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

Claire looked at her mom, pleading, "You said you want me to be a good girl. I'm trying to be good."

"If you're trying to be a good girl, why aren't you in bed? You have school in the morning."

Frustrated, Claire slumped off the sofa, trying her best to look angry, forlorn, and annoyed simultaneously, an attempt thwarted by her pigtails and My Little Pony pajamas. She mumbled her response.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing."

"Bed!" her mom said, her sleeve making 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 eyes rolled so far back that 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. You know that, so don't tell me you're afraid to go to your 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 against wood as her mother slammed shut a cupboard door. A broken drinking glass; Dammit! Her mother, angry at herself as well, lashed out, "NOW!"

Claire ran to her room, just ahead of the stomp-stomp-stomping hundred-and-twenty-pound raging bull of a mother following behind her. She slammed her door behind her just in time, hearing her mother's muffled warning: "If I see you before morning, so help me, I'll…" The volume drifted off as her mother returned to the kitchen to deal with the broken glass.

Claire was 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. Everything seemed okay. Normal. But she knew better. She knew what was behind the surface-level safety of what should have been her favorite place in the world. It looked like every other kid's room of that era: Care Bears and Cabbage Patch Kids on her bed, posters of kittens and puppies being silly. She proudly displayed a signed picture of Mary Lou Retton that her dad got for her while contracted to the Olympics. And, of course, tons of My Little Pony. Just an average kid's room in a typical house in a standard suburb.

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, it seemed out of her control. Instinctual. She wanted to be exemplary, but so often, she was terrible. So often, it seemed easier—justified, even—to be nasty to bad people. To hurt the people that hurt her or those she cared about.

She heard a thump in her closet that pulled her from her pouting.

Then another.

She 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 pointed his face toward her. He was in his forties, small-framed, balding. Dried blood streaked down from the edges of his eyelids as his head moved, side-to-side, trying to sense if someone was there. His face distorted, as though he was starting to cry.

"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, his hands switching between trying to feel for what was in front of him and protecting 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 hurt them. That you do bad things."

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 I need to learn to be nice, even if people are mean, like when Timmy Olafson took my Trapper Keeper and wouldn't return it. I didn't do anything. 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.

Claire was silent for a moment. Contemplative.

"But she also says I'm a little snot and never do what I'm told, so..."

With that, Claire's mandible detached from her skull, expanding to nearly half the little girl's total size. The skin of her face stretched around the massive jaw, exposing multiple rows of razor-sharp teeth.

Her mother turned briefly toward Claire's room, thinking she'd heard a muffled scream. Must have been something on the TV.