They have honed their craft well, remaining along the outskirts of reality. The sounds come in illusion form just as sleep and consciousness begin to weave together. During the time when the mind stands on the brink of inner oblivion, prepared for another trip into the depths until the light of day summons it back out again.
The monstrous beast glides up the street, a screeching howl accompanying it. Tendrils of sound reach my window and slide inside, wrapping around my mind as visions of it flying over the pavement precede it. It is an enormous fleeting emotion, a playful tease of the imagination. As it nears, almost upon my house and my open bedroom window, it shifts into reality.
A truck passes by, taking with it the evidence of the beasts' true form.
As I remain wake, working at my daily tasks, the beasts tuck themselves away around the sides of my vision. I see them move sometimes. They are there as a slight twitch of shadow or an odd blur of color just out of view. To look makes them fade away.
They have a mission. They always do. Everyone's monsters exist for a reason. They tie us back to ourselves. No matter how stretched the lines become, they always guide us. They help us sink or feet into old ponds, feel the cool refreshing breeze, and fear the dark things that observe from the shadows we created.
In that place sits a well of our own construction, tethered to it dangles a dented water bucket. If we do not draw from it soon, the creatures swimming within will grow and multiply. They will produce even more intense, gruesome beings to overwhelm us when we return. The large will eat the small and grow larger. The misshapen bodies will begin to spill over the bucket's rim, back into the still, rippling pool at the bottom of the well.
My monsters have been stirring and they are calling me back. The water bucket is full and I must draw from it or be overwhelmed by their images, their voices, and their realities.
