I had a rough time as a kid. I suffered from both hem and
geodmas and spotty hair loss, two conditions that would go away the closer I
got to my teenage years. But for those first few years, I was
a social prior. I looked strange, which was enough to draw unwanted attention.
Some kids thought I had a kind of mange what others just didn't like
to look at me. My parents didn't make it easier for me, forcing
me to bring various creams that I had to apply during school hours. I
ended up trying to make my own fun. I made my own friends in
my head, and I played a lot of board games on my own.
My parents were going through a divorce and both swore off having any more children,
so I ended up as an only child. Most of my made up
friends were just the plaything. I could tell it was all just for fun
and that they weren't real. I didn't see them or hear them. I
made up little stories in my head, trying to imagine what they would do
if they were there. I could get really into it. I had this
one imaginary friend who always tried to cheat in games, so when I played
with him at the table. I'd move the pieces in a way he would
and thus cheat. Another friend was obsessed with lemonade, so I always brought
an extra glass for him. When I was seven years old, there was
a new friend. This one was different. I could really see him.
I knew he was just as fake as the rest of them, as he
only appeared when I was alone and playing. But he was strange. I
hadn't imagined him for a specific purpose. I didn't come up with a name
for him. I don't know anything about him. Even if I would pretend
not to know the cheetah and the lemonade enthusiast to try of conversation, this
one was a genuine mystery. He was scary. He looked like a person,
but sort of stretched at least seven feet tall, pale, flaking gray
skin. He was super thin and had this sort of hanging face, like
his skin was slouching. It reminded me of a wet towel hanging off a
rack. And his eyes, well, they were empty. There was nothing
there. He was super quiet and rarely moved. I'd usually forget he was
even there unless he made his little sound, a sort of teeth chatter.
It was like a tick, sometimes a single click. Other times he'd just
stand there, chattering excitedly, clack clack clack. At first, I just
asked him to go away. He didn't talk, and he didn't answer my
questions. No matter what I played, he refused to participate or even acknowledge
me. He just wanted to be there. Most of the time, he
was a nuisance. He'd scare me. I'd wake up to that noise of
chattering teeth at night, or he did click right next to my ear when
I played my board games. Over time, it went from scary to frustrating.
He was just being a bother. But there was a time in middle
school that changed the way I viewed him. There was a new kid in
school. It was an infamous bully, let's call him Ian. He'd been
moved from another school where it had been a menace. No one really knew
what to do with him, so they just sort of moved him around,
and now it was our turn to deal with him, and of course I
was a clear target. Ian started calling me scabs, and it kind of
caught on. The sick dog of the class now had a name that others
clung to, and it wasn't a good one, but it didn't end there.
One day after school, he took things too far, spurred on my
cheers and laughter from my classmates. I was beaten, bloody. While I
was beaten, the others went inside to get some scissors. They were gonna
cut my mangy hair. When it was just me and Ian, I heard
that teeth chattering noise again. I could see the strange figure in the background.
My first thought was that he was there to mock me too, but
to my surprise, it had other plans. It leaned in, unhinged its
massive jaw, and took a bite out of Ian's ear, tearing it in
half. There was instant pandemonium. Ian turned around, not looking at me,
but straight at his assailant. He could see him too, blood and
screams panic. Ian scrambled like a scared dog, dripping over his own legs
to get away. The others came running back to but as they saw what
had happened, they'd all had a collective gasp. Seeing them step back was
empowering. They turned and ran, screaming and pointing. They hadn't seen what
Ian and I had. They thought I'd done it. He took it.
He took it into here. The kids ran away. They ran like their
heads were on fire. I sat there for a moment, my body pulsing
with bruises and shock. The strange creature approached me. His teeth had stopped
chattering, replaced with chewing, slowly savoring a meal. For all the hell
it had given me, this was grotesque. My adrenaline had spiked, and
I just said the first thing that came to mind. Maybe he didn't really
want to hurt me, Maybe it was there for some other reason. Either
way, I said what I said. You're just a big softy, aren't
you. I sniffled, You're a big softy. Big softy. It wheezed
back. He was less of a voice and more of a throbbing wind.
His lips didn't move, Big softy, it continued, Um, yeah you
are. I nodded, that's you. It leaned in close, inspecting me.
He didn't breathe name, It hissed free. I stared into those hollow
sockets, waiting for something to happen, a smile, a breath, anything,
but no. I blinked, and big softy it was no longer there.
Sometimes violence solves things. While that brawl didn't, make me popular.
It stopped kids from teasing me. Classmates began using my regular name again.
Sure there was still whispers and the occasional side eye, but that was still
an immense improvement. No one spoke about that fight though. I didn't want
to get in trouble for the ear, and he didn't want to get in
trouble for bullying me, so he kept it to ourselves and never spoke of
it again. He and seemed fine with sitting quietly and not talking to any
one about it. He'd changed, and Big Softy well, he sort of
disappeared. It's like he'd done his job and went on his merry way.
For a couple of years that followed, I thought he just might have been
a figment of my imagination. Maybe I was the one who really bitty and
and this whole thing was just a way to cope with that trauma. It
had to be something of the sort. Imaginary friends don't affect the real world.
Then again, giving him a name, even a nickname, seemed to
have encouraged him was something worse. Most of my afflictions cleared up in high
school and have found a solid group of like minded youths over time. All
little dream friends faded from memory. The one who cheated, the one who
loved lemonade, a hundred others who I can't even remember, the way they
looked, the way they sounded, the names and quirks. They all went
away. A Big Softy stayed at my mind realer than any of them.
The hollow eyes, the chattering teeth. It was strange how the most horrifying
of all my imaginary friends turned out to be the one who stuck around the
longest. But time passed. High school turned to college, college turned to
work, and by the time I was twenty seven I had a pretty cozy
life going. But even then, despite not having seen or heard that childhood
friend of mine, Big Softy still drifted in my dreams every now and then.
I wish I could end this story here. It'd just be a strange
anecdote about something that happened to me as a kid. Sadly that's not the
case. What began as an unusual charter of curiosity turned into a waking nightmare.
Back in twenty nineteen, and I was in a pretty good place.
I was six months into a promotion that added a flat fifteen percent of my
salary, and I was finally getting back into dating after a messy break up
a couple of months earlier. Nothing serious, but it felt good to shake
off the cobwebs. I was coming home from a long day of overtime and
had to stop for gas, nothing I hadn't done a hundred times before.
I got myself a slim gym and told the long haired man behind the counter
that I wanted thirty on pumpt two. I handed over my card and checked
my phone for a moment, clack teeth turning around nothing. I could feel
my pulse spiking for no apparent reason. I became hyper aware of my surroundings.
You have had light and the faint whiff of gasoline. That one noise
brought me straight back to middle school. It sent this cold spike straight into
my head, as if I could picture that hollowed out face in front of
me. I snapped out of it with a beat from the cash register.
I thanked the cashier and headed for the door. Just before I left,
I turned back around to them, Excuse me, but did you hear something
strange just now? No, can't say I did, Sorry, did you
click your tongue or something? Can't say I did, sir, I nodded,
Of course they didn't. The same sensation came back to me on four
different occasions, once when I was closing the blinds in my bedroom, once
when getting the mail at work, another time when stuck in traffic, and
once when I was about to answer a phone call. I ended up missing
it. It was such a strange reminder. Did it come out of nowhere?
And now it was starting to become a daily annoyance for the life of
me. I couldn't figure out where it was coming from. There wasn't really
a direction. It was just like in my head. He was there everywhere,
nowhere and inside clack, and yet Big Softy was yet to be seen.
I was having trouble focusing on work. I couldn't push my intrusive thoughts
out, and I ended up doing some digging on social media, looking up
old acquaintances from work, Folks I hadn't seen or heard from in years.
Some had started families, Others had moved far away from work or studies.
There were a handful of them still left in Minnesota. One face stood out
to me, though, Ian turns out he was still around. The moment
I got home from work, I went straight to my computer. I looked
up Ian on some of the more common social media sites. The man had
no privacy settings. Most of it was just nonsense. Pictures of him having
beers for the boys, a couple of nice cars, group pictures of random
people with generic nicknames. This was a man that wanted to express nothing more
than being hashtag Friday blessed. But looking a little closer, there are a
few cracks in the facade. For example, there are a couple more recent
comments he'd made to a few friends of his. God doesn't just send angels
to protect you, he said in one post. Sometimes he sends demons that
test you. Looking a bit closer revealed a lot more pain that was freadily
apparent. Ian was taking medication for schizophrenia. He was overcoming a drinking problem.
He seemed to constantly be bouncing between complete disregard for others and hysterical with
regret for his actions. He could be fighting for forgiveness in one post and
bragging about stealing from work in the next. The man was a mess,
a complete mess, and that half missing ear of his didn't do him any
favors. No matter how many tattoos he put on his neck to divert the
attention, but one particular post caught my attention. He was discussing lifestyle challenges
with a local youth pastor, an old acquaintance we had in common, and
they were at a disagreement. Ian spat out, I don't deny my godamn
problems. I know what they look like, I know their names. I
see their teeth, see their teeth. Ah fhethermore, no one seemed to
have seen him for a while. For all intents and purposes, Ian had
sort of fallen off the face of the earth, leaving behind one last cryptic
post. It's getting too real. The post said it's too close, and
with that he posted nothing more. I checked the dates my notes and made
some deductions. The final post of this was written the same day I first
started hearing the teeth chattering noise. Again. That couldn't be a coincidence.
It just couldn't. I didn't find out anything else about him, and the
sound of teeth chattering with horrible timing, was getting worse. Once I had
to pull over in traffic to stop my heart from racing, I could have
sworn I saw that hollowed out face in my rear view mirror. I was
so frustrated that I smacked my hands on my dashboard so hard I got a
bruise. By the time I got home, I was nervous and stressed.
I threw off my jacket, stormed into the kitchen and cracked open a coke.
I slammed the door shut so hard I knocked one of the fridge magnets
on to the floor. A little blue sunflower who came with a place leaning
back against the fridge, my heart skipped a beat. Big Softy was right
there, just a few feet away, looking right at me. Clack clack.
I dropped my can of coke as it hit the floor, I blinked.
In the next moment, I was alone again, clutching my chest.
I picked the can up, wiped up the spill with a couple of paper
towels, try my best to calm down. This was getting out of hand.
I hadn't regained my composure before there was another sound and knock on the
door. It surprised me. I wasn't expecting company. I lumbered over to
the door, flustered and shaky. I put my hand and on the handle,
then stopped. Maybe there was a reason I'd seen that thing. Maybe
it wasn't just psychosis. What if it meant something? Could it'd have something
to do with whoever or whatever was on the other side of the door.
I can shoot you through the door, A mofled voice said, Open.
I froze, one hand on the door handle, another hand on my phone.
I was stuck. I couldn't make myself move. I won't ask again
Open. I didn't know what to say. I turned the handle and carefully
stepped back. Ian he looked like he'd gone through hell to get here,
on washed hair, on kempt beard, and a shiny new handgun pointed at
me. His hands were shaking. He wasn't kidding around. His fingers trembled.
He was trying to pull the trigger. Ian I said reflexively, you
what do you? Shut up? He spat, just shut up. He
raised the handgun, staring me down. The sound of his own name shock
him. It has to end, I can't. His aim faltered. He
looked away. A second later, he pushed me back and entered my apartment,
closing the door behind him. He led me into the kitchen. There
was still wet paper towels on the floor from my spilled drink. Sit down,
he said, pointing to a chair. Keep your hands on the table.
I did as he said. There was a sudden quiet between us,
as if he hadn't planned this far. There was a clear uncertainty to his
actions, which just made it worse. And tell what he'd do next.
I need you to to make it stop, he said. It has to
stop, It has to I just can't. Don't tell me you can't.
You raised this gun, stepping closer. My whole body felt cooler. His
blood rushed to my arms and legs. Don't you tell me that, he
repeated. Now make it stop. Before I got a chance to say,
you'll do anything, he sat down across from me. Gun still pointed in
my direction. One wrong move, a twitch, anything, and it'd be
over. I almost forgot to breathe. I know it's yours. It's been
yours for always, he continued, scratching his hair. But it's too much,
it's gone too far. So okay, I tried to click my thoughts.
You're talking about him with the teeth. Don't act like you don't know
its name, he groaned. Don't you dare? We looked at one another
and said it in unison, big Softy. The moment we said it,
I could see him emerging from the shadows in the back of the kitchen.
I try my best, not a gasp, will look his way. He's
in my head every night. I hear him all the time. Ian continued,
that damn click clacking right in my ear, sometimes in my face,
like he wants to take a bite. I'm not controlling that, I said,
carefully, picking my words. I haven't seen him in decades. You
even know how bad you missed up, he said, squinting with disbelief.
You named it. They saw. They need to go off. They need
a name, They need to be made real. And he raised this gun,
growing more determined by the second you made him real. Removed this time
to the bathroom. I didn't have any saying the matter, having a gun
pointed straight at me. Somewhere off in the background, I could see the
vague shape of big Softy moving soundlessly from one room to another. I can't
control it, I said, I have nothing to I don't care, but
this is pointless. There's nothing I don't care. If you go away,
his name goes away. You don't know that. I was pushed through the
bathroom door and to the back of my shower. I tripped, coming down
hard on my tailbone. The ceramic tiles felt icy cold against my sweaty palms,
and I could smell a bit of chlorine from the cleaning supplies. He
raised his gun and this was it, Big Softy, I said, that's
that's all I did. I called it a goddamn nickname. I don't deserve
to die for that. He's resolved, faltered. He scratched his head again,
groaning, but more so. I could see Big Softy just outside the
room. Was he getting closer? Big Softy? I said again, my
eyes darting to the door. I was a scared kid. It just slipped
out. Don't you dare put this on me? He said, don't you
dare? I observed the creature he was approaching. Every time I said it's
name, it got a little closer, looking ian dead in the eye.
I took a deep breath. This was it, Big Softy, I said,
Big Softy, Big Softy, What the hell? I kept repeating it
over and over and over. He might do something, he might not.
Either way, I had to try. But by the sixth time I said
it, that enormous, looming creature was inches behind Ian, but more so,
he was changing, not by a lot, but enough for me to
notice he was smiling. Ian raised his gun at me and pulled the trigger
at the same time I said the name for a seventh and final time.
The shot went wild as an unhinged jaw came down on Ian's shoulder. There
was a scream, a spurt of blood on the bathroom mirror, a flailing
arm hitting the light switch, turning a gruesome scene into a shadow far at
her, impossibly thin hands wrapping around a throat, twisting his neck like a
toothpaste cap, crunching, ripping, chewing, teeth, teeth teeth, clack,
clack clack, laughter, other worldly, ethereal laughter. I have no
idea how long it went on. Ian didn't even have time to beg the
handgun clattered to the ground. It was just me and this thing, alone
in a dark bathroom. I couldn't speak. I just curled up into a
ball and tried my best to ignore the viscera running into the train next to
me. There was a slight creaking sound as old knees bent a hot breath
in my face. Big Softy could breathe. It seemed nice name. It
said. The voice was different, real, tangible. I could hear vibrations
in his throat. This was no longer a figment of my imagination. Going
it continued aye, I could hear something getting dragged out of the apartment.
I heard doors open and close, and god knows how long I realized I
was sitting there, shaking like a dry leaf in the wind. My stomach
turned at the idea of turning on the light, but I had to.
I got up and reached for the light switch, almost tripping on the handgun
and something slippery clinging to it fingers. I flipped the switch and I broke.
I won't go into detail of what I saw. Most of the body
was gone, not all of it, but most of it. It was
a blood trail leading into the hallway, then disappearing just as it reached the
front door. I'd brought that thing into the world. I'd named it,
i'd reinforced it, i'd believed it called out to it. I'd made it
real. All it had to do was answer. You can't unlearn something,
And even if I could, I think it's too late. I think Big
Softy got just enough of what he needed to become something else. Entirely.
He took a life, and now he's got one of his own. Maybe
you still have some kind of connection. I don't know. I'd think we
do where else he might have just killed me too, right then and there.
Then again, there's no way to tell. I've obsessed over this for
years, looking through articles about mentions of Ian. There were no search parties,
no one came looking. Even the people who missed him were reluctant to
work with the police, and with his history of schizophrenia, there was a
higher likelihood of him just doing something he shouldn't. But I knew better.
Ian hadn't been schizophrenic. Big Softy had just stuck to him and just tortured
him for god knows how long decade. Looking back at it, I think
that was the plan all along, to drive Ian to a point where he
would try to kill me. But it's in their final moments that a person
gets truly desperate, and that's what I felt on that floor, desperation.
I reached out to whoever would answer, and I couldn't fathom the consequences.
He's out there right now. He probably looks like us, walks like us,
and sounds like us. But wherever he is, and whatever he does,
I don't want a part of it. I don't know what to say.
But if you meet a strangely tall man he does that thing with his
teeth, just no that there might be more to him, a lot more.
He's more than just a big softy