After a while, the throwing up had stopped. He’d heard the bathroom light click off and her bedroom door shut.
That was two hours ago. He’d lain awake since then, waiting. But for what?
His bedside clock read 12.05. Then it read 12.06. He looked over to his bedroom window, shut tight even though the night was still warm.
His clock ticked over to 12.07. He got up, went over to the window and looked out.
The monster stood in his garden, looking right back at him. Open up, the monster said, its voice as clear as if the window wasn’t between them.
I want to talk to you. “Yeah, sure,” Conor said, keeping his voice low.
“Because that’s what monsters always want. To talk.” The monster smiled. It was a ghastly sight.
If I must force my way in, it said, I will do so happily. It raised a gnarled woody fist to punch through the wall of Conor’s bedroom.
“No!” Conor said. “I don’t want you to wake my mum.”
Then come outside, the monster said, and even in his room, Conor’s nose filled with the moist smell of earth and wood and sap.
“What do you want from me?” Conor said. The monster pressed its face close to the window.
It is not what I want from you, Conor O’Malley, it said. It is what you want from me.
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