Chapter 1
There is a monster in my bedroom.
I locked it in the lowest drawer of my desk.
It’s been there for a few weeks…
Since that day, I haven’t dared to open my drawer. The scratching sounds—faint yet persistent—have become the soundtrack to my sleepless nights. A closely guarded secret that, somehow, apparently only I perceive. Friends visit my room, unaware of the whispers and scrapes coming from my desk. I wonder why I’m the only one who feels its presence, why it seems to call to something deep within me that I can’t quite identify. The thought of trying to prove it to them—of actually opening the drawer—makes my stomach twist. Who would believe something so absurd? But more than that, the memory of encountering something so alien, so otherworldly, paralyzes me at the mere thought of facing it again.
Only Sarah, with her too many questions, once dared to ask about the padlock on my bottom drawer. “What are you hiding in there, Charlina? A secret diary? Contraband snacks?” Her voice lilted with playful suspicion as she examined the vintage lock I had found at a second-hand market, the key even more beautiful and intricately detailed. I mumbled something about bank statements and other financial documents—things too important to risk losing. She laughed “no offense, but I don’t think Ocean’s Eleven is planning to rob the cheapest student housing in town.”
“My parents”. I lied. “They’re paranoid about identity theft”
She now thinks I’m obsessed with security and cute vintage locks. Better than the truth.
During the quiet night hours, the scratching turns into whispers in a language I don’t understand. I wonder if I should just get rid of it. But I still can’t shake the horror of seeing the monster from my mind. Three weeks ago, I saw this shapeless shadow moving effortlessly from one place to another a few meters away in less than a second. Sometimes, long lines emerged from the shadow to grab onto something, if necessary, that made its movements even faster. Nothing has ever terrified me like that first sighting. Yet when I hurled books at it, the shadow shrank, tucking itself into my drawer; all I did then was grab my beautiful lock and put it to use.
After a weekend at my parents’ house, I’m walking down the street back to my dorm, just a few meters from entering the building. Shoulders aching from my overstuffed backpackas I head toward the inevitable: back to sleep next to a locked monster. Who knows what will happen the moment it figures out how to escape from my drawer?
Just hours ago, my mother had cupped my face between her warm hands, concern etching lines around her eyes. “You’re disappearing, sweetheart.” The sleeping pills hidden in my toiletry bag barely take the edge off my anxiety. I’d mentioned something was wrong with my living situation, but watched her eyes flicker toward my father—they’d already sacrificed too much for my education, for my dream of becoming an architect. My coffee shop job barely covers materials and food, let alone a different apartment.
There isn’t much I can do, and the monster seems safely trapped. It can’t possibly reach water, food, or sunlight in there.I wonder if it needs any of that. Maybe it’s slowly dying, and the scratches are a sign of its last desperate attempts to escape. Just thinking about it gives me a weird feeling in my chest. I almost feel guilty about letting that little monster die in a dark, sad desk drawer. Letting a creature die in a dark, sad desk drawer seems somehow dishonorable, even for a monster.
A heaviness settles in my chest as I climb the stairs and cross the common area of my floor. Two girls are cooking and chatting by the stove, three boys drink beer and half-watch TV. I smile brightly and offer an enthusiastic “Hi!” as I pass. Neither group acknowledges me.
I’m not sure why I can’t connect with the people living here. Sometimes, I blame my shyness, my hesitation to take the first step. But I focus on the small gestures—smiling and greeting everyone I pass, keeping shared spaces clean, never complaining when others don’t reciprocate. Which happens frequently. Just the reality of communal living with students. I can’t expect everyone to share my standards, modest as they are, judging by the occasional chaos of my own room.
Four steps into my bedroom, I toss my backpack onto the bed and collapse beside it. I close my eyes briefly, trying to ignore all the tasks waiting for me. My small room isn’t exactly how I left it—I was in such a hurry to escape, so eager for a few days away from this place. Away from that thing.
I begin organizing a small pile of clothes on the floor, making space to vacuum later. Each time I bend down to grab something, my eyes flick toward my drawer. I never know if the noises are real or just in my head. Simple chores turn into lengthy tasks.
The monster has been quiet since I arrived. I feel relieved by that thought until I hear the scratches again. I’ve contemplated a thousand times whether I misinterpreted what I saw—perhaps it was just a mouse, somehow capable of shapeshifting from large to small in seconds.
It’s been about three weeks since this unwanted roommate appeared. I haven’t properly contemplated what to do with it because school deadlines consumed me—group projects left me with minimal time in my room. I’ve spent several nights at Sarah’s smaller but private apartment, which has its own kitchen and bathroom. We work on models and print posters without disturbing other students at odd hours. Sarah struggles with late nights, but I manage better. She calls me “the magic zombie.”
“Only you, Charlie, have the ability to look fresh after twelve hours of work, a diet of instant noodles, and three hours of sleep,” she complains. I laugh it off, but exhaustion constantly weighs down on me. The facade of alertness is just that—a facade. I don’t voice my fatigue; guilt would consume me, given my parents’ sacrifices for my education.
My room is finally organized, except for a small pile of things I’d really like to store in my bottom drawer. I kneel beside my desk and tap gently on the drawer. A strange courage rises within me, prompting me to attempt communication. “How can we solve this, little thing?”Almost immediately, bumps and knocks respond from inside the drawer, as if the creature is trying to answer.
I’ve searched on internet about shadows, noises, and shapeshifting creatures endlessly. Nothing matches what I’ve seen. Denial seems the best strategy for now, at least temporarily. Opening that drawer terrifies me. For today, I’ll focus on sketching for this week’s assignment, then make food and relax. Tomorrow’s a holiday—time enough to reconsider my options.
I grab my sketchbook and sit at my desk to start drawing. I love using the set of carbon pens my father gave me for my last birthday. Drawing is my escape; it relieves the urge to capture the images of scenes that fill my mind. These scenes feel like memories from incredible places I’ve never visited in real life, perhaps places I’ve only dreamed of. This surreal inspiration fuels my school projects. I must admit that I’ve excelled academically since the beginning. My professors often comment on the uniqueness of my designs.
My designs focus on height and intricate details—a level of precision that is uncommon among first-semester students. While others may explore broader concepts, I find beauty in the smallest elements. My sketches portray scenes I’ve been envisioning for as long as I can remember. With each passing year, I’ve refined my skills. Eventually, pursuing architecture became the obvious path for me, allowing me to translate the images that have always populated my mind.
When people see my sketches, they are often intrigued. I envision long, tall buildings with organic shapes, soaring and slender, nestled within a dense tapestry of structures and open spaces, harmonizing with nature as if they belong together. The colors of the scenes in my mind never match the palette of colors I can use for my sketches, so I always keep them colorless.
During my sketching session, the monster is quiet; this is often the case when I am busy. I feel he understands that what I’m doing is important, except for sleeping. My sleep does not seem very important to him.
As I finish my sketches, curiosity overwhelms me. I grab my phone to run a little experiment with the monster. First, I play a busy rock song. The response is immediate—chaotic bumps and knocks echo from every corner of the drawer, almost like a protest. I stop the music, and after a few seconds, the monster remains still.
Next, I try a mellower instrumental piece. The drawer remains quiet; the monster seems calm. I’m not sure which it prefers. I begin noting its reactions in a small notebook dedicated to studying my enigmatic roommate.
