She was elbow-deep, fingers bleeding, nails chipped and split, when she finally felt something cold, unnaturally smooth. She wiped and scraped away the remainder of the mud to uncover an object shining and black. Six inches in height and intricately shaped. She pried her fingers beneath it, pried it up.

A ray of moonlight broke through the canopy and she lifted the onyx carving into its shine. The head was a unicorn, the twisting horn protruding from the raised forehead as long as her pinky, the tip sharp as a needlepoint. The body, however, was that of a large man. Brutish, hairy, and hunkered into a sitting position. Unnaturally long fingers sagged over his knees, his chest a mighty barrel, his stomach a protruding gumball. Legs, bent and knobby, ended in hooves.

Esther stood, swayed, felt sleepy. The moonlight was fading, her adrenaline waned. She was cold, wet. Clutching the object to her chest, she sighed and headed for home.

Minutes later she crawled through her window. The carpet squelched wetly beneath her dirty bare toes, the half-open window having allowed in the rain. She set the statuette on her nightstand, then went to the bathroom to dry herself, wash the dirt from her hands and feet.

She found clean sweats, a long-sleeve thermal, and dry fluffy pink socks. Warming slowly, she climbed into bed, scribbled blindly in her journal, then fell into a deep sleep, where no dreams could catch her.

TOO TIRED TO write much tonight. Sorry.

Another nightmare and some found treasure.

New friend, perhaps.

“EAT YOUR EGGS.”

Esther looked down at her plate, the pile of moist yellow scrambled eggs on one half, greasy fat-tipped bacon on the other. Her stomach clenched at the thought of putting any of it into her mouth, so she nibbled at the edge of an unbuttered piece of toast and studied the meal, wondering what she could do to get out of eating her father’s failed attempt at a healthy breakfast.

She kept her eyes lowered as he pulled out a chair from across the table, sat down heavily, picked up the morning paper and slurped his coffee.

Saturdays were Esther’s least favorite day of the week. Monday through Friday she spent at school, and often tried to extend the time away from home by asking for playdates with her friends, or volunteering to help with after-school projects. Anything to keep her from returning home to her secluded prison with Father, who still had no job, paying their bills with the insurance checks that came every month since her mother died.

She poked the eggs with her fork, head bowed, then subtly lifted her eyes to examine the man across the table. Hair graying, thin, and much too long. He looked pale and gaunt, but she knew how strong he was. He had looked different when Mother was alive. Or, perhaps, he had only appeared different to her. Rose-colored glasses of a young girl in love with a daddy who adored her, smothered her with love, protected her.

Now he was the boogeyman. A stalker of the night.

When he drank, as he did most nights, he got depressed, then, especially of late, hostile. It started with visits shortly after Mom’s death. He’d sit on Esther’s bed and cry; she’d hug him and she’d cry. Then he would stay in her bed, hold her, sleep with her until morning. At first, she loved it. But as the months went by, the visits became too ritualistic, too invasive. Esther was getting older and realized how very odd it was. She’d tried to play it off at first, made a joke of it. “Daddy, go sleep in your own bed!” she’d say and throw a pillow at him, or a stuffed bear. Often he’d laugh, take the hint, leave.

But the more he drank, the less of a game it became. The less in control he was. The warmth became a chill that never left her body, the games a sullen acquiescence. When he first started groping her, she’d squirm and jump out of bed and yell at him to stop! And he would. For a while. Until he came home drunk again.

He started tying her down. Used pieces of her own clothing. Sweats or leggings, whatever was around. He’d tie her to the bed and put his hands on her. Angrily so. Sometimes, as if sickened with himself, or with her, he’d push her into the closet and jam a chair beneath the doorknob. Leave her there for the night, often well into morning, until he woke up and summoned the courage to face her.

After a while, she stopped lashing out. Stopped fighting. He never went too far, kept the damage mainly psychological, which she supposed was a blessing. But it was also, she knew, temporary. She was getting older, her body maturing, and he had noticed. It shamed her. All of it shamed her. She would look in the mirror at her own body and break down in tears, hating her own womanhood. Hating the female of her. Hating that she drew him to her in that way. Hating him, but herself more.

During those first months, when he’d become more abusive, the nightmares began. Dreams of storms and music, of being with and losing always losing her mother. Again and again and again.

He looked up at her, caught her eye and held it.

“Eat your eggs.”

She stuck a fork into the bright yellow mush, lifted a small bite to her mouth. They were cool and wet and she wanted to spew them out, but she managed to swallow. Maybe she should start handling the cooking duties. At least then she wouldn’t be eating shit every meal.

She recalled the statuette sitting on her nightstand and smiled to herself. A secret was always a good thing to ward off feelings of worthlessness, of abjection. Secrets empowered.

Then she realized a sad truth: Secrets did empower, but in their case they empowered him. Because his secret, in this particular scenario, was her.

HOLY SHIT.

Okay, how can I put this into words? How do I describe last night?

I was laying here, falling asleep and staring at the unicorn. Thinking about the music I’d hear in my dreams and the night I dug it out of the dirt, near the trees.

I heard a loud… I don’t know… scratching sound, and the room got very, very dark. Like I was underwater, like my whole room was sinking in a submarine, diving into some dark abyss. My ears plugged up and the air got hot… and then, a minute later, my ears popped and I could sort of see again. Everything was fine. Normal. Except when I looked around my room, I saw him.

I turned on the lamp by my bed, ready to scream.

He stood by the window, and he was big. Massive. He was, I don’t know, seven feet tall or something. Hairy and wearing weird clothes, sort of like a robe but it only covered his middle, not his arms or head or feet. But they weren’t feet. They were hooves, like on a horse, or a goat... but way bigger. Hard and nasty-looking.

This giant man with horse feet... was just standing there, staring at me like a big creepy shadow. But here’s the thing—he wasn’t creepy, or scary, not at all.

He was nice.

I liked him right away, even though I was obviously startled at first.

At least it wasn’t Father.

So he stood there, watching me, and I didn’t move because I was too freaked out, and then he smiled, and he had big white teeth, and he said…

“HELLO, PRINCESS.”

She didn’t respond, didn’t know what to say. The beast of a man had just appeared out of the shadows, standing between her bed and the window. In her fright and surprise, Esther looked first to the bedroom door, as if expecting to see it open, Father standing there, arms folded, watching and smiling.

But the door was closed. The house quiet.

“Hi…” she managed.

The man laughed. A big, deep, wide-open laugh that she was sure Father would hear.

“Ssshhh!” she said, sitting up urgently, stealing another look to the door.

The man covered his mouth, dark eyes wide, as if sorry. Or amused. He took the hand away, crouched so he could be more level with Esther.