Digger

I was seven when I learned monsters were real.

October was always a strange month growing up. My birthday was on the twenty-ninth, and my Poppa tried to make it fun, but he always acted strange on the day of Halloween. He took me trick-or-treating, but only during the day. Once the sun went down, he refused to allow me to go outside. We stayed in the house and he scanned our property from a window, taking sips from a pint of Wild Turkey.

It was a moonless night in late October. Poppa and I went out to gather wood for his fire-pit. We lived on a few acres of land in Alpha, New Jersey. Poppa constructed the fire-pit about a hundred yards from our house from bricks and an enormous metal truck wheel.

Gathering sticks in the deepening shadows, I watched as Poppa lit the fire, settling himself into one of the chairs surrounding it. The two of us were alone, ready to take in what the night offered.

That was the year I finally asked my dad the question that had been burning inside me: why didn't I have a momma like everyone else? He had told me that my mother had passed away when I was born, but I knew there had to be more to the story. That night, I hoped he would tell me more about her.

Born with Waardenburg Syndrome, a genetic disorder, I had moderate hearing loss. I also had another symptom called heterochromia iridis — eyes of two different colors. People often gave me strange looks when they noticed my eyes for the first time — one brown and the other a bright blue.

An African-American man with blue eyes was unusual, but having only one blue eye was downright odd.

My father was the successful owner of a fuel oil company business. This meant he could provide me with hearing aids and the special education I needed to attend school alongside my peers.

Poppa seemed anxious as we sat in front of the fire. He glanced around and stared into the night as if he was expecting someone — or some thing — to appear.

The night was chilly, and Poppa had brought a blanket for me, which I wrapped tightly around myself as he stirred the fire with a stick.

"Poppa, can you tell me about my momma?" I asked, my gaze shifting to the firelight glinting on the prosthetic hook that replaced my father’s left hand.

His gaze met mine, surprise evident in his expression. “Not tonight, son,” he said, shaking his head before returning his attention to the fire. “Can you sense something in the air?”

“I guess. It’s like I’m scared, but don’t know why.”

A grim smile appeared on his face. “I was told those eyes of yours meant you can see things other folks can’t.”

I focused on his lips as I was still honing my skill of lip-reading. Having this ability was a great complement to my hearing aids. “Who told you that, Poppa?”

He looked down at the hooks that replaced the fingers of his missing left hand. The metal stud that worked as his thumb glinted in the light. His smile faded as he thought of the past. "Your momma, back in the day."

I whispered, “Before she died.” I had a million unanswered questions — which included not knowing her name.

“Yeah,” he said. “Something might be comin’. That’s why I brought you out here with me — so I could look right at you.” He leaned closer and spoke in a low voice. “Now, let’s get this straight. If I tell you to run, you go as fast as you can into the house and you lock the door. You don’t open it for nobody, not even me.”

This confused me. “Not you, Poppa?”

“I’ve got my key, but something that looks like me won’t,” he said, his face deadly serious.

Gazing at the flickering shadows cast by our fire, a wave of vulnerability washed over me, sending a chill down my spine and raising goosebumps across my skin.

Something moved in the woods nearby.

I jumped in surprise, and my poppa’s head snapped up. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small cloth bag, dark brown and securely tied with leather laces.

“What’s that, Poppa?” I hissed.

“Never you mind,” he murmured through clenched teeth. “Remember what I said: when I tell you to run, you run.”

I remained still, silently nodding in agreement.

I heard snapping branches and rustling leaves as if something big was moving through the forest. When I looked in the noise’s direction, however, I couldn't see anything.

I held my breath, fearful that some kind of nocturnal predator lurked nearby. I glanced over at my poppa as he placed his index finger to his lips, silently warning me not to make a sound.

I tightened my grip on the blanket, preparing to run and suddenly feeling colder than before.

Poppa grabbed the cloth bag at his feet with his prosthetic hand, untying the strings that kept it shut. He pulled out a gleaming piece of metal.

To my seven-year-old eyes, it looked like something magic. It glowed a brilliant gold in the firelight, and I saw symbols and odd letters covered it. The main part was a straight tube my father grasped with his good hand. At the base, it ballooned into a round, bell-shaped ball and a circle of metal about an inch thick crowned the top.

I could not take my eyes off it.

The sound of a branch breaking like a gunshot jerked my attention back to the present. My father's face was grave as he shouted at me. “RUN!”

Without a moment's hesitation, I dropped the blanket and sprinted toward our home, a hundred yards away from the fire pit. I heard my Poppa speaking, but I couldn't make out his words.

I stumbled over an old, gnarled tree root in the pitch-black darkness and landed with a thud on the ground. I scrambled to my feet, only to realize that everything had gone completely silent.

My hearing aid had fallen out of my ear. I snatched it off the ground and glanced back at my father in a state of panic.

He stood grasping the metallic tube, his right hand around the hilt with the hooks of his prosthetic hand giving support. An intense two-foot high flame erupted from the end of the cylinder, blazing brighter than the campfire.

I had seen the original Star Wars on TV, and all I thought at that moment was that all would be well because my poppa had a light saber.

—but this wasn’t a light saber. As he waved it, the flames coalesced into a solid blade.

A flaming sword.

My father thrust forward, brandishing the weapon at the empty air. He lunged with a powerful swing, and the flame hit — something.

A brief flash of light flared from the contact. At that moment, I glimpsed a creature the size of a man, but with an upper body shaped like a woman. Below the waist, it was long and scaly, writhing up from the ground like a giant serpent. As quickly as it appeared, it vanished back into the darkness.

My father wasn't moving like he normally did — he was confident and agile, shifting quickly on the balls of his feet as if he was ready to sprint at any moment. He constantly changed direction, moving forward and back without pause, the flaming sword firmly in his grasp.

He raised his blade again, and in the darkness, a semi-transparent female figure lurched forward. Her hand connected with my father's chest, sending him reeling.

He collapsed backward with the fiery sword still aimed at the unseen foe.

I scrambled toward the house, like Poppa told me.

I gasped for breath as I tore open the door, slamming it shut behind me and flipping the lock. Racing to the window, I peered out into the backyard.

My heart pounded as I scanned the backyard. I pressed my face to the window, desperately trying to get a better view of the scene. But all I could see was the fire pit, with no sign of my father or the snake-like creature that had attacked him.

A knock echoed through the room. I rushed to the door to peek through the small window.

It was Poppa.

He was gazing down at the door handle.

I let out a deep breath as I reached for the lock, but my father's words echoed in my mind.

“You don’t open it for nobody, not even me.”

Poppa’s mouth moved. "Son?"

I couldn't hear him, with my hearing aid still clutched in my hand, but I watched his lips form the word. I stepped away from the door, slipping my hearing aid back into my ear.

“Let me in, son,” Poppa said. It was his voice, yet it made all the hairs on my body stand up.

“You told me not to, Poppa,” I croaked, surprised how scared my voice sounded.

“Never mind that,” he said, sounding angry but not looking up. “Open this door.”

I trembled, a part of me wanting to do as I was told, but knowing that if he had instructed me not to open the door, there must have been a good reason for it.

“No, Poppa,” I finally blurted. “You have your key.”

He raised his eyes, and my breath caught. His gaze was no longer human. He glared at me with the eyes of a snake, dark yellow with the vertical slash of black pupils.

The thing masquerading as my father raised its arm and drove its right fist through the window. The glass shattered and showered me with thousands of tiny fragments.

It thrust through the opening with its left arm, reaching down. The hand — which my father didn’t have — was fully intact.

The fingers writhed bonelessly like snakes, growing and extending, clawing for the lock.

I grabbed the kitchen knife out of the dish drainer. With unsteady hands, I held it high and moved to the door.

The creature's left hand extended far beyond the reach of a human arm, its wriggling digits resembling worms crawling and slithering. Its fingers were almost long enough to reach the lock.

I slashed with the knife, and an inch of one finger fell to the ground.

Whatever the thing was, it didn’t cry out, but the severed finger restored itself as I gaped in horror. The piece on the ground no longer resembled a finger, but the scaly skin of a snake.

Its fingers slowly wrapped around the latch, and I felt my back hit the wall. I clutched the knife tightly in my hands, my knuckles turning white. I sank down to the floor, frozen with terror.

There was a flash of fire, and my Poppa’s head — no, the creature’s head — toppled out of sight. I screamed. I didn't know what to do or say. None of this could be real.

The crawling arm yanked back, disappearing from view as the body crumpled to the ground.

My poppa, my real poppa, was looking in through the broken glass. His eyes were normal, and he gripped the blazing sword tightly.

“You okay, son?” he asked.

I nodded, unable to speak.

He looked at the knife in my hand and smiled. “My brave little man. You stay in there. I’ve got some clean-up work to do.”

The flame in his hand flickered and died, and I ran to the window to see him retrieve a powerful flashlight from the shed, as well as a hefty shovel.

I hardly believed what I was witnessing. My father dragged an otherworldly creature across the lawn, its long serpentine body curling behind him as he moved. The sight was both terrifying and mesmerizing, and I was powerless to look away. I had no idea what this creature was or what my father intended to do with it.

He picked up the severed head, allowing me to get a closer look. What had been my poppa’s face was now a woman's — beautiful, even in death. Where her hair should have been, scales covered the top of her head and neck.

A pair of fangs extended from her mouth, dripping with liquid. When I wondered whether it was blood or drool, it made me shiver.

He walked past the fire pit, the bag with the golden sword hilt swinging from his belt, and he began to dig.

Poppa dug a deep hole with practiced skill. He dragged the dead creature over and rolled it in to the makeshift grave. With a speed that surprised me, he covered it up with dirt in half the time it took him to dig it.

I still gripped the knife as the sound of his key turning in the lock filled the room, followed by the creak of the door opening.

My father was dirty and bathed in sweat despite the chill. “Joshua, you can put the knife down now, son.”

He tenderly removed the knife from my trembling hands and laid it in the sink. He pulled me close into a tight embrace.

“There, there, it’s all right now,” he said.

“Poppa, what was that?” I choked, fighting tears.

“A creature called a Lamia,” he stated, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. “It’s able to change its shape.”

“Why was it here?” I asked.

He exhaled. “It attacks children, son.”

“Was it here for me?” I gasped.

He patted my head. “Don’t worry, I’m here to protect you.” He glanced over at the knife in the sink. “I got me a feeling you can protect yourself if it comes down to it.”