I’ll tell you a story I’ve never told anyone before because sometimes the only way to deal with something is to get it out of your head.
It was the night of my 6th birthday when I first saw it.
The summer rains fell hard on our small home, the hammering sound of the water was only muted by the rolling echo of thunder across the empty fields behind the farmhouse my family lived in.
A loud crash of thunder had woken me, it sounded like someone had dropped dad’s faded green John Deere on the roof of the house. The room I shared with my brothers was dark but I could tell by the sounds of steady breathing that my brothers were still asleep.
No matter what Tommy and the other’s say, I am NOT a fraidy baby but the storm seemed scarier than most.
I started my storm prayer, something momma taught me to help me calm down when I heard what sounded like wet feet in the hall outside of our room. Instinctively, I stopped my whispers and turned to face our open door.
The slap of shuffling wet feet came closer and with it came a weird smell that made my nose tingle. It was awful, like wet dog and moldy bread. I quieted my breathing as I felt something shift, sort of reminding me of that feeling you get when someone is close even when you can’t see them.
A shadow moved in the shadows outside the door to my room, an awkward shape that didn’t look like anything I’d ever seen before.
The head looked sort of like an onion, bulbous at the bottom but pointed at the top. The skin was deep gray in the shadowy light of the sleeping house, a faint reflection as it glistened damply. It turned its head, black pits where its eyes should be turned towards me. It had no nose but there looked like a jagged line where its mouth should be. All of this seemed to be precariously balanced atop a large, squarish body with too skinny arms and legs.
It stepped further into the room, the slap slap slap of its wet feet made me cringe but I couldn’t hide or look away. I was frozen like a deer.
As it came closer, I heard the sound of its labored breathing. It reminded me of my grandpa when he died from smoking. Every time he took a breath, it sounded like it hurt.
The onion headed creature moved closer. “Tommy…” it whispered, the voice was soft like a girl’s.
I tried to turn my head to look at my oldest brother but I couldn’t move.
I tracked its progress through the room with my eyes, tears leaking from them as I watched the small line of its mouth get larger as it approached the edge of the bed where my brother’s foot hung off the side.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw it reach a hand forward before it leaned in. There was a faint rustling noise and then it pulled back. I was unlucky enough to see my brother’s limp hand disappear into its mouth.
I tried to scream but my throat was shut tight, strangling my cry.
The onion girl turned away from my brothers and stepped towards me. It leaned close, the black voids where its eyes were close to mine and as it breathed on me, the smell of wet dog and moldy bread grew more potent.
In a cooing voice, like someone trying to soothe a frightened pet, it said, “Don’t worry, you don’t belong to me.” A pale white tongue flicked out of its mouth hole and left stinging salvia on my cheek. “He would be very angry if I took you.”
Then it left and I lost consciousness.
That was 30 years ago. My brother Tommy would’ve been 39 this year, if he hadn’t been kidnapped during the worst storm in the history of our county.
Mom, dad, and the rest of the family never stopped hoping they’d find him.
I got really good at lying to them and myself, convincing everyone I’d slept through it all but I’ve never forgotten a detail of that night and I keep hearing its words over and over again. “He would be very angry if I took you.” What was it talking about?
I guess I’ll never know.
Anyway, I need to get going. They’re predicting rain tonight and my little guy always needs a little extra comfort to fall asleep on those nights.