His Hungry Ghost

     There was a ghost living under the bed of our four-year-old son.  It was so ugly there were no words to describe it.  The ghost did not make a sound.  It slipped into corners and behind doors, watching, waiting for the boy and when it saw him the ghost laughed in splinters that froze the blood and made his hair stand on end.  No one could see it but our son.  This made the ghost laugh more.  It grew stronger feeding on the boy’s fear.  It was a monster. 
     Our son could not sleep.  The moment he closed his eyes the monster slipped around the room he shared with his brother and mocked him.  It made the covers lift.  It moved toys.  His brother yelled at him to go to sleep, if there was a monster he would see it, he said.  His brother called him a baby, but that did not hurt as bad as the monster’s red eyes watching from the edge of the light fixture on the ceiling.  Every night we peered under the bed, into the closet, behind the doors, looking for signs of the ghost.

     No monster, we said. 
     It’s gone, I said closing the closet door.
     Go to sleep, his father said.  There are no monsters.  Monsters are in our heads.
     Our happy son grew thin and pale.  Dark circles bloomed under his eyes.  He began turning suddenly to catch the ghost behind him.  He refused to go in his room alone and had to be carried.  His feet could not touch the floor, the vibration of his steps called the monster.  The boy begged for me to sleep with him at night, the monster stayed away when I was around.  Please Mommy, he whispered.  Please.  
     I checked under the bed, I opened all the drawers.  I shook out the blankets and lifted the pillow.  The boy sat on the bed hugging his knees watching, 
     No monster, I said.
      I crawled into his bed and wrapped him in my arms.
      Monsters hate love, he said closing his eyes. 
     Our son jerked awake each time I slipped from the bed.  Don’t go, he cried.   He’ll come back. 
     His father called out.  How much longer, he asked tapping his watch from the doorway. 
     Monsters don’t follow time schedules, I said.
     His father went to bed alone and read a book on the Russian mafia.
     The house grew quiet and settled.  The wind combed the trees out the window as I laid in the dark against the warmth of my son and thought about monsters, real and imagined.  I thought about a friend who believed cancer was stalking her with every headache.  I thought about our money worries.  A neighbor was sure his wife was unfaithful.   There are monsters everywhere, even as our hearts beat hard against logic.  They claim our waking moments and defy the reasonable explanations from those who love us.  We tell our children there are no monsters as we throw drugs, alcohol, and food into the nameless dark that threatens to swallow us whole and spit out the bones.  We lie awake at night imagining death, loss of power, divorce, and the thousand sunderings of being human, helpless before its unacknowledged size and shape.  There are no monsters we assert, even as our own lives tell our children the truth. 
      I eased from the bed and pulled the covers around my boy.
     One afternoon I stood at the sink washing peanut butter from lunch dishes when I heard a scream.  Our son ran into the kitchen and leaped into my arms.
     He’s.  In.  There.  He whispered.  The blanket lifted up on the couch by itself!
     Tears filled his eyes.  His horror was palpable, and for a moment I wavered.  Could there be a ghost that only he could see?  Was he prescient to unseen forces that would claim us all in the end?
      I carried him into the living room to take in the otherworldly blanket and sort the mix of thoughts running through my head.  Something snapped into focus.  I set him down and said the words we all long for when faced with the unsolvable.
     I know what to do, I said.
     We drove to the grocery store where I bought blue food coloring, an empty spray bottle, and almond extract.  He carried the paper bag into the car and held it on his lap. 
     It is very difficult to get rid of monsters, I told him driving home.  But there are a few tricks that never fail. 
    I turned my head to him.  Look at me, I said.  His brown eyes met mine. 
     That never fail, I repeated.  We can get rid of him but it will take some work on your part.
     He nodded wordlessly as we pulled into the driveway deep in our own thoughts.  I walked to the sink and held out my hand for the paper bag.  I filled the spray bottle with water and unscrewed the cap from the food coloring.
     What color is this? I asked.
     Blue, he said.
     Right.  Blue is the color of the sky when it is sunny.  Monsters hate sun.  They like the dark.
     He nodded as I poured the bluest of bright skies into the water.  I uncapped the almond extract.
     Smell this. 
     The boy sniffed the bottle and handed it back.
     It smells good doesn’t it?  Ghosts hate the smell of anything that smells good.  They like the smell of stinky things.  To monsters and ghosts this is the stinkiest of stinks.  They run from a sniff of anything sweet and go back to wherever they came from.  This is called Monstercide.   Insecticide kills insects.  Monstercide kills monsters and ghosts.
     I shook the bottle and held it out. 

     Spray this wherever a monster has been, I said.

      I followed my son.  He sprayed the blanket in the living room for several minutes then gazed at its damp and folded defeat.  He walked down the hallway and sprayed each family photograph framed and hung on the wall.
     Those eyes follow me, he said. 
     He walked in his room and sprayed his bed, the window, the closet, and inside each shoe.  He opened drawers, sprayed the clothes, his toys, a box of Legos.  He aimed the spray over the floor where he walked, and into the air.
      Hand that to me, I said.  I better get the ceiling and the light where he could hide.
      I stood on the bed and sprayed the light for along time.
     Enough?  I asked.
     More, he said.
     I sprayed more.  The room smelled like marzipan and Christmas and good things in the kitchen.  I threw myself on the bed.
     Let’s think like a monster, I said.  Where else could you get in?
     He pulled me to my feet and sprayed the threshold of the room.  We moved through the house and sprayed every threshold and door until the bottle was empty. 
     Can we make more?  he asked.
     Yes, I said, and we did.
     The boy went to bed that night with the filled bottle gripped between his fingers.
    I am going to sleep with Daddy tonight.  The ghost is gone, I said.
    He nodded.
     If it comes back I have this, he said waving the bottle--the talisman against the dark, my ticket back to the marriage bed.
  Right.  We have the power now, I told him.
     And somehow, miraculously, we did.  The ghost disappeared.  When it tried to sidle back into dreams, behind open doors, generous doses of Monstercide sent it back to the dark place where ghosts and monsters live. 
     As our son grew he shared his weapon with the sleepless and the anxious, with the people fighting monsters no one else could see.  He shook the solution of water, the bluest of skies, the sweetest of scents into an alchemy of hope aimed at the unknown, one answer against the dark.

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