why not?” the doctor asked.

Ben looked at his mother, then down at his hands but didn’t speak.

The doctor clicked his pen a couple of times, then turned to Ben’s mother, “Could I speak to you out in the hall?”

She nodded, worry etched on her face.

“We’ll be back in a couple of minutes,” the doctor told Ben .

Out in the hallway the doctor came right to the point, “Something seems to be bothering your son. To a disturbing degree. I’d like to refer him to a child psychologist. If that would be okay with you.”

Ben’s mother hesitated for a moment, on the verge of tears, but finally nodded.

Three weeks later Ben found himself seated on a leather couch in a therapist’s office downtown. The man seemed ancient to him, but, when the man spoke, his voice was soft and reassuring. So Ben tried to relax.

“Good afternoon, Ben,” the therapist said by way of greeting.

“Hello,” Ben’ s reply was nearly inaudible.

“It’s okay,” the therapist told him. “You’re safe here. We’re just going to talk. Okay?”

Ben nodded, relaxing a little bit more.

The therapist looked down at his notes, “Your mother says you’ve been having some issues with wetting the bed.”

Ben nodded again, his embarrassment evident.

“That’s okay, Ben. It’s completely normal. A lot of boys your age have the same issue. Understand?”

Ben nodded.

“She also says you’ve been taking some actions on your own to try to cut down on that. Is that true?”

Ben nodded, feeling finally that he’d been doing something right.

“But you do understand those actions can be bad for your health? Yes?”

Ben nodded.

The therapist nodded, too, “Good. Good.”

He looked down at his notes again, “It also says here that you told your doctor you couldn’t get out of bed to use the bathroom.”

Ben just looked at the therapist, afraid to answer in any way.

Noting Ben’s reluctance, the therapist nodded sagely, “Well. There must be some terrible reason that you can’t get up to use the bathroom. That you’d rather wet the bed.”

The tears standing in Ben’s eyes were all the answer the therapist needed.

He reached over and placed a reassuring hand on Ben’s knee, “It’s okay, Ben. That’s why we’re here. To figure some way around this.”

Ben wiped a tear away and nodded.

“It’s just the two of us here, Ben. No one needs to know anything we talked about.”

“Even my mother?” Ben whispered.

“Not if you don’t want,” the therapist told him. “This is a safe place.

Ben looked down at his hands, and, when he looked up, the terror in his eyes was drowning in tears, “There’ s something under my bed. “

“Hmmm,” the therapist responded as if understanding completely. Believing completely.

Ben wiped his eyes, embarrassed by his tears.

“Do you know what it is?” the therapist poised his pen above the notepad in his lap.

Ben nodded, “They ‘re little balls of fuzz. Mother says they’re dustbunnies. Do you know what those are?”

The therapist nodded and scratched some notes.

“She says they’re just hair and lint and dust. But these ones . . .” Ben braved himself to speak the truth. “They move on their own. They’re alive.”

The therapist scratched some more notes, “And that’s what scares you?”

Ben shook his head and finally choked out, “They want to kill me!” Then crumbled into inconsolable sobs.

The therapist knelt beside him and put an arm over Ben’s shoulder, “It’s okay, Ben. I’m going to get you through this.”

The therapist did the best he could. Seeing Ben weekly, after hours, at no cost to Ben’s mother. He even supplied Risperdal and Depakote out of the free samples the pharmaceutical salesmen provided.

One day Ben’ s mother asked, “Why are you being so generous to us?”

“I lost a patient once,” he replied. “I’m not going to let that happen to Ben.”

But the only thing that seemed to change over time were the dosages. Whenever Ben shared his fear of the things under his bed, the therapist adjusted the medication. After two years they’d made little progress, and the medication had begun to hamper Ben. He was often lethargic and had difficulty focusing, except on them. The problem was that the problem wasn’t in his head but in his room. In an effort to keep from becoming completely debilitated by the medication, Ben eventually stopped talking about the dustbunnies and assured the therapist every week, that he was completely fine.

For awhile Ben was convinced that his therapist was sharing the content of their sessions with his mother. For, not long after Ben started therapy, she started cleaning the foul beasts from beneath his bed on a daily basis. She continued for the entirety of his sessions. Eventually, he told himself to stop

being paranoid. It was probably just her memory of his initial fear, and mother’s intuition that drove this behavior.

Regardless of what the therapist and Ben’s mother did the demonic balls of fluff returned every night in full force, like cockroaches swarming out after dark. Chattering and giggling and waiting for Ben to make the slip that would allow them to take him. His fears, even despite the medication, never abated. And, some nights, when he thought he would wee the bed, he would wind a rubber band around the shaft of his penis to hold back the flood. He prayed to God not to let it turn black and fall off .

After two years in therapy, and with much begging from Ben, and a recommendation from his therapist, Ben’ s mother allowed Ben to return to school. She had been home-schooling him since his father’s passing, so he didn’t have to be put back any grades and, at eleven, was allowed into the sixth grade. He quickly made friends, joined some after-school activities, and did a passable impression of a normal, well-adjusted boy. Even so, he had no one he could confide in.

When he got into his teens he started spending as much time as possible away from home. Especially at night. His mother figured this was just something boys did as they grew. Spreading their wings. Distancing themselves from the nest. So, she wasn’t worried. Had no idea she needed to be.

No idea that terror still gripped him every night, and sleep came only via exhaustion. No idea that he’d started to drink and smoke pot to chase the monsters away during the daylight hours so he could have, at least, a modicum of peace. No idea that he thought about suicide or just running away in order to

escape. The only thing that kept him from acting on those thoughts was his mother. He could never hurt her that way. Never.

But everyone has a breaking point. And Ben reached his at age sixteen. The drinking and drugs had taken over his life, driven by his inability to cope with the enemy beneath his bed, and the guilt at leaving his mother alone so often. That, in combination with the prescription drugs, rendered him incapable of being present in the world. What kind of life was that for a teenage boy?

So, one day, after he got home from school and saw that his mother was out, he grabbed the address book she kept in her room and looked up his father’s brother: Uncle Walter. It took a literal act of will to bring himself to dial the number.

“Hello?” a man answered the phone.

“Uncle Walter?”

“Ben? Is that you?” 

“Yeah. It’ s me.”

“God. It’s been so long ,” his uncle marveled. “How are you?”

“Not so great.”

“Really? What’s the matter?”

“I can’t stay here anymore,” Ben told him. Then paused. “I was hoping I could come stay with you.”

Ben’s Uncle Walter lived on a farm outside a small town upstate. Far enough away so Ben could put this all behind him but close enough that he and his mother could visit when they liked. Maybe Ben could even convince her to go with him. Away from here. From them.

“What’s going on?” Uncle Walter asked with mild concern.

“It’s just,” Ben knew he couldn’t tell him about the dustbunnies, so, “He’s everywhere I look. You know?”

There was silence for a moment.

“Yeah,” Uncle Walter finally replied. “I can imagine.”

There was another silence.

“What does your mother have to say about this?”

“Well,” Ben hesitated. “I haven’t said anything to her about it yet. I figured there was no sense unless I cleared it with you first.”

“Why don’t you talk to your mother and let me know what she says.”                  .

“Does that mean I can stay?” Ben practically pleaded.

“If she says okay. Sure.”

When his mother got home Ben didn’t hesitate, for fear he’d lose his nerve.

“Mom,” he started tentatively, “I want to go stay with Uncle Walter.”

“What?” she responded, surprised.

“I can’ t stay here anymore.”

“Why?”

Again, the prevarication, “It’ s just that. . . He’ s everywhere I look. I know it isn’t the same house. But it’s the same town. The same streets. I know you feel it, too. How am I supposed to get over his death if he’s always there? A constant reminder.”

“It takes time to heal,” she told him, not sure if she’d ever really heal.

“And, sometimes, distance,” he reasoned. “Come with me. We could both go. Away from here. Away from the constant reminders.”

She wanted to tell him that he was her most constant reminder but still wanted him around. She couldn’t bring herself to speak the words.

Instead. . . “This is our home,” she stated, firmly.

He fell silent. Knew he was losing the argument.

“And you think that us being around your father’s ‘brother will make him less evident? Less there?” was as close to speaking her previous thought about him as she could get.

“I can’t stay,” he said quietly.

She looked into his eyes and saw that if he stayed it might be the end of him. Saw that she might lose him the way his therapist had once lost a patient. In the end, she couldn’t bring herself to make him stay.

“You go. If it will make things better,” she finally told him. “But this is my home.”

Ben nodded, relieved that he was free from their threat, at last, but saddened that his mother chose to stay. And worried for her, alone, in this house with them.

Ben made the arrangements with his uncle and, at the end of the school year, watched his mother waving to them from the front door as he and his Uncle Walter pulled away in a loaded down pickup.

At the farmhouse, Uncle Walter helped Ben load his personal items into one of the upstairs bedrooms. While they were setting up the new bed his mother had bought him for the occasion, Ben saw some familiar fluff-balls drifting about in a corner of the room. But these didn’t seem alive. They just seemed like. . . things.

Still, when Ben went to bed that night, the familiar fear clutched at him as he lay in bed. He stretched his hearing into the night-quiet but heard no chattering, no giggling, not even the brush of something soft on the bare wood floors. Only the occasional creaking of the old house. He was safe. At last. For once, he went to sleep in peace.

Ben hardly had a chance to miss his mother, or feel guilty for leaving her alone, since they talked on the phone every day. She seemed to be adjusting well to the new arrangement, telling him that she had more time for herself than she’d had in years. All about the new projects she was engaged with, and the “nearly constant socializing”. That eased his mind, somewhat. Even though his worry for her safety remained.

Things improved for Ben, as well. Removed from “influences” and in a new environment far away from the enemy, he was able to dispense with the drinking and drugs. And, now distanced from his therapist, he weaned himself from the psych meds and actually started to feel human again.

Although, there were still nights when he’d wake in a cold sweat, sure he’d heard them down there in the darkness. Or from a dream of them overwhelming his mother, then moving on in search of their next victim, leaving only teeth and bone behind.

Ben made it home on holidays, and the occasional weekend as he’d promised he would, but always refused to stay at the house. Wouldn’t even enter it. Or set foot on the property. He’d

stand at the curb by his car, waiting for her to come out so they could go to dinner, or a movie, or whatever they had planned. This never failed to spark an argument.

“I just don’ t understand your reluctance,” his mother always started.

So, once, after he turned 18, and she no longer had the legal means to force him back into therapy, Ben decided to tell her the truth, “Because they’re here.”

“Who?”

“Those things under my bed.”

“The dustbunnies?” she scoffed.

He looked at her, dead serious, and nodded.

“But they’re just balls of fluff !” she raved. “Lint. Hair. Dust. All normal things you’d expect in an old house like this.”

“I know. It’s just…”

“Just what?” she asked, exasperated. “They don’ t have them at your Uncle Walter’s?”

“They do,” he conceded.” But those are different.”

“Different how?”

“These ones are alive,” his eyes implored her to believe.

“Benjamin,” she scolded.

“I could hear them down there. Giggling at my fear.”

“But the medication stopped that.”

Ben shook his head and looked at her sadly.

“What does that mean?” she asked, confused.

“I just pretended it was helping. I didn’t want you to worry anymore. And every time I brought up my fears, the doctor just upped the meds until I couldn’t think anymore.”

“Oh, Benjamin,” her attitude suddenly changed. “I’m so sorry.”

“So, it never did go away,” then he looked into her eyes, “Not until I left here.”

His mother didn’t know what to say.

Ben looked up at the house, “There’s something about this place that either gives them their power, or harbors them. I don’t know. That’s why I’ve been trying to get you to leave. Because. . .”

“Because what?”

“Because I keep having this nightmare that they…get you.”

“Oh, Benjamin,” she smiled like he was being silly.

“I know you won’ t leave. Ever,” he returned a defeated smile. “But, at least, stay out of that room. Please?”

She knew his fears were unfounded but didn’t want him to worry unnecessarily, so she nodded her assurance. And they never had the conversation again.

And they moved on with their lives.

Over the next couple of years Ben visited more and more often, their unspoken agreement remaining intact. And, in time, thoughts of his childhood terror began to fade. Although, occasionally, he would find himself mesmerized by others of the same species until he assured himself they were not of the same tribe. He even got to a point where he started to believe that it had all been a child’s fantasy.

Even so, they would not let him be.

He was in his sophomore year of college, fast asleep after an exhausting, all-night cram session for an upcoming exam when his cellphone rang. Eyes still closed, he fumbled the phone from his night-stand, pressed “Answer”, and placed it to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Is this Benjamin Wallace?” a man’ s voice asked.

“Yes,” Ben answered with an unexplainable apprehension.

“This is Detective Parsons from the Emeryville Police Department.”

“Police?” Ben snapped awake. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” the detective told him, “But your mother was found by a neighbor. Deceased.”

A terrible suspicion crept up Ben’ s spine, “Where was she found?”

There was a rustling of paper as the detective flipped through a notebook, “In one of the front, second-floor rooms. A bedroom.”

Ben closed his eyes, a firm assumption in mind of what had happened, “Thank you for calling.”

He hung up the phone.

After a call to the coroner’s office for “cause of death”, Ben was sure.

If he’d not left their argument the way it ended. If he’d tried harder to convince her. That they were really alive. Really a threat. Or even to leave for somewhere safe. She’d probably still be alive. But now…?

Now.

Ben stood staring up at the Victorian house, the gas can dangling from one hand. He would see this place burn. He looked around to see if anyone saw him, then, satisfied, and for the first time in nearly a decade, he walked up the sidewalk, mounted the steps, unlocked the door with his key, and stepped, tentatively, inside.

Without his mother, the house was strangely silent. And even though he couldn’t hear them, he could feel that they knew he was there. And he smiled.

Ben took his time climbing the stairs to the second floor, allowing them time to realize his intent. To shake in fear at the coming destroyer.

Stopping outside his bedroom door, he could actually hear their excited chattering. Apparently they sensed the final battle had come.

Ben twisted the knob and swung the door inward.

The first thing he saw was the broom lying in the middle of the floor where it must have fallen. Where she must have fallen. He imagined her stumbling back in horror as they showed their true nature. Losing her footing to fall back onto the floor, and them swarming over her. But, unlike the nightmare, they’d only choked the life out of her, not stripped her bones clean.

The bristled end of the broom was angled toward his old bed. It was obvious that she’d come to clean them out, and, finally tired of the genocide, they had struck back. Ben wondered if her final thoughts were of him and the content of their final argument.

No matter now.

He could see a mass of fluff-balls just beyond the edge of the bed, in shadow, moving in their characteristic, agitated way. Ben pushed the door closed behind him to prevent their escape. With a twist he unscrewed the cap from the gas can and let them smell their impending doom. The dustbunnies started to swirl about in a boil.

Ben walked to the center of the room and upended the gas can in a gurgling splash, turning in a circle to cover the floor. The smell filled the room. His enemy churned in a frenzy under the bed. Then, in a flood, came rushing out, no longer chattering or giggling, but shrieking with rage.

Ben dropped the gas can, which fell on its side, continuing to empty, as he took a Zippo lighter from his pants pocket. He flipped the lid back, struck the wick to flame, screamed “Die!”, and dropped the flaming lighter to the floor.

The room erupted in an all-encompassing fireball filled with screams of agony. But they weren’t Ben’s. He refused to give them the satisfaction. As his flesh blistered, peeled, and split, he could only laugh, insane,      for he had won.

The fire department arrived in time to contain the blaze but not to save the structure. Miraculously, the houses on either side were unharmed, with the exception of some blackened char.

Two days later their inhabitants were allowed to return. Upon her return, the old woman who lived in the house on the right, who had found Ben’s mother, looked over at the blackened pile of rubble and, having heard Ben had been found inside, thought, “What a shame.”

After being dropped off by her husband on his way to work, the woman who lived in the house on the left led her daughter into their house. The woman went to check on the interior of the ground floor while her daughter ran upstairs to check on her “priceless possessions”.

Coming out of the kitchen into the living-room, the mother heard her daughter scream. She ran upstairs and into the bedroom to find her daughter, shock-white and pie-eyed, staring at the canopy-bed, trembling uncontrollably.

“What is it?” the mother asked as she hugged her daughter. 

“The-th-them,” the girl stuttered as she pointed at a mass of fluff-balls drifting about in the shadow of the bed.

“Oh, silly,” her mother gave ger a comforting squeeze. “They’re just dustbunnies.”