“Seriously, if I have to come in there again, so help me...”

Claire looked up at her mom, pleadingly, “You said you to be a good girl. I’m trying to be good.”

“If you’re trying to be a good girl than why aren’t you in bed? You have school in the morning.”

Frustrated, Claire slumped off the sofa. She tryed her best to look angry and forlorn and annoyed all at the same time. A countenance thwarted by pigtails and My Little Pony pajamas. She mumbled a response.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“Bed!” mom yelled. Her sleeve made a crisp “snap” as she pointed toward Claire’s bedroom.

Claire, knowing she was danger-close to being grounded, tried once more. “But I don’t want to go to bed, the man with no eyes is waiting for me in the closet!”

With this, her mother’s own eyes rolled so far back Claire wondered if she might have passed out. “Oh, puhhhh-leeeease. Not this again.”

“But it’s true!”

“Claire, you are almost seven years old. It’s time for this to stop. There is no ‘man with no eyes’ in your closet. This is just another one of those silly stories you come up with when you don’t want to go to sleep! You know that, so don’t tell me your afraid to go in your own room.”

“But I am. I’m afraid something bad will happen.”

“Something bad? Like what, Claire? Like the time you said the mean librarian was bleeding under your bed? Or after Mr. Duncan fired your father you said he was in the attic and lost his leg? Or the time when that dog that bit you—“

Exasperated, Claire yelled, “But it’s true! They’re all true!”

The loud crack of wood hitting wood startled the girl as her mom slammed shut a cupboard door. The door rebounded and a drinking glass fell to the floor and shattered.

“Dammit!” Her mother, angry at herself now as well, lashed out. “Get. In. BED!”

Claire ran to her room, just ahead of the stomp-stomp-stomping of the hundred and twenty pound raging bull of a mother on her heels. She slammed her door and jumped under her covers.

She heard her mother’s muffled warning: “If I see you before morning so help me I’ll…” The volume drifted off as her mother went back to the kitchen to deal with the broken glass.

Claire startled again when the walls shook, her mother slamming the door to the garage. Grabbing a dustpan and broom, she guessed.

Slowly, she surveyed her room. On the surface everything seemed okay. Normal. But she knew better.

It looked like every other kid’s room. Care Bears and Cabbage Patch Kids on her bed. Posters of kittens and puppies being silly. A signed picture of Mary Lou Retton her dad got for her while he was contracted to the Olympics. And, or course, tons of My Little Pony. A normal kid with a normal kid’s room.

Except Claire wasn’t a normal kid.

As much as she tried to be good, to do what she was supposed to and, more importantly, not do what she wasn’t supposed to, it seemed out of her control. Instinctual. She wanted to be good, but so often she was, well, bad. Very bad. Sometimes it just felt easier—justified, even—to give in to the bad feelings.

To be bad to bad people.

To hurt the people that hurt her.

She heard a thump in her closet.

Another.

Claire slowly walked to the bifold door, put her hand out, and touched the knob. A louder thump, but she didn’t move.

“You better be in bed, young lady!” filtered past the door from somewhere else in the house.

Claire returned her attention to the closet.

In one quick motion she opened the door.

Even though the man’s eyes were gone, he still aimed his face in her direction. He was in his forties, small-framed, balding. Dried blood streaked down from the edges of his eyelids. His head moved side-to-side as though he was still trying to see. His face distorted as he tearlessly cried.

“You should be quiet. I don’t want my mom to hear.”

At the sound of Claire’s voice the man quickly moved as far into the back corner of the closet as he could get, his hands alternating between trying to feel for what was in front of him and trying to protect his face. He whimpered, but could not find his voice.

“I didn’t want this to happen, Mr. Pederson. But Becky said you like to look at little girls, to touch them. To hurt them. She said you hurt her. Becky is my best friend, Mr. Pederson. You shouldn’t hurt my best friend.”

The man shrunk even more into himself.

“My mom says I need to be a good person. Not to hurt people. To forgive them. I don’t think you’re a good person. But she says that I need to learn how to be nice, even if people are mean. Like when Timmy O. took my Trapper Keeper and wouldn’t give it back. I didn’t do anything to him. I wanted to, but I’m trying to be good.”

With that, the man’s body relaxed just a bit. His hands dropped to his sides. Maybe there was hope. Mercy.

The man made a barely audible plea. “Please, I’m sorry. Give me another chance. I’ll stop. I’ll get help. Please.”

Claire looked at the weak, pathetic thing cowering before her.

“Nah. You’ve had your chance. Now it’s my turn.”

With that, Claire’s mandible detached, expanding to nearly half her total size, exposing multiple rows of razor-sharp teeth.