Amaya Gentry

Monsters in the Woods

We moved to a place where there’s monsters in the woods:

Roosters in the shape of giraffes (rooraffes),

a wendigo with a strawberry pink coat.

They’re unsettling, manageable, except for one.

That one is me.

Not metaphorically, no this one wears my face.

She stares at me from the clearing in the backyard,

surrounded by a wall of trees.

Maybe it’d be fine if it was only at night,

(it wouldn’t) but I see them during the day.

No one makes comments on them,

everyone just goes about their lives like this is normal.

The neighbors are the worst part.

They come to the clearing, dressed in black,

dancing in circles like some kind of ritual.

I never dare to go outside when they’re around.

I asked my parents why we moved here

when there are monsters.

They said we could handle it.

Once when I talked to my mom,

we discussed this place’s weirdness

when a voice broke through,

halting our conversation.

It was my mom’s voice,

coming from outside in the dead of night.

Did everyone else have a doppelganger?

I started seeing her more and more.

My copy watching me, neutral face,

right at the wood’s edge.

Never any closer.

Then I saw her by a rooraffe,

sniffing around the hammock my brother set up.

It was past the trees.

I told my parents,

told them she’s getting closer,

that she’s coming for me.

They said the monsters couldn’t come inside,

that this was a good thing;

I could get it over with,

Mom had already dealt with hers.

Day after day that monster crept into my safety.

I started getting less sleep,

started looking out the window more.

My brother grew upset I wasn’t spending time with him.

I told him about the doppelganger

and he told me to relax and play games with him.

Perhaps I did need a rest.

We played video games until I needed a drink.

At the fridge I took a sip before hearing it:

The creak of the garage door.

There she was with mud-covered feet,

hair a nest, and skin a fresh corpse.

I ran.

Up the stairs and to my brother’s room,

the pounding of steps right behind.

I slammed the door, he looked my way,

our eyes sharing unspoken understanding.

One throw and the window was open,

the bedroom door thrown aside

right as the two of us clambered outside.

It’s on these tiles that I look down,

to the face of myself reaching up.

Only once our eyes lock that I understand

what my parents said.

With a shove she fell,

body breaking apart as dark black leaks out.

I never saw her after that.

Never saw the other monsters,

or rooraffes,

or our neighbors dancing in our yard.

But sometimes I can still hear their clucks at sunrise.

I still look out to the clearing to see if anything’s staring back.