Your whole life, no one has ever believed you.

They're right there, you whisper, tugging tearfully at his sleeve, teddy bear in one arm. They're right there, can't you see them? You have never been able to modulate your voice, and your nasally six year old screech is terrified and terrible.

No, honey, he says, weary, exhausted from working two jobs and being selfless in a way you will not understand until it's too late. No, Clere Bear, there's nothing there at all. You can go back to bed.

I can't, you say, shaking your head, shaking the red hair that is wild and reminds him of your mother in the saddest of ways. Like a man too old for his age, your Daddy gets out of bed, following his ritual of slippers, flashlight, book, and follows you to your room, your tiny hand in his.

It's all fine, but there are shadows reaching out from under your door, and your mood recedes into primal terror, and you drop your teddy and scream, inconsolable, and it's another night he doesn't sleep because of you, at every ebbing tide of tears something moves to set you off again, and he rocks you, in the bathroom, petting your hair, and whispering there's nothing there, Clerise, there's nothing there.