Horrid, horrid, horrid girl!” the Yark thunders as he zigzags through a sky crisscrossed with lightning. Furious at his misadventure, he scratches out Charlotte’s name with great scrawling Xs.
“Next!” he mutters.
For a hungry stomach never gives up, and the Yark has already singled out his next meal. This boy called Lewis lives in an old suburb of London.
“Sweet! An English child!” The Yark is delighted. He dotes on those little creatures, with their clear complexions, red hair, and hamster teeth.
With gaping maw and flapping tongue, the Monster plunges straight down toward English soil.
As he lands in front of Lewis’s house, the Yark vows not to engage in a word of conversation.
No! This time there’ll be no knock-knock at the door or how’s it going, blah blah. He’ll rear up like a demon in the bedroom, stride across the floor straight for the bed and lunge at the child. Unseen, unheard, he’ll crunch him up raw.
Arriving at Lewis’s bedroom, the Yark takes a deep breath. “No knocking at the door, no how’s it going blah blah…” he tells himself again, to bolster his nerve. “Now go!”
The Yark rears up like a demon in the bedroom, strides across the floor, straight for the bed, and lunges at the child…
But horrors! The bed is empty!
“How can it be?” In a panic, the Monster rummages at the covers. At this hour, all good childen are snuggled under their covers! Where the dickens is that Lewis?
He bends over and takes a look under the bed…
There’s no one…
A smell, however, tickles his nostrils. A whiff of little boy wafts around him. He sniffs again… His powerful nose distinguishes the scents of little eyes, little fingers, little feet, a little liver, and even, sniffing again, the bloody smell of a little heart hammering inside a little chest.
Suddenly, the Yark sees movement.
There!
In the blanket tent set up beside the bed.
Slowly, silently, the Yark opens the flap…
Inside, a little boy is staring him right in the eye.
“Who are you?” asks the kid, without a hint of fear.
Such coolness astonishes the Monster. Still, at least he hasn’t been recognized. This child won’t erupt into bad language or take a poop in his bookbag to make himself inedible.
“And what are you doing here?” the small child insists.
“Whatever you do, don’t answer!” the Yark tells himself, biting his cheeks. “Don’t let yourself be bamboozled or weakened!” He’s actually a softie, the Yark! How many times, because he stopped to chat with his prey, has he been stirred by pity as he munches? It’s no fun hunting for your food, let alone feeling sympathy for the meal!
Killing a fellow creature is a rotten job and no Monster finds joy in these carnivorous crimes, with the exception, of course, of vampires, zombies, and toreadors.
“What’s your name?” the child asks in an innocent tone.
But now, without standing on ceremony, the Yark opens his powerful jaws lined with sharp teeth and, snap! the little Englishman disappears down the gaping maw.
“Hurray! Tra-la-la-la-la!” the Monster whoops as he takes an elegant dance step or two. That little Lewis really was a scrumptious morsel!
He starts laughing and wiggles his hips.
“Ah, how delicious! Oh, what a feast! Ah, how nice to have a full belly!
But all at once, the Yark freezes. Sobs sound in the darkness. He pricks his ears… The sounds are coming from the wardrobe…
“Is someone in there?” the Monster whispers as he creeps over.
“Yes! For pity’s sake let me out,” begs a childish voice.
“And who are you?” the Yark demands.
The small voice responds with these two tragic words: “I’m Lewis!”