[A bit of flash fiction for today based on the prompt "You don't scare me," as given at Writing.com]
I say it, but I don’t believe it; not really. I just hope it sounds convincing. I’m not sure it matters, but it might.
The thing in my closet never reacts. Still, I know It hears me. I know that It watches.
So I try to sound confident. Angry, even. I try to walk slowly across the plush carpet, past the closet door and over to my bed.
It doesn’t make any noise. It doesn’t move. Nevertheless, I can see the shadow through the gap in the closet door, left carelessly ajar this morning.
If I don’t act bravely and tell It that I am not afraid, It will come for me. That’s what my brother told me. He’s older. He knows about these things. After all, It never came for him.
I look down, concentrating on the feel of the beige carpet between my toes, making each stride purposeful. Mimicking how I see soldiers marching in the movies I’m not supposed to watch. Head erect, shoulders back. Strong and courageous.
I think my voice cracked just a bit as I said the words this time, “You don’t scare me!”
I strode forward a little less confident than usual, hoping It didn’t notice. If It hadn’t come before, It surely could be fooled. I said the words and I walked the walk, but I was pretending. Acting, because It did scare me.
Then I heard the shuffling. The door creaked slightly. I’m sure of it. I didn’t dare look back. What if It was coming this time?
Without another thought, I bolted toward the bed and dove onto it, pulling the covers up over my head in a panic. My heart beat a million miles a minute, but I was safe now.
Wasn’t I? For one more night at least.