My mom is at my side reading “Monster Diaries” , my favorite book. I would have such an imagination for these creatures, my mom says they don’t exist. However, I believed in them to be. To me, they were as real as life itself, my favorite is the one they call S.C.P.- 3008, my least favorite is the one I can not say, my mom said the name.  She hasn't been the same sense.

25 years later

25 years later my mom is dead due to cancer, what type they never said, I work at the library now, returning books to the shelves. It's a meandering task but pays well. I was fine working here until the murder. They say it has been here forever when someone said its name it came for there blood, there were no witnesses but when it happened the security cameras got fuzzy and blacked out some of them, when it was over there were letters written in blood, a trail of it led to a wall and vanished along with the body. The letters read, “He is here, the true curator.” This simply translated into modern English means the true librarian. Ever since then I feel cold, there is someone watching, and that I should leave. But I stay, I make good money but my rent is pretty large as well. When it's all done bills, and food for my three kids and wife, we have barely enough money to keep us out of debt. What am I doing, I’m herald, my wife’s name is Kathy. My children are from oldest to youngest, John age 13, Rebecca 10, and Jeremy at age 5. We loving reading books from the library, but since the murder, my family doesn’t even want me to work anymore.

When I get home, the house door is wide open. I run in screaming my wife’s name, she works at the school and gets home a little before me, I hear creaking footsteps upstairs. My wife comes around the corner slowly with a baseball bat, John, Rebecca, and Jeremy behind her.

“What happened”

“It was here,” my wife whispers, “Its horrible eyes, they were demons.”

I run up here, later we put the kids to bed. She was still shaking.

“What was it?”

“It was a sight to behold, its eyes were soulless and empty.” crying, “Its body was bone and disproportionate.”

“It’s ok, we’ll get through this, it’s ok.”

The next day we go off to work, I finish racking the shelves and feel something looking at me. I turn around and a creature all bloody with an open chest dripping on the floor, arms like bones as long as a door is wide. Head like that of a bull, its eyes were soulless as she said, its legs held sharp claws at its feet, its legs were bent inverted of a human’s legs. I blinked and it was gone, the blood still all over the floor. I call a cleaner to the isle, I go to get more books and bring them to the shelves. I then heard a scream from the aisle I was in, I darted. When I was there the janitor was hanging from a chandelier, impaled through the chest blood dripping. The blood on the ground now spelled in a poem:

Bring me your soul.

Lick up the blood.

Oosed in a bowl.

Over your head.

Do I come with your dread?