August, 1910- Long Island, New York
It was past midnight and the warm summer’s breath rustling large oak leaves was the only sound to be heard around the quiet neighborhood of Sagamore Hill, New York. All the residents were asleep in their cozy homes, their windows propped open to let it what little breeze there was. Darkness held the world prisoner with only the stars able to escape from the enveloping blackness. To the casual observer everything was at peace, except for the tiny flickering light in the second-story window of an old Victorian home. The occupant of the room, twelve-year-old Quentin Roosevelt, was up late, unable to sleep… again.
The boy sat cross-legged on a badly wrinkled bed. An electric torch, dimmed to its lowest setting, illuminating a copy of the Little Nemo in Slumberland. His exhausted eyes roving over the pictures and words wearily, not taking anything in.
He flipped through the pages drearily before tossing it back it into the pile of dime-store novels and comics heaped across his bed. He yawned and rubbed his eyes; the shadows were playing tricks on him again. Figures raced across his walls as terrible shapes of monsters formed just beyond the light. Settling back with a new story, his eyelids soon grew heavy and he began to drift off. The book slipped from his grasp and clattered to the hardwood floor. Quentin jerked awake instantly, causing a small avalanche from his bed. Heart pounding, he turned his torch a little brighter, and peered into the dark corners of his room.
It happened again. There was nothing in the room, he told himself over and over. Nothing would attack him. Nothing was trying to eat him. His eyes ached and his head hurt. He knew he needed to get to sleep, but that’s when his imagination escaped and things get worse. Better to just stay up and read some more.
He bent over the bed and picked up the small pile. Just beyond, he noticed the parcel he received from his brother earlier that day. His father and brother usually sent home packages from their travels but this one was different. There was a small animal pelt, but he hadn’t found the tiny bundle until he had unrolled the skin. Even more unusual was the hastily written letter that came with it.
The letter referred to an object. Where did it go? Quentin moved several more books, some toppling off his bed, before finding the strange thing. A small triangular ornament made of wood and stone. It was pretty, sort of, and maybe something one of his sisters might like. But the letter was clear: It was for him:
Quentin,
This is an extremely rare object I found deep in the Congo. I’m not sure what it is, but I need you to hide it until I return. Keep it someplace safe and close by. Don’t tell ANYONE about it! Not even father!
- Kermit
Kermit never sent him anything directly; everything had been addressed to the family before. And he wasn’t really sure why he needed to keep it a secret, but Quentin had vowed he wasn’t about to ruin the one thing his older brother has ever asked of him. He thought about his usual hiding places, but none of them seemed secure enough. Where else could be safer? He pondered different ideas when he happened to glance down at his stuffed bear. A toy named after his father called a teddy bear. He even called it Teddy (though he knew his father hated the nickname), and had put a pair of small wire-rimmed glasses on it to make it look more like Father. Sadly, the dark brown fur didn’t allow for a mustache.
Quentin always kept Teddy close by; he made the nightmares easier to deal with. He accidentally poked a small hole in Teddy the other day climbing up a tree but hadn’t had the chance to ask his mother to sew him back up yet.
Picking up the ornament, Quentin was just able fit it inside the bear’s small battle wound. Now no one knows where it is but me, he thought, looking at the bear and smiling. Sometimes in his dreams, his fuzzy friend would accompany him on his adventures. He hoped this would be one of those nights.
Sleep washed over him in another wave of yawns and stretches. No use putting it off any longer. He turned off his electric torch and settled down to sleep, cradling his bear. As he drifted off, a strange sensation fell over his body. Warmth, light, and happiness filled him from the inside out, helping him, guiding him toward happy thoughts and pleasant dreams. He was soon fast asleep.
As a cloud passed over the moon pitching the room to near perfect dark, a shadow began sliding out from the closet, creeping across the floor, making its way slowly toward the bed. Quentin started fidgeting. The shadow, a deeper black than any other shadow in the room, moved along the floor without a sound, then rose up and stopped right next to the child. Two dull glowing points appeared within the blackness. Round and dim like the moon, the eyes scanned the boy from head to toe, resting briefly on the teddy bear before continuing its inspection. A pointed talon pulled from the shadow and extended toward the child. Quentin squirmed and tossed his head, moaning and kicking his legs out convulsively. Three sharp claws formed from the shadow, extending into an arm that rose up high over Quentin’s chest. The arm drove down quickly toward the body to rake open the boys chest.
The strong wooden butt of a rifle struck out before the claws could find their mark and knocked the talons away. The rifle flew in a quick circle and struck the shadow between its glowing eyes. The creature reeled away from the bed. Standing there, an insignificant barrier, was the little bear. A tiny hat with a bent brim was now on its head, and a wooden rifle with a long sharp blade on the end held firmly in its paws.
The two figures stared in complete silence, daring one another to blink first. The monster moved cautiously toward the bed on four scaly legs, its muscles tense, preparing to fight. The teddy bear tilted its hat back on its head and leveled the deadly bayonet straight at the creature.
The beast lunged to the side, trying to get around the boy’s bed. The bear was quick too, jumping over the sleeping form and striking out with the rifle like a club. He smacked the creature, on the side of its head. The monster lashed out with its claws, but the bear swatted them away with the blade. The rifle came down in a graceful arch smashing into the top of the brute’s head. The dark beast crumpled to the floor unmoving.
The bear spun the gun around, pointing the long bayonet down toward the monster’s chest. Jumping up high the bear fell hard, driving the blade deep into the shadowy body. A high wailing scream filled the bear’s ears, but he held his weapon tight. The beast writhed and flailed for a short moment, then stopped. Dark smoke rose from the wound, dissipating into the air. The creature’s body began to evaporate as well, drifting off like clouds of fog until nothing remained.
The bear stood up straight and looked around the room carefully. His weapons and hat disappeared as soon as the creature did, but he was still cautious. Only when he was absolutely certain nothing new was coming did he finally decide to rejoin Quentin, who now laid calmly in sleep.
The bear gazed at his boy and thought how peaceful he looked. He snuggled into the crook of an arm and laid his head against the child. He had always been here with Quentin, sharing in his comfort and his joys. But something happened tonight. He wasn’t sure what yet, but he was finally awake. When that monster came into the room something stirred inside of him; it was like a voice calling from far away in a dream, calling to him for help. It was Quentin’s voice. And now that he was here, nothing in the world could keep him from protecting his child.
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