Myths at Moonrise

The scent of lavender and chamomile always clung to Mama's stories, a sweetness battling the faint metallic tang of her blood-pressure pills. Every night, nestled under the patchwork quilt that smelled of sunshine and worn cotton, she'd weave tales by firelight. Tales of shimmering scales and fur the color of twilight, of creatures who walked amongst us, hidden in plain sight.

"They look just like us, Dolly," Mama would whisper, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. "But when the moon climbs high in the sky, casting its silver net, they change. Their skin ripples, bones twist and snap, and they become… something else."

A shiver would tickle my spine, a delicious fear that made my eyes wide and my breath catch. Mama'd point a long, cool finger at the moon, a perfect pearl peeking through the window. "See, Dolly? That's when the magic happens. Under the moon's watchful gaze, they transform."

I'd imagine these creatures, their faces blurring in the flickering firelight. Were they fearsome giants with glowing red eyes, or perhaps sleek, shadowy things that slunk through the night? Mama's stories painted such vivid pictures, but a stubborn disbelief always lingered in my five-year-old heart.

"But Mama," I'd protest, wrinkling my nose, "that's silly. People can't turn into monsters!"

Mama would chuckle, a sound as soft as wind chimes. "Oh, Dolly," she'd say, brushing a stray curl from my forehead. "The world is full of wonder, even the scary kind. These creatures, they just… wear a different skin at night. But by day, they're just like us. They go to work, they eat their vegetables..."

"Even the gross ones?" I'd interrupt, making a face at the memory of creamed spinach earlier that day.

"Even the gross ones," Mama would confirm, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Just imagine, your teacher, Mrs. Peabody, with fangs and claws! Or Mr. Henderson from the bakery, all furry and growling."

The thought made me giggle, the fear momentarily forgotten. "But Papa wouldn't turn into anything scary, right? He wouldn't?"

Papa, with his booming laugh and calloused hands, was my hero. He smelled of sawdust and sunshine, a stark contrast to Mama's lavender and worry. "Of course not, my little star," Mama would say, her smile a little sad. "Your Papa's the bravest man I know. He wouldn't be afraid of anything, not even a creature of the night."

And every night, when the last embers flickered in the fireplace, I'd wait with bated breath for the rumble of Papa's truck on the gravel road. The second I heard it, I'd scramble out of bed, a jumble of tangled limbs and excitement, my mind filled with Mama's stories and the question that clung to me like a whisper: were the creatures real? And if they were, would I ever see them transform under the moon's watchful gaze?

'Did Mama scare you again?' he'd tease, a twinkle in his eye.

And I'd nod furiously, launching into a breathless recounting of Mama's latest creature story. Father would listen patiently, a smile playing on his lips. Sometimes, he'd add his own embellishments, tales of mischievous sprites who tangled fishing lines and mischievous pixies who replaced sugar with salt in unsuspecting kitchens.

Those were the nights I held onto the most, snuggled safely between my parents, the stories mingling with the comforting scent of woodsmoke and cinnamon. The creatures under the moon might have been scary, but with my family close, even the darkest nights seemed a little less frightening.