Why We Need Monsters

People like to think monsters are make-believe. They lock them in fairy tales, cartoons, and Halloween costumes, where the claws are rubber and the teeth are plastic. But that’s a trick we play on ourselves. Monsters don’t go away because we laugh at them. They just learn to wait.

The truth is, monsters are memory. They are the shadow of the night your father didn’t come home. The ache you carry from something you’ve never told anyone. They’re stitched into the fabric of your ordinary life, patient and quiet, until a story pulls the thread and the whole thing unravels.

A real monster isn’t the thing in the closet. It’s the thought that you might deserve it. It’s the voice that says, No one will believe you. It’s the slow realization that what you’ve feared all along has been walking beside you, silent, wearing your reflection like a mask.

We read about monsters not to banish them, but to recognize them. To name them. To strip the costume off and say, I see you. That act doesn’t kill them—but it makes them share the light for once. And that is enough.

So if you open one of my books, don’t expect a hero with a silver bullet or a priest with a Latin prayer. Expect the kind of monster you already know too well. The kind that doesn’t go away when you close the book.

— RF