insect inside. It tickled when it beat its wings.
That was when I heard a bang.
My heart thumped in my ears.
There was another bang.
And then another.
I broke into a sweat because I knew what it meant. “Please not for me. Please don’t have come for me,” I whispered into the darkness.
The first night I heard those noises I cried in my bed with my muscles so frozen with terror I couldn’t move. When I mentioned it at breakfast, Mom told me that I must’ve imagined it. That there were no monsters up above, or in the wardrobe, or under my bed. But Dad told me the truth.
“What you heard was the Cricket Man’s footsteps,” he explained.
“He’s an old man with giant black eyes whose knees bend the wrong way.” And he tried to dramatize what he was saying by walking in a squat around the dining area. “He also has two big antennae, so big they rub against the ceiling when he goes in a house.”
“Why does he go in houses?” I asked.
Dad turned a chair around and sat on it with his legs open, holding the backrest. “Because he hunts for children with his antennae.” He held both arms against his forehead and waved them. “With his antennae, and the light from an oil lamp, he searches underground for badly behaved children, to stick them in his sack.”
“And what does he do with them?” I wanted to know.
Dad moved his face so close to mine that he scratched me with his hair scar. “He eats them,” he said. “He starts with the feet, then the legs, and then the belly, until he reaches the head.” He made a chomping sound with his teeth. “And while he eats them, he rubs his back-to-front knees together to chirp like a cricket.”
Now, positioned by Dad’s armchair with the firefly beating its wings inside my hand, I felt a shiver as I remembered the chirping I’d heard just after he told me that story, the chirping of a real cricket.
There was another bang in the darkness.
The Cricket Man was coming for me. He wanted to stick me in his sack because I’d put the baby’s life in danger when I hid the firefly jar in the crib. And because I’d begun to ask myself what there was outside the basement.
I held my breath.
I looked up at the living room window. The bars killed off any idea of escape. I also looked at the door that had never been open. I had to make a big effort to move my body numbed with fear, but managed to cross the living room in the direction of the hall. I saw the half-open door to my bedroom. I wanted to run to my bed and disappear under the sheets, to feel the soft material inside my pillow between my fingers.
That was when the hinges creaked on my parents’ door.
I pressed myself against the wall, to one side of the threshold that led to the hall.
Then I heard it.
A knee clicking. The back-to-front knee of the Cricket Man. I imagined his antennae vibrating, searching for my scent, scraping the ceiling. His giant black eyes capturing what little light there was in the basement to make my silhouette multiply in lots of hexagonal cells.
More clicking. Nearer this time.
With my head pressed against the wall, I made out his silhouette in the hall, to one side of my field of vision.
I heard the patter of his feet on the floor. Until I realized it was the sound of my teeth chattering. I bit my bottom lip to stop them.
The Cricket Man opened the door to my grandmother’s room. I knew then that he hadn’t come for me. He wanted to take the baby. The stony feeling that locked my joints prevented me from moving.
When the door closed, I couldn’t contain the hot liquid that now dripped down my legs.
After a space of time that I was unable to measure, the silhouette emerged from the room. I imagined my nephew in the sack, his face scratched by the Cricket Man’s hairy legs.
The baby cried.
But the crying came from inside the bedroom. The little boy was safe.
The hinges on my parents’ door creaked again, making my body finally react. I emerged from behind the wall
That was when I heard a bang.
My heart thumped in my ears.
There was another bang.
And then another.
I broke into a sweat because I knew what it meant. “Please not for me. Please don’t have come for me,” I whispered into the darkness.
The first night I heard those noises I cried in my bed with my muscles so frozen with terror I couldn’t move. When I mentioned it at breakfast, Mom told me that I must’ve imagined it. That there were no monsters up above, or in the wardrobe, or under my bed. But Dad told me the truth.
“What you heard was the Cricket Man’s footsteps,” he explained.
“He’s an old man with giant black eyes whose knees bend the wrong way.” And he tried to dramatize what he was saying by walking in a squat around the dining area. “He also has two big antennae, so big they rub against the ceiling when he goes in a house.”
“Why does he go in houses?” I asked.
Dad turned a chair around and sat on it with his legs open, holding the backrest. “Because he hunts for children with his antennae.” He held both arms against his forehead and waved them. “With his antennae, and the light from an oil lamp, he searches underground for badly behaved children, to stick them in his sack.”
“And what does he do with them?” I wanted to know.
Dad moved his face so close to mine that he scratched me with his hair scar. “He eats them,” he said. “He starts with the feet, then the legs, and then the belly, until he reaches the head.” He made a chomping sound with his teeth. “And while he eats them, he rubs his back-to-front knees together to chirp like a cricket.”
Now, positioned by Dad’s armchair with the firefly beating its wings inside my hand, I felt a shiver as I remembered the chirping I’d heard just after he told me that story, the chirping of a real cricket.
There was another bang in the darkness.
The Cricket Man was coming for me. He wanted to stick me in his sack because I’d put the baby’s life in danger when I hid the firefly jar in the crib. And because I’d begun to ask myself what there was outside the basement.
I held my breath.
I looked up at the living room window. The bars killed off any idea of escape. I also looked at the door that had never been open. I had to make a big effort to move my body numbed with fear, but managed to cross the living room in the direction of the hall. I saw the half-open door to my bedroom. I wanted to run to my bed and disappear under the sheets, to feel the soft material inside my pillow between my fingers.
That was when the hinges creaked on my parents’ door.
I pressed myself against the wall, to one side of the threshold that led to the hall.
Then I heard it.
A knee clicking. The back-to-front knee of the Cricket Man. I imagined his antennae vibrating, searching for my scent, scraping the ceiling. His giant black eyes capturing what little light there was in the basement to make my silhouette multiply in lots of hexagonal cells.
More clicking. Nearer this time.
With my head pressed against the wall, I made out his silhouette in the hall, to one side of my field of vision.
I heard the patter of his feet on the floor. Until I realized it was the sound of my teeth chattering. I bit my bottom lip to stop them.
The Cricket Man opened the door to my grandmother’s room. I knew then that he hadn’t come for me. He wanted to take the baby. The stony feeling that locked my joints prevented me from moving.
When the door closed, I couldn’t contain the hot liquid that now dripped down my legs.
After a space of time that I was unable to measure, the silhouette emerged from the room. I imagined my nephew in the sack, his face scratched by the Cricket Man’s hairy legs.
The baby cried.
But the crying came from inside the bedroom. The little boy was safe.
The hinges on my parents’ door creaked again, making my body finally react. I emerged from behind the wall
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