Ankle Snatcher

by Grady Hendrix

Maybe I’d inherited some leftover murderous spoor, clinging to the folds of my brain, a genetic kill switch that had finally closed, and the Ankle Snatcher, and everything I’d seen or heard or smelled since last night, was a delusion prepped by my dad when I was six years old, etched into my DNA.

walking up and down the aisles, looking for something to kill the monster under my bed.

“Your dad says it’s not too bad at Kirkland,” Louis said. “The beds there are poured concrete slabs. No space underneath for anything to hide.”

They live in our closets and under our beds, and after dark they come out when we break the rules. We’re serving time for the boogeymen’s crimes.”

He thinks it’s generational. He thinks maybe your grandparents, a few jumps back, maybe your great-grandfather, made something up to scare his kids, but when that kid grew up, it never went away. But we can make them go away. We can hurt them. We can kill them.”