and ran to the bunk bed. I threw myself onto the mattress, sheets up to my forehead, firefly still in my fist.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t mean to hurt the baby. Please don’t have come for me.”
The sweat that covered my body went cold. I could sense someone looking at me inside the room. I could hear breathing. When I heard the first guffaw I closed my eyes. And then I recognized the laughter. That guttural sound. My brother’s heehaw got louder.
“You’re scared,” he said. He made another donkey noise.
“Shut up, or he’ll find us.”
“Who?” he asked, still laughing.
“The man who comes sometimes,” I whispered.
My brother went quiet.
“Did Dad tell you about him?” he said after a few seconds.
“Yeah,” I answered into the darkness. “Ages ago.”
“Age—” He swallowed. “Ages ago?”
My brother fell silent again.
“Didn’t you know?” I asked. “The Cricket Man hunts children who live underground, if they misbehave.”
My brother laughed again.
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “He told me, yeah.”
He exploded into guttural laughter while I tried to shush him.
“Shut up,” I said. “Shut up, or he’ll find me.”
My brother laughed until he choked. Then he started coughing. The springs on his bunk squeaked with every cough.
Then the bedroom door opened.
The Cricket Man had found me.
The light came on. I covered my face with the sheet.
“What’s wrong?” Mom asked from the door.
I sighed with relief, and took a breath before answering. “I’m scared.”
“Not you, your brother.” He was still laughing and coughing. “Will you be quiet?” my mother ordered.
She approached the bed. I poked my head out from the sheet. I could see Mom’s body up to her chest. The rest was above my brother’s bunk. He wasn’t laughing much anymore. He was coughing in a frantic way that was making him choke.
“Stop!” my mother shouted. I heard her slap my brother’s back a few times.
“You have to stop!” she persisted. “Your brother mustn’t be kept awake.”
The coughing fit gradually subsided.
“What brought this on?” my mother asked him. Receiving no answer, she turned to me. “How long have you been awake? What have you heard?”
I hesitated. The key hung from her neck like a pendulum. “I saw the Cricket Man,” I said.
“Have you been out of your room?”
The firefly I’d gone to rescue was still fluttering in my closed hand.
“No,” I lied.
“Then where did you see him? In this bedroom?”
I shook my head.
“Of course you didn’t,” she said, “because he doesn’t exist. You know that.”
“He does exist!” my brother shouted from above.
My mother cuffed him.
“Be quiet,” she told him. “He doesn’t exist.”
Mom pinched her stretched T-shirt between her legs and sat on the side of my bed. She put a hand on my tummy.
“That man doesn’t exist,” she repeated. “No one’s going to take you away. This is your home and you’re safe here. Now I’m going to bring you a glass of milk, you’re going to drink it, and you’re going to sleep. Understood?”
I nodded, unconvinced.
Mom left the room. Above me, my brother said, “He does exist.”
I remained silent, remembering the silhouette I’d seen in the hall. The two clicks of his back-to-front knees. Then I heard a cricket’s chirp. Like I had just after Dad revealed the Cricket Man’s existence to me. A real chirp, like the one I’d heard in documentaries. Like when night fell in the movies.
A shiver ran down my back, as if a real cricket walked down my spine.
Mom returned with the glass of milk. She offered it to me, and I took it with my free hand. I didn’t want her to discover the firefly.
“I want to see you drink it,” she said.
I drank it in one gulp.
“It tastes strange,” I said.
My mother looked away for an instant. “The glass must be dirty,” she replied. “Now, sleep.”
She took the glass and
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t mean to hurt the baby. Please don’t have come for me.”
The sweat that covered my body went cold. I could sense someone looking at me inside the room. I could hear breathing. When I heard the first guffaw I closed my eyes. And then I recognized the laughter. That guttural sound. My brother’s heehaw got louder.
“You’re scared,” he said. He made another donkey noise.
“Shut up, or he’ll find us.”
“Who?” he asked, still laughing.
“The man who comes sometimes,” I whispered.
My brother went quiet.
“Did Dad tell you about him?” he said after a few seconds.
“Yeah,” I answered into the darkness. “Ages ago.”
“Age—” He swallowed. “Ages ago?”
My brother fell silent again.
“Didn’t you know?” I asked. “The Cricket Man hunts children who live underground, if they misbehave.”
My brother laughed again.
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “He told me, yeah.”
He exploded into guttural laughter while I tried to shush him.
“Shut up,” I said. “Shut up, or he’ll find me.”
My brother laughed until he choked. Then he started coughing. The springs on his bunk squeaked with every cough.
Then the bedroom door opened.
The Cricket Man had found me.
The light came on. I covered my face with the sheet.
“What’s wrong?” Mom asked from the door.
I sighed with relief, and took a breath before answering. “I’m scared.”
“Not you, your brother.” He was still laughing and coughing. “Will you be quiet?” my mother ordered.
She approached the bed. I poked my head out from the sheet. I could see Mom’s body up to her chest. The rest was above my brother’s bunk. He wasn’t laughing much anymore. He was coughing in a frantic way that was making him choke.
“Stop!” my mother shouted. I heard her slap my brother’s back a few times.
“You have to stop!” she persisted. “Your brother mustn’t be kept awake.”
The coughing fit gradually subsided.
“What brought this on?” my mother asked him. Receiving no answer, she turned to me. “How long have you been awake? What have you heard?”
I hesitated. The key hung from her neck like a pendulum. “I saw the Cricket Man,” I said.
“Have you been out of your room?”
The firefly I’d gone to rescue was still fluttering in my closed hand.
“No,” I lied.
“Then where did you see him? In this bedroom?”
I shook my head.
“Of course you didn’t,” she said, “because he doesn’t exist. You know that.”
“He does exist!” my brother shouted from above.
My mother cuffed him.
“Be quiet,” she told him. “He doesn’t exist.”
Mom pinched her stretched T-shirt between her legs and sat on the side of my bed. She put a hand on my tummy.
“That man doesn’t exist,” she repeated. “No one’s going to take you away. This is your home and you’re safe here. Now I’m going to bring you a glass of milk, you’re going to drink it, and you’re going to sleep. Understood?”
I nodded, unconvinced.
Mom left the room. Above me, my brother said, “He does exist.”
I remained silent, remembering the silhouette I’d seen in the hall. The two clicks of his back-to-front knees. Then I heard a cricket’s chirp. Like I had just after Dad revealed the Cricket Man’s existence to me. A real chirp, like the one I’d heard in documentaries. Like when night fell in the movies.
A shiver ran down my back, as if a real cricket walked down my spine.
Mom returned with the glass of milk. She offered it to me, and I took it with my free hand. I didn’t want her to discover the firefly.
“I want to see you drink it,” she said.
I drank it in one gulp.
“It tastes strange,” I said.
My mother looked away for an instant. “The glass must be dirty,” she replied. “Now, sleep.”
She took the glass and
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