“Damn it!” he said, a little louder.
Still nothing.
“Damn it!” he shouted, and this time he was angry when he said it — so angry that he kicked his bed. And he must have kicked it too hard because there was an immense crash like thunder. Just then he smelled something yucky behind him — sort of like burning hair only much, much yuckier — so he turned around to see what was causing the stench.
His eyes got big and round, and all of the saliva in his mouth dried up. Once when he was six years old, Mother and Father had taken him to see a nature film. Before it started, coming attractions of It Came from Hell, a horror movie, were shown. Mother had covered his eyes, of course, but not before Jonathan Frederick Johnson III had seen the satanic star.
Now, here in his bedroom, striding right toward him, was that celluloid creature in the flesh.
It was eight feet tall with curved horns on top of its head, hooved feet like a goat, and long sharp fangs. In one paw it held a pitchfork, and in the other a little boy’s bloody, severed head. It was growling and drooling, and every step it took toward Jonathan burned a smoky hole in the carpet.
Before he could move or even think about moving, the demon lunged, swooped him up in its claw, held his pajama-clad body over its huge gaping mouth, and licked its lips with its forked tongue.
“Got any last words, kid?” snarled the demon. “Make them fast — I’m hungry!”
Jonathan Frederick Johnson III squirmed around till he was looking right in the monster’s blood red eyes.
“You’re the Boogeyman, aren’t you?” he said.
That question only seemed to make the monster madder and meaner. It tightened its grip on his neck and shook him till his teeth rattled.
“I am going to eat you, kid, don’t you get it? Chew you up and swallow you. You are going to die a slow, horrible, agonizing death, and nobody can save you. Now, stop asking stupid questions and do like you’re supposed to do — cry! scream! beg for the mercy you’re not going to — hey, cut that out!”
Jonathan Frederick Johnson III was playing with the monster’s horns.
“Are these real?” he asked. “Can I hold your pitchfork? You are the Boogeyman, aren’t you? I mean the real Boogeyman, not one of the Boogeyman’s helpers or anything?”
Steam shot out of the monster’s ears. He threw Jonathan Frederick Johnson III down onto his bed and then changed into something even uglier — a one-eyed, six-armed ogre with writhing, hissing rattlesnakes for hair.
Whoof! The ogre conjured up a fireball out of thin air, then rared back its middle right hand and hurled the ball of fire straight at Jonathan Frederick Johnson Ill’s face.
Jonathan did not even blink. And the fireball vanished a split second before it hit him.
The ogre gnashed his teeth and squinted his one red eye. “All right, kid, you want to play tough? Fine, let’s play tough.”
The rattlesnakes on his head sprouted wings and launched an aerial attack on Jonathan Frederick Johnson III, flapping and snapping all around him.
“Ha, ha, ha, yes, my beauties, that’s it. Dig your fangs deep into his tender young — hey! What do you think you’re doing?”
Jonathan had caught one of the flying vipers and was holding it up to his cheek, nuzzling and petting and cooing to it.
The ogre roared with rage and frustration.
“Cool,” Jonathan said. “Let’s go downstairs. You gotta show that fireball trick to Father.”
“Ohh, kid, I’m going to—” The rattlesnakes disappeared, and the ogre changed shape again, this time metamorphizing into a slimy, scaly, crocodile-looking thing. He kept his six arms, however, and without warning he leapt at Jonathan and pinned him to the bed with all six of them.
“Say your prayers, kid,” the crocodile creature snarled. “You’ve made me mad now, and you’re going to pay for it with your life.”
Jonathan just smiled. He was hoping Father would come upstairs and see him playing with his new, thoroughly-real friend, the Boogeyman — er, Boogeydile.
“All right, watch this, wisen-heimer.” So fast that Jonathan could hardly see what was happening, the Boogeydile shredded the pillow next to his head till it was nothing but dust and feathers floating around the room. “And you’re next. Now you’re scared, you hear me? You’re terrified. Frightened completely out of your wits. I know you are, so no more of this—”
“Meep-meep!”
Jonathan Frederick Johnson III reached up and honked his new friend’s snout — well, tried to honk it. But when he did, the tip fell off, bounced on the bedspread, and rolled off onto the floor.
The Boogeydile flew up off the bed, balled his scaly hands into fists, and stomped both feet on the floor. It looked like he was going to throw a temper tantrum. Father would be sure to come up now.
But all of a sudden the crocmonster stopped stomping and started pacing.
“It’s all right, everything’s under control. I just gotta stay cool,” he said to himself. “I’m not out of tricks yet, not by a long shot. But — damn it! — this kid’s a tough nut to crack.”
Jonathan wondered what horrific otherworldly creature would show up when the Boogeyman himself said the magic “damn it!” word, but nothing happened except that the chunks of ceiling plaster that had started to fall while the beast was stomping continued to rain down periodically. Where was Father? He must hear all of this going on.
“All right, what’s the problem here, kid?” The Boogeydile stopped walking back and forth and turned to talk to Jonathan. “I know it’s not me; I’m doing my job — and I am one scary son-a-B, too, I know that. So it’s gotta be you. You should’ve been peeing in your pajamas and screaming for mama a long time ago. So what’s the deal? Are you deaf and blind? Are you brain-damaged in some way? Or is Allen Funt hiding in the closet?”
“Heck no, buddy.” Jonathan rolled off the bed and grabbed one of the Boogeydile’s scaly hands. “There’s nothing wrong with me. Now, come on, I’ll help you find the rest of your nose. We gotta go show Father — or no, hey, I got it — turn back into that red thing with the pitchfork and the horns and all. That was way cooler.”
The monster flung Jonathan Frederick Johnson Ill’s hand away in disgust and started pacing around the room again. First he talked to the ceiling, then he talked to the floor, all the while waving and punching the air with his six arms. It was really funny to see a crocodile talk at all, much less talk so dramatically and gesticulatively, but Jonathan could tell his new friend was upset about something, so he politely stifled his laughter.
“I do not believe this. This I simply do not believe. I mean, I know I’ve been a little off my game lately, what with this flu and everything — but this! This is just... unbelievable. Turn back into that red thing with the pitchfork, he says. Red thing with the pitchfork! That was way cooler, he says. Way cooler!”
The monster stopped pacing and knelt down in front of Jonathan.
“Okay, kid, I admit you’re the greatest actor in the world, better than — I mean way cooler than me, and I’m better than Barrymore. So that makes you the greatest. Very well, I admit it, and I take my hat off to you. Now tell me the truth — you really are scared, aren’t you? Come on, just a little bit scared. You cover it well, but it’s all right, you can tell me. Please tell me.”
Jonathan wanted to make his friend feel better, but Mother and Father had taught him never to tell a lie, so he had to shake his head.
“Not at all? Look — look at all these teeth, every one of them sharp as a brand new razor. And hey, how about all these arms and these claws? Don’t you know I’ve scared all your friends and classmates many, many times? They really hate to see me coming, let me tell you. Why, just the other night I—” the Boogeydile reached between two chest scales and whipped out a notebook, opened it, and flipped through the pages till he found the information he was looking for “—I made Wesley Haynes — Wesley Haynes, the bully who stole your shoes and made you walk through that sticker bush — I made Wesley cry like a baby. Remember when he didn’t come to school one day last week because he was sick? He wasn’t sick; he was exhausted from lying awake scared to death all night long. Now, if I can do that to Wesley Haynes, surely I can — and Jean-Claude Van Damme, I scared the merde out of him when he was your—”