 In October of last year, I saw the black-eyed children for the first time. They floated just outside the open window, their skin a pale white, and their eyes as dark and void as the deepest hole you can imagine. I had become lost in those eyes. Have you ever had a nightmare you can't remember? I awoke abruptly, covered in sweat, in my heart beating faster than I'd ever had before. Yet I couldn't recall the goings-on of my mind that had shaken me so thoroughly. Sitting up at the edge of my bed, I stared over at my eight-year-old son. Then, Monsters aren't real. There's nothing to be afraid of, I had said, night after night with little result. But that wasn't true, was it? There was much to be afraid of. Since his mother had died, each night had progressed the same. I would tuck him in, Ben would promise that he would stay in his own room tonight, and I would kiss him on the forehead. I would then walk tiredly to my own bedroom, close the door quietly, take more than my fair share of melatonin, and drift off to sleep. Upon awakening, I would most certainly find my son gently nestled against my shoulder. Thinking it had to be the natural result of losing his mother, I hadn't thought much of it. That was until the nightmares started, and the children began their nightly visit. The first night I saw them, I was sure it had to be a dream. The bed was nearly pressed up against the window, and my son was directly below it. The two children reached their arms through the opening, and were only inches away from grabbing my son. Somehow holding back a scream, I reached out to push the cold arms away, and then I shut the window and locked it. Dad, Ben had said, having perhaps awoken from his own nightmare. Before he could see the two children, I quickly closed the curtains and pressed my back up against the window. What are you doing, Dad? Nothing, go back to bed. I said quietly, having no idea what to say or do. This is what I did do. Each night I would lock the window securely, and shut the blind so tightly that it was impossible to see anything. I made it a rule in our house, that each night every window must be locked securely, and the blind shut. I think I made up some excuse about burglars choosing homes where they could see inside. A few nights later, I peeked through the blinds and saw the two children, pale as death, back to where they had been that first night. I became lost in the depth of their eyes, and I watched as they looked from me to my son. No, you can't have him, I whispered angrily, snapping back into reality and pushing the blinds closed. As time continued, Ben's nightmares increased. Dad, sometimes at night I see things, Ben said, fear washing over his face. I interrupted quickly. I know what you see, Ben. Don't worry, they can't get you. He began to cry as he looked up at me. You promise? Tears flowed down my cheeks then as well as I hugged him close. I promise. Embracing him tightly, I looked over his shoulder and towards the tightly shut window. I couldn't see the dead children, but I still knew they were out there. Perhaps they were even more than the night before. Months went by, and eventually Ben got to the point where he wanted to try sleeping in his own room again. I don't want to be afraid anymore, Dad. He paused and looked up at me. They can't get me, right? I was lost for words, trying to hide the fact that I was indeed thinking it over. I had not only boarded off my son's bedroom window, but it sealed it as well. Nothing could get through. I was sure of it, and it wasn't right to have my son always living in fear. Okay, Ben. Shortly after, I set up a live camera in the corner of his room, facing his bed and where the window had been. I wanted my son to find courage and face his fears, but I didn't want to take any chances either. I tested the camera feed carefully, and then went to tuck him in. Kissing him on the forehead, my son hugged me close. Don't worry, Dad. I'm not afraid anymore. I was beyond proud of my son. Not only had he lost his mother, he had been given real monsters to contend with, and he had shown courage and determination in the face of it all. I'm so proud of you, I whispered. That night, I didn't sleep at all, only watching the camera feed to my son's room. I had placed the lens facing his bed in the closed off window, just in case. Nothing happened for hours until I did something so simple, something I will regret for the rest of my life. I went to the kitchen for a glass of water. I was gone no more than 20 seconds when I heard him. Dad. Ben screamed, making me drop the glass. I watched as it shattered onto the kitchen floor. Ben. I screamed, rushing to his bedroom. Hang on, Ben. I shouted again, now just outside his room. When I burst through the door, I felt my heart stop. My son's bed was empty, and he was gone. Ben. Ben. I searched everywhere for him. The window was still boarded off and sealed, yet my son was gone nonetheless. The police never found him, and I could tell from how the detective in charge eyed me over that I was their main suspect. It wasn't until two weeks later that I found Ben's drawings from the previous months. There were no dead children outside the window, and no monsters with black eyes. There was something else entirely. Please, if you ever see the black eyed children outside your window, please God, don't make the same mistake that I did. They aren't monsters. I think they were trying to warn us as I sit today and stare out the window. I tell myself that maybe, just maybe, I'll find my son again one day. I have to think that. It's the only thing that keeps me alive. I glanced down at my son's notebook from months earlier. One page stands out among the rest. There is a drawing of his room. The window boarded off, and my son sleeping peacefully. The closet door is cracked open, and a large clawed hand can be seen reaching through towards his bed.