The Good Monster

Seven years ago…

Sixteen. The most beautiful, the most romantic age. At sixteen, you carry within yourself a strange blend of childish naivety, youthful absolutism, and the first fragile traces of adulthood. I tore my gaze from the large mirror and looked at an old, worn photograph with creased edges clutched in my hand. Smiling back at me were my parents, holding each other close. So beautiful. So happy. That captured moment in time had been taken exactly a year before I was born—Agnes had photographed them at a mutual friend’s birthday, in the backyard of his house. Once again, I studied my reflection in the mirror, searching for my parents in my own features. Wavy hair, tall stature, and the dimple in my chin from my father. Gray-green eyes, my smile, and the light blond shade of my hair from my mother. But the nose—my nose—looked like no one’s. I shifted poses and angles, trying desperately to catch even the faintest glimpse of them in myself. Still, it brought me comfort that with every passing year I grew more and more like my mom. At least in this way my parents remained with me—at least in this way I could still see them. Sometimes, when the loneliness was sharp and unbearable, I would stand before the mirror and stare into my own eyes without blinking, without looking away, until the reflection blurred slightly and I could almost believe my mom was the one gazing back at me. Then I would press my palm to the cold surface of the glass, imagining her hand meeting mine from the other side. The door burst open, followed by a poisonous little laugh. “Checking yourself out in the mirror?” my sister drawled without so much as a glance in my direction. “As if there were anything worth looking at.” I opened my mouth to answer, but Emma suddenly stopped, narrowed her eyes, and fixed them on me. “Where did you get that dress?” Almost instinctively, my hand slid down the soft blue fabric, smoothing it as if to protect it. “I bought it.” “With what money?” And why did she even care? “I stole it,” I snapped, folding my arms across my chest. “What else could one expect from a psycho?” she sneered. “Change your clothes.” “And why would I do that?” “You plan to run through the woods in a dress? We’re going out into nature.” I gave her a once-over. Her thick chestnut hair was pulled back into a high ponytail; she wore khaki pants and a loose black T-shirt. So she wasn’t joking about nature. Even in such plain clothes, her feminine figure stood out. We were only a year apart, yet Emma already looked like an attractive young woman, while I remained an awkward adolescent, a gangly ugly duckling. Still, my mom had been far more beautiful than Aunt Wanda. My aunt and her entire family bore harsh, coarse features, much like their personalities—none of them looked kind or gentle. My mother, on the other hand, had been delicate, gentle, angelic. Perhaps that was why my father had looked at her with such love even in their fourteenth year together. Their fourteenth—and last. They died on the same day, like something out of a fairytale. A very cruel fairytale. “I hate the outdoors,” I muttered helplessly, torn between anger and sadness. “I’m not going. It’s my birthday!” “Stop whining, Monica,” Emma said in disgust, rummaging through our shared dresser. “Change and get downstairs. Dad and Mark are already in the car. We won’t wait for you forever.” She pulled out a thin folded windbreaker and hurried away. “Then don’t wait,” I whispered, barely audibly. For a moment, I wanted to defy them—to refuse to go to the stupid forest and instead wear my new dress to the cinema, then to a café, anywhere but into the wilderness. Besides, I was itching to stop by one particular place—I had stumbled online upon information about a small bookshop near Vanalinn, run by an old Native American who had moved to Estonia from his homeland forty years ago. According to the forum, he had supposedly seen vampires and werewolves with his own eyes. Maybe just another madman—I had met enough of those. Or maybe, just maybe, he had truly seen what I had. But I decided not to anger Aunt Wanda and Uncle Jakob. I still had years left to live under their roof. So I changed into old jeans and a T-shirt and hurried downstairs. What was the point of going somewhere deep into the countryside, anyway, when we already lived in a house by the forest, only forty minutes’ walk from the sea? The last thing I wanted was to spend my birthday among trees and grass, far from civilization—where every shadow and every branch stirring in the wind looked like some terrible monster. The sudden ringing of my phone broke my thoughts. The screen lit up with the name Agnes—my mom’s friend. “Hello?” I answered, smiling softly into the receiver. “Monica! Happy birthday, sweetheart!” Agnes’s cheerful voice rang out. “Thank you, Agnes.” “I wish you health, success at school, happiness, and true, lasting love. The kind—” her voice faltered, grew sadder, “the kind your parents had.” Yes, I longed to find love. It all seemed so wonderful: romance, kisses, the feeling of a soulmate, the knowledge that you weren’t alone in the world. But so far, it had eluded me. Emma had already gone through several boyfriends, while I had never even held someone’s hand. “Thank you, Agnes,” I murmured again, pressing my lips together. “How are you, little one?” “I’m fine. How are you?” “Oh, the usual. My husband works day and night, my son is at university. I’m relaxing, enjoying life, drinking wine. Well, when I’m not busy with the little bits of work I do in my free time,” she chuckled. “That’s great! Where did your son end up studying?” “Aaron decided to stay in Spain. He enrolled in Barcelona.” “That’s not too far from you—do you see him often?” “Well, it’s five hundred kilometers—manageable. He visits, yes, but not often. He’s starting his own life there: studies, girls, parties…” “I see,” I said. We chatted a little longer before I slipped on my sneakers and finally stepped outside. Heavy gray clouds drifted across the sky, smothering the sun like a giant blanket, but the air remained warm despite the gloom, the wind soft and mild. Everyone was already waiting in the car. Waiting only for me. Well, there was one small consolation: I had always loved riding in a car, staring out the window, and listening to my favorite music in my headphones—especially in weather like this.

***

Half an hour before closing, I pushed open the heavy wooden door of the little bookshop, clutching the strap of my canvas bag slung over my shoulder. A chime of bells announced my arrival. The place looked like it belonged in a film: dim lighting, low ceilings, too many books crammed into too little space, the smell of dust mingling with something else—spices, perhaps, or herbs—though with a sweet undertone. On some shelves hung dreamcatchers, feathers and beads dangling delicately. “Good afternoon,” said an elderly man sitting at a desk in the far corner. I hadn’t noticed him right away. He wore a checkered shirt, his long gray hair pulled into a ponytail. “Can I help you with something?” Judging by his features—he looked Native American—this had to be him: Harry Colbert. “Yes, I… I’m looking for something on werewolves,” I answered, slowly approaching. “Legends, or anything like that.” A flicker of interest passed through Harry’s dark eyes. “You do have something, don’t you?” “I do,” he nodded. I drew in a deep breath, placed both hands on the table, and said quietly, “You’re Harry, aren’t you? Harry Colbert? I need to talk to you.” Harry raised his broad gray-streaked brows and tilted his head slightly, studying me intently.