Indeed, the monster said. “Well–” Conor looked around in disbelief. “How is that a nightmare?”
Stories are the wildest things of all, the monster rumbled. Stories chase and bite and hunt.
“That’s what teachers always say,” Conor said. “No one believes them either.”
And when I have finished my three stories, the monster said, as if Conor hadn’t spoken, you will tell me a fourth.
Conor squirmed in the monster’s hand. “I’m no good at stories.”
You will tell me a fourth, the monster repeated, and it will be the truth.
“The truth?” Not just any truth. Your truth. “O-kay,” Conor said,
but you said I’d be scared before the end of all this, and that doesn’t sound scary at all.
You know that is not true, the monster said. You know that your truth, the one that you hide, Conor O’Malley, is the thing you are most afraid of.
Conor stopped squirming. It couldn’t mean– There was no way it could mean– There was no way it could know that.
No. No. He was never going to say what happened in the real nightmare.
Never in a million years. You will tell it, the monster said. For this is why you called me.
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