The vision lasted only a second, but it felt like years. When Connor opened his eyes, the mask was back in his hands. His cheeks were wet.

“I’m the closet monster,” said the creature, stepping into the sliver of light. It was no bigger than a house cat, with patchy gray fur, moth-eaten wings, and a nervous twitch in its tail. “But everyone calls me Felix.”

Connor lifted the mask to his face. The porcelain was cool against his skin. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the room fell away, and he was six years old again, standing at the top of the stairs while his father’s suitcase clicked shut downstairs. A door closed. A car started. And his mother didn’t come out of the kitchen to say goodbye.

Felix was watching him with something like sorrow. “That bad, huh?”

Felix’s ears flattened. “That’s the problem. I’ve been in this closet for twelve years. Twelve years, and not a single nightmare. Not one good scream. I’ve tried everything—scratching, whispering, making the hangers clink—but the kid who used to live here outgrew me. And your mom just stores shoes.”

Some monsters, he realized, aren’t the things you run from. Some are the things you finally let out.

Connor turned the mask over. Inside, someone had scratched the words: Be careful what you wear.

Felix nodded. “The door will open. I’ll walk out into the world, find some other kid who still believes in dark corners. Maybe I’ll be good at it this time.”

“If I do this,” Connor said slowly, “you’ll leave forever?”