My Favorite Things and Other Stuff That Happens at Night
By Me, Lila Harper (Age 9 and Three Quarters)
My name is Lila Harper and I am nine years old and three quarters, which is almost ten, and almost ten is basically grown.
Mom says I talk too much.
But that’s not true.
I just explain things properly.
Like today, for example.
Today I woke up at 6:42 because my alarm clock makes the noise of birds screaming, which I think is a bad idea because birds should be happy, not terrified. But Mom says it was on sale.
I brushed my teeth for exactly one minute and twenty seconds because the toothpaste started tasting like sadness after that.
Then I ate cereal.
It was the kind with marshmallows shaped like stars, but I only got three stars and one of them was broken, which I think is unfair and possibly illegal.
I told Mom that.
She said, “Eat your cereal.”
So I did.
Our house is old.
Not dinosaur old.
Just… creaky old.
Like it sighs a lot.
When you walk down the hallway, the floor goes “nnnnnggghhh,” like it’s tired of you.
Which is rude.
My room is at the end of the hallway. It used to be my sister Emma’s room, but she moved away to college two years ago, and Mom said I could have it because it was “bigger” and “brighter.”
I think it’s bigger.
I don’t think it’s brighter.
The closet door opens by itself sometimes.
But only a little.
Like it’s peeking.
I asked Mom about it once.
She said it’s “air pressure.”
I don’t know why air wants to spy on me.
But okay.
At school, I got a B on my spelling test because I spelled “necessary” like “nessasary,” which looks right to me.
Mrs. Klein disagreed.
At lunch, Tyler dropped his pudding cup and cried, which made everyone uncomfortable because he is eleven and has a mustache.
So I gave him half my cookie.
I am very kind.
After school, Mom picked me up late because she forgot.
She said sorry five times and bought me a slushie.
I forgive easily.
When we got home, the sun was going down, and the house looked like it was wearing shadows.
That’s what I told Mom.
She said, “Lila, please stop talking about shadows.”
So I did.
Mostly.
That night, I did my homework at the kitchen table. The light flickered, but Mom said it was “fine” and “normal” and “not haunted,” which is something you only say if you’re worried it might be haunted.
I brushed my teeth again.
This time for one minute and forty seconds.
I’m improving.
Then I got into bed.
My bed squeaks.
Not like a mouse.
More like a sad violin.
I hugged Mr. Buttons, my teddy bear, even though he lost one eye in the washing machine incident of 2023.
He’s still handsome.
I turned off the lamp.
The dark came in fast.
Like it was waiting.
That’s when I heard it.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Not on my door.
Not on my window.
On my wall.
Behind my head.
At first, I thought it was the house settling.
Houses settle.
People settle.
Dogs don’t settle.
They spin first.
I waited.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
I rolled over.
“Stop,” I whispered.
Because sometimes things listen.
It stopped.
Which was nice.
So I went to sleep.
I dreamed about marshmallows with too many eyes.
That was weird.
The next day was normal again.
Mostly.
Except my closet door was open all the way.
I know I closed it.
I always close it because it looks darker inside than other dark places.
Like the dark in there has more… layers.
Mom said I probably forgot.
I did not.
I never forget.
Except sometimes.
But not this.
At night, the tapping came back.
This time, it was slower.
Tap.
……Tap.
………Tap.
Like it was thinking between taps.
I counted.
I like counting.
It stopped at thirteen.
That’s a bad number.
Everyone knows that.
I said, “Please stop.”
It stopped again.
So I said thank you.
Because manners matter.
After that, things started changing.
Small things.
My socks went missing.
My pencils were always on the floor.
Mr. Buttons moved.
Just a little.
Like he had scooted.
I asked Mom if she was going into my room at night.
She looked at me for a long time.
Then she said no.
But her voice sounded like when people lie on game shows.
One night, I woke up because someone was whispering my name.
“Lila…”
It sounded like Mom.
But stretched.
Like gum.
“Liiiiila…”
I sat up.
“Mom?”
No answer.
The closet was open again.
Inside, it was darker than dark.
Like someone poured ink into shadows.
“Do you need something?” I asked.
Because maybe it was Emma calling.
From college.
Through the closet.
Which is silly.
I know.
Something moved.
Not out.
In.
Like the dark was rearranging itself.
Then I saw fingers.
Too many.
Too long.
Holding the doorframe.
They bent the wrong way.
Like broken crayons.
“Hi,” I said.
Because I didn’t know what else to say.
It whispered back.
Not words.
Just breathing.
Wet breathing.
Like someone drinking soup slowly.
I hid under my blanket.
That’s what you’re supposed to do.
Blankets are magic.
Everyone knows that.
The breathing stayed.
All night.
In the morning, there were handprints on my wall.
Small.
And some very big.
Mom scrubbed them off.
She didn’t ask questions.
Which is worse than asking.
Last night, it finally spoke.
It said, “You notice everything.”
I said, “Yes. I do.”
It said, “That’s why I like you.”
I didn’t like that.
Now I write this in my notebook.
Because Mrs. Klein says writing helps.
The tapping is closer now.
It’s on my bed.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Mr. Buttons is gone.
And the closet is smiling.
But it’s okay.
I’m brave.
And almost ten.
And I always explain things properly.
So if I disappear,
please check the closet first.
The End.
