A Monster Calls Read Online Free Page A

what
teachers
always say,” Conor said. “No one believes them either.”
    And when I have finished my three stories
, the monster said, as if Conor hadn’t spoken,
you will tell me a fourth.
    Conor squirmed in the monster’s hand. “I’m no good at stories.”
    You will tell me a fourth
, the monster repeated,
and it will be the truth.
    “The truth?”
    Not just any truth.
Your
truth.
    “O-
kay
,” Conor said, “but you said I’d be scared before the end of all this, and that doesn’t sound scary at all.”
    You know that is not true,
the monster said.
You know that your truth, the one that you hide, Conor O’Malley, is the thing you are most afraid of.
    Conor stopped squirming.
    It couldn’t mean–
    There was no
way
it could mean–
    There was no way it could know
that
.
    No.
No
. He was
never
going to say what happened in the real nightmare. Never in a million years.
    You will tell it
, the monster said.
For this is why you called me.
    Conor grew even more confused. “
Called
you? I didn’t
call
you–”
    You will tell me the fourth tale. You will tell me the truth.
    “And what if I don’t?” Conor said.
    The monster gave the evil grin again.
Then I will eat you alive.
    And its mouth opened impossibly wide, wide enough to eat the whole world, wide enough to make Conor disappear forever–
    He sat up in bed with a shout.
    His bed. He was back in his bed.
    Of course it was a dream. Of
course
it was.
Again.
    He sighed angrily and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. How was he ever going to get any rest if his dreams were going to be this tiring?
    He’d get himself a drink of water, he thought as he threw back the covers. He’d get up and he’d start this night over again, forgetting all this stupid dream business that made no sense whatso–
    Something squished under his foot.
    He switched on his lamp. His floor was covered in poisonous red yew tree berries.
    Which had all somehow come in through a closed and locked window.

GRANDMA
    “Are you being a good boy for your mum?”
    Conor’s grandma pinched Conor’s cheeks so hard he swore she was going to draw blood.
    “He’s been
very
good, Ma,” Conor’s mother said, winking at him from behind his grandma, her favourite blue scarf tied around her head. “So there’s no need to inflict quite so much pain.”
    “Oh, nonsense,” his grandma said, giving him two playful slaps on each cheek that actually hurt quite a lot. “Why don’t you go and put the kettle on for me and your mum?” she said, making it sound not like a question at all.
    As Conor gratefully left the room, his grandma placed her hands on her hips and looked at his mother. “Now then, my dear,” he heard her say as he went into the kitchen. “What
are
we going to do with you?”
    Conor’s grandma wasn’t like other grandmas. He’d met Lily’s grandma loads of times, and
she
was how grandmas were supposed to be: crinkly and smiley, with white hair and the whole lot. She cooked meals where she made three separate eternally-boiled vegetable portions for everybody and would giggle in the corner at Christmas with a small glass of sherry and a paper crown on her head.
    Conor’s
grandma wore tailored trouser suits, dyed her hair to keep out the grey, and said things that made no sense at all, like “Sixty is the new fifty” or “Classic cars need the most expensive polish.” What did that even
mean
? She emailed birthday cards, would argue with waiters over wine, and still had a
job
. Her house was even worse, filled with expensive old things you could never touch, like a clock she wouldn’t even let the cleaning lady dust. Which was another thing. What kind of grandma had a cleaning lady?
    “Two sugars, no milk,” she called from the sitting room as Conor made the tea. As if he didn’t know that from the last three thousand times she’d visited.
    “Thank you, my boy,” his grandma said, when he brought in the tea.
    “Thank you, sweetheart,” his mum said,