I nod with the most serious expression, although I really feel like giggling: Dashka is always inventing ridiculous names for her toys. Where does she even get them? Her shabby one-eyed teddy bear is Hillsley, the pink plastic pony is Abruk, and the curly puppy is Bloomgate. When I quite reasonably asked why she couldn’t give them normal names like Vasya, Petya, Jabberwocky, or at least Rainbow and Bobby, I never received a sensible answer. The explanation that they had introduced themselves to her that way when they first met was certainly interesting, but on closer examination it didn’t hold up to any criticism. Still, like any naïve mother, I secretly cherished the hope that one day my daughter would reveal the secret behind such unusual nicknames.
For now, though, we were having our traditional evening tea party: we sat together on tiny chairs around a little table and sipped imaginary tea from plastic cups. The bear’s last remaining eye dangled by a thread, ready to get lost somewhere in the nursery at any moment. For the hundredth time I promised myself that “this weekend for sure I’ll take out the magical craft box—and fix everything.” I should start drawing crosses on my forehead to remember.
Barsik, the little brute, jumped onto Hillsley’s chair and deliberately began sharpening his claws on him. Dashka hitched up her pajama pants and silently rushed to rescue her favorite. Hugging the ruffled bear, she shot a dark look at the ginger offender.
“Hillsley wants to eat!”
“Then let’s give him some more of these wonderful pastries!” I cheerfully suggested, holding out an empty saucer. “Mmmmm… delicious!”
For full effect, I closed my eyes and pretended to be a satisfied and content parent. The trick didn’t work—the stern child, eyebrows drawn together, informed me:
“He eats meat.”
“Well…,” I faltered slightly. “Would sausage do?”
The eye on the thread twitched contemptuously, and Dashka shrugged.
“What kind of meat is there in sausage?” She climbed under the blanket, put Hillsley beside her, and yawned. “He’ll go hunting… at night…”
---
My morning scream chased pigeons off the windowsill, set off car alarms below the windows, and reminded the neighbors that those who rise early… well, everyone knows the rest.
“Barsik, you little bastard!” I yelled from the dresser.
Sleepy Dashka appeared in the bedroom doorway like a tiny ghost.
“Mom, what’s wrong?”
“Don’t look!” Maternal instinct overpowered my natural squeamishness, and I leapt to the floor like a swallow. But I was too late—my five-year-old daughter was already standing by the bed, holding a dead mouse in her hands—the cause of my morning concert.
“Drop that disgusting thing immediately!”
Dashka clenched her fist tighter, and the guts from the slashed mouse belly bulged out between her small fingers in bloody bubbles.
“Drop it, I said!” A nauseating lump rose in my throat, and on the carpet a brown stain was spreading just like the one on the pillow. I crouched down and hugged her.
“Sweetheart, please…”
She looked at me with clear eyes, unclenched her fingers, and stroked my cheek with her palm, leaving a sticky smear.
“Good morning,” she said, picked up the bear lying in the corner, and walked out of the room. I sat on the floor, staring after her in a daze.
---
Three days had passed since Barsik fled the scene of the crime, and the brazen cat still hadn’t deigned to show himself. The rascal must have realized that nothing good awaited him for dead-mouse antics except a slipper to the backside and had run off. Never mind: when he gets hungry, he’ll come back like a good boy. You can’t live on mice alone—nothing but bones in them. And guts…
At the memory of the mouse’s insides, my stomach rebelled again. I had no desire whatsoever to cut up the chicken carcass I’d bought after work. But hunger is no aunt, and dinner hadn’t been canceled, so…
I stared blankly at the sink, where the chicken should have been. The sink was empty. Not that it could be called spotlessly clean, nor me an idiot with amnesia, since a bloody streak clearly showed the broiler’s last path—from the sink, across the floor, and further—to the exit. Oh, you little pest! Had that ginger flea bag decided to drive me completely mad?
The trail ended at the nursery door. Armed with a rolled-up newspaper, I stormed into the room like a squad of Comanches. Barsik wasn’t there. Dashka sat on the floor by the bed, legs crossed, gently rocking back and forth. The fish-shaped gel nightlight filled the walls with vague shadows, and indistinct murmuring filled the space, rising like the rustle of surf.
“Dash…” She froze. I shuddered, still not daring to step over the threshold. “Dash… why are you sitting in the dark?”
I fumbled for the light switch. The shadows darted under the bed; the room returned to normal. I went over and sat beside Dashka, crossing my legs like hers. Her thin little face in profile looked even more touching and sad. Her eyes were closed, and her lashes cast soft shadows on her cheeks. My heart tightened. My sweet little girl! I so want to always be near her, holding that slender body close, rocking her and breathing into the crown of her head. To always be together, so that children’s problems never cloud her soul. A mother should be there. She should sit in an armchair, knitting patterns on tiny socks, sewing eyes onto shabby bears, not working from morning till night. Twenty minutes in the morning before kindergarten, a couple of hours in the evening—that’s all our communication. Rare weekends together—that’s when we play. The porcelain doll with the utterly idiotic name Batinolla—our latest purchase. The tag that read “Kristina” went straight into the trash as usual, and the little beauty in a hat took her place beside the pink pony. The pony, for instance—I bought it for Dashka at a fair. The carousel had delighted her wildly, and she desperately wanted her own “horse.” And that dreadful bear—we found it during a trip “to the bushes.” Why that wet, dirty, matted lump of fur attracted her so much is unknown, but once she grabbed it with both hands, she had no intention of giving it back. Fine.
I looked around. Something in the room was off. Suddenly I realized.
“Dash, where are all your toys?”
She turned her head toward me and stared with sleepy eyes. Goosebumps ran down my spine. I lifted the bedspread and looked under the bed: they were there. Sitting neatly, in several rows. Their plastic eyes gleamed from the darkness, warily watching me. I recoiled and jumped to my feet.
“They only eat in the dark…” Dashka’s thin voice came from below. Suddenly she grabbed my ankle and looked up at me pleadingly.
“They want to eat…”
I picked her up and, running out of the room, slammed the door behind us. Leaning against it, I tried to calm the frantic pounding of my heart against my ribs.
“Everything’s fine, everything’s fine…”
Dashka wrapped her arms around my neck, and I clutched her tightly to my chest.
“Everything’s fine, little one…”
Muttering something else, I forced myself away from the door and somehow hobbled into the kitchen.
“Mom, you’re hurting me!” Dashka pouted capriciously.
I plopped down onto a stool. Damn. Idiot. Inhale, exhale, exhale…
“Want some scrambled eggs?”
“With tomatoes.” Dashka businesslike slid off my lap and padded to her chair.
---
I don’t know how long I stared into the darkness. It was almost tangible. It felt like if I reached out my hand, the viscous haze would suck it in, devouring and digesting it, dissolving it in its dank belly.
When did I wake up? And did I wake up at all? Wrapped in a blanket, I tried to calm my nervous trembling. In the city there is never such darkness that the eye has nothing to cling to—usually there are streetlights, car headlights putting on a light show across the walls. And the digital clock, after all. The clock! I glanced to the right. I didn’t see the familiar green digits there and suddenly calmed down: so I’m really asleep. Soon the alarm will ring and it will all end. I just need to wait a little longer. Just a bit. And never mind that there’s someone else in the room, breathing nearby. Quietly breathing and watching. He sees. He sees in this pitch-black darkness. He knows. Knows. Knows that I’m afraid. Afraid to the point of numbness, to the prickling of hair at the nape of my neck. And I can’t move. Can’t scream. I will lie under the blanket, staring into infinity, praying for it to end… let it end…
---
I didn’t want to remember yesterday’s dream. I felt foolish: first I threw a fit over my child putting toys under the bed, and then nightmares. Maybe I should take some Corvalol? A paranoid mother—that’s wonderful. Very uplifting and optimistic.
The refrigerator door thudded against the wall, and I continued staring into its brightly lit depths. Completely empty depths. Only a lonely butter dish with a stub of butter stood there, and a piece of half-eaten sausage from “yesterday.”
“Dasha!!!” I shrieked sternly. Games are games, but this nonsense had gone too far…
She silently entered the kitchen, dragging Hillsley behind her.
“Do you understand nothing at all?” Everything seemed to boil over at once. “Where did you put the food from the refrigerator?”
“They want to eat…”
I took a deep breath, counted to ten—and immediately exploded:
“Bring everything back right now, do you hear!? You’ve played enough! This isn’t funny anymore!”
“But they ate it all…”
Lord, I never thought I had such a talented child. So immersed in the role! I used to play too—mothers and daughters, store and all that—but to make that much food disappear…
“Did you throw it all away? Do you understand that Mommy works from morning till night to earn the money to buy that food? That Mommy carries heavy bags from the store to bring you treats? Can you understand that you can’t throw away food? So many people in the world are starving, and you just—so easily…”
“I told you—they ate it all. They still want more…”
That’s it…
“That’s it! You’re punished! I think if you stand in the corner for a while, you’ll understand the meaning of what I said! And give me that horrible animal!”
I tore the bear from her hands and shoved it face down into the trash can. The plastic eye rolled into the corner with a clatter. Dashka silently went to her corner and pressed her nose to the wallpaper.
“And you’ll go to bed without dinner, so you at least understand what it’s like!”
The educational process was going brilliantly—I turned sharply and went to the nursery. After all, she couldn’t have hidden that mountain of food anywhere. Not even flushed it down the toilet. Again, dimness and silence greeted me. Damn, and the bulb in the chandelier had chosen today of all days to burn out!
There was nothing in the closets or the desk. The panties and undershirts in the dresser hid no secrets. Only the bed remained.
I can’t. I just can’t. What is this?
I slowly approached the bedspread with its pink flamingos. It hung almost to the floor again. Dropping to my knees, I grabbed the plush fabric and froze, calming the pounding of my heart.
“They only eat in the dark…”
“What?..” I turned. Dashka stood by the gel nightlight plugged into the socket. Beside her, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot, stood the toy bear, staring blindly into space. He sniffed, greedily inhaling the air with trembling nostrils, and drool dripped from his cloth muzzle. Suddenly Hillsley bared crooked yellow fangs and hobbled toward me. From his gaping blood-red mouth came the stench of decay. He breathed noisily and hoarsely, softly stepping with his paws.
I thought I was dreaming. I watched the approaching monster and couldn’t move. My legs wouldn’t obey. My voice refused to respond. I felt movement behind me, under the bed. It was growing, filling with whispers and gaining strength. The icy cold of terror bound me, wrapping me in steel tentacles. My stomach twisted into a tight knot, spilling its contents.
“I told you—they want to eat!” Dashka pulled the nightlight from the socket.
Darkness crashed down on me with all its weight. It knocked me to the floor. It bit and scratched. It sank greedily into my flesh, tearing off chunks, choking on my blood. I couldn’t scream—the darkness filled me completely, clogging my throat with bile. The darkness slurped up my eyes and plugged my ears with my own howl of pain, despair, and dying anguish.
“I told you… they want to eat… and so do I…”
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