The Rules

My son has rules for bedtime.

I thought he made them up—
the way children do.
Games that only make sense to them.

But he was serious.
So serious it scared me.

Rule one:
Check under the bed.
Say out loud: "Nothing here."
Even if there's nothing.
Especially if there's nothing.

Rule two:
Close the closet door.
All the way.
No crack.
"She can get thin," he said.
"Thin enough to fit through a crack."

Rule three:
Plug in the nightlight.
The blue one.
Not the orange.
"He doesn't like blue," he said.
"He" was different from "she."
I didn't ask.

Rule four:
Leave the door open
exactly one hand-width.
He measured with his palm.
"So they know I'm not hiding.
If they think I'm hiding,
they look harder."

Rule five:
Kiss him on the forehead.
Say: "I'm right down the hall."
Say it exactly like that.
"Right down the hall."
Not "nearby." Not "close."
Right down the hall.

"It has to be true," he said.
"They know if you're lying."

I did the rules every night.
For months.
It made him calm.
It helped him sleep.
I thought: this is anxiety.
This is a phase.
We'll see someone about it.

Last Tuesday,
I was tired.
He was already half-asleep.
I thought:
he won't notice.

I checked under the bed
but I didn't say "nothing here."

I closed the closet
but left a crack—
just an inch,
I didn't think it mattered.

I kissed his forehead.
I said: "I'll be in the living room."

Not "right down the hall."

I went downstairs.
I watched TV.
I fell asleep on the couch.

At 3 AM,
I woke to silence.

Not quiet—
silence.
The kind that has weight.
The kind that means
something that was making noise
has stopped.

I went upstairs.

His door was closed.

I hadn't closed it.

I opened it.

The blue nightlight was off.
The orange one was plugged in.
I don't own an orange nightlight.

The closet door was open.
More than a crack.

And my son was sitting up in bed,
staring at the corner,
very still.

I said his name.

He didn't move.

I turned on the light.

He turned to look at me.

But his eyes were wrong.
The left one blinked.
Then the right one.
Not at the same time.
Like they weren't connected anymore.

He smiled.

He said: "You didn't say it right."

I said: "What?"

He said: "Right down the hall.
You said living room.
You lied.
They know when you lie."

I said: "Who knows?"

He said:
"It's okay, Mommy.
They're not angry.
They just needed someone
to let them in.
I was keeping them out
for so long.
It's actually a relief."

He smiled wider.

"They want to meet you.
She's in the closet.
He's under the bed.
They've been waiting
such a long time.
I told them all about you."

I couldn't move.

My son got out of bed.
He walked toward me.
His legs moved wrong—
stiff, like he was learning
how to use them.

He took my hand.

His skin was cold.

He said:
"Don't worry.
It doesn't hurt.
It's like falling asleep.
And then you wake up,
and you're still here,
but you don't have to be scared anymore.
You don't have to do the rules.
Because you're the rules now."

Behind him,
the closet door swung open.
All the way.

Under the bed,
something started to move.

My son squeezed my hand.

He said:
"I'm right down the hall, Mommy.
I'm right down the hall.
I'm right down the hall."

He kept saying it.

Over and over.

Like he was trying to make it true.