DOCTOR FOG

WARNING: the following story contains subjects that some readers may find distressing.

“Do you remember, Kenneth?” they would ask. Therapists, police. “Do you remember what happened that night?”

I remember.

I was six. Six years old. How, at six years old, do you say that you remember so clearly – as clearly as if I could see it play in front of my eyes now – but that they wouldn’t believe me?

I had seen the monster before that night. He used to stand in my wardrobe, waiting. I assumed that it was he, and not her, in the way that you make these assumptions at the age of six, on little more than guesswork. I assumed also that the wide smile he gave me, revealing long, sharp teeth, was not a pleasant one.

I knew little of monsters then, and what monsters are. I know better now, of course. Read more