A mother sets her child upon her knee.
“It is time I told you about the grubkins,” she says to the wide-eyed listener. “What they do and what they’re like. I can only tell you what I know, and nothing more. But it may be enough to spot them with, and to defend yourself in case.” She nods, the mother. “They live in dark places. It suits them. Under bridges, beneath porches, within basements, sewers, and crawlspaces. They are drawn to filth, and collect like dust bunnies, making their nests just beneath our notice. If you find that your things are always gone missing, if you get the odd sense you’re being spied upon, or if you often catch a whiff of some unplaceable smell that wrinkles your nose, you may well be living in a grubkin’s midst. Be aware and beware.”
She rocks her chair, the wood of its legs creaking against the wood of the porch planks. The child waits for her to continue. Its breath is almost still.
“They are fond of all things rancid and rotten, so don’t let your milk go sour, and for this reason they raid trash cans and frequent landfills. Still, they aren’t picky, and eat with less discretion than goats. When they’ve consumed enough refuse, they vomit out another one of their own. That is how they propagate. Ever seen a cat cough up a hairball? Imagine that hairball becoming another cat. Or owl pellets into an owlet.
“Grubkins do not mature. They only grow. It is not their meals that make them grow, but simply the evil deeds they do. A good deed makes them shrink, but they only commit those by accident. Still, they grow very slowly, so that you know the big ones are especially old or especially bad. But most are small, small enough to fit inside a pillowcase. Small enough to hide with ease, to go unnoticed by those who aren’t looking for them. And they can cram themselves in such tight spaces as you’d never think to search. If you ever catch a movement at the edge of your vision, but turn to see nothing there, you may have found yourself one. When they do choose to show themselves, it is most often to the very young or very old, as they have a knack for recognizing our vulnerability and enjoy exploiting it for their own amusement.
“As for what they look like, picture a head with a grotesque, human-like face, cover it in thick, dark hair, and attach arms and legs to it. There you go, that is a grubkin. They are not pretty to look at, but that goes for most horrid things.
“And while their physical stature isn’t much to cower at, they have enough teeth and claws to ruin your day a few times over, and can even spit out bile that burns to the touch. Though they are not particularly smart, they can be quite crafty. Mind you, they do have thumbs, and while they aren’t much for building things, they know enough to wield many of our cruder tools. They’re awfully tenacious—that means stubborn—and climbing is a simple feat for them, so if they have a mind to get somewhere, they often will, graceless though they are. They seem to overestimate themselves in most situations, which should naturally be to their hazard, but the creatures are curiously indestructible, and the only known way to kill a grubkin is to embrace it in a hug of pure affection. No easy act for anyone with a sense of sanity, and that’s assuming you manage to get your hands on one of the buggers.
“They are pretty good at what they do, and what they do is steal things and break things and partake in general mischief. This seems to be their only purpose, as far as purposes go. Most creatures act out of survival, but a grubkin’s only—”
The mother pauses at the sound of rustling, steadies her chair, and stares. The child traces her gaze out into the yard, towards a heaped pile of dry leaves. A moment passes. The mother continues rocking.
“A grubkin does not steal out of need or necessity. They cannot starve, after all. It’s just that their guts are full of greed. And they’ll thieve not only what they want, but even what they don’t want, hiding things merely to confuse and frustrate us. If you ever come to wonder at all your unmatched socks, you’ll likely have a grubkin to blame. What they don’t displace or devour, they’ll hoard. You may come across a few grubkin stashes in your lifetime, though they take pains to conceal them. Some of them even focus their collections to specific sorts of trinkets, such as coins or marbles or baby teeth. And while baubles and knickknacks are common prey, they seem to place especial value by observing whatever we ourselves hold dear. For this reason, it’s an ill idea to leave out the likes of money, jewelry, keys, or eye glasses. Secure yourself a good box. Boxes confound them. That means to confuse and stump.
“Whatever they don’t find worth filching, they’ll often find worth breaking. Grubkins thrill at the act of unmaking. To deface and to destroy is their wont and way. Just as mankind is inclined to create and construct, theirs is just the opposite. And the more complex or delicate the thing, the more it risks their attention. But grubkins are cautious in keeping themselves unknown, so they’ll limit their vandalism when they can help it, or make it seem accidental, haphazard. Sometimes they’ll even devise a chain of events, placing china and glassware nearer the edge of shelves, or tampering with delicate machinery, and will then wait and watch for us to complete their designs.
“We are, to grubkins, like playthings to be gawked and laughed at, or simply obstacles in their assorted schemes. They typically avoid large gatherings of people, but take delight in stalking the lonesome, whether or not they have intention to victimize. Grubkins don’t often kill. They’d rather torment, and are especially fond of the sound of screaming. Believe you me, I kept your cradle under careful watch throughout your infancy.
“They have mean intentions and wicked imaginations, and will set traps to ensnare or lead us astray, or worse. Their pranks can oftentimes be dangerous, so keep your wits about you if you ever suspect yourself a toy in one of their games, and see if you can outsmart them. In moments of sudden misfortune, you’d be wise to cock an ear for telltale sniggering. That’ll confirm the true author of your distress.”
A gust of wind frees several remaining leaves from nearby branches, and carries with it an unfamiliar, unpleasant odor. The child grips its mother tightly.
“Grubkins are seldom idle, always bent on something. That means up to no good. They are most active at night, just as the common crook or hooligan, though they are far from strictly nocturnal. And while they aren’t especially social, they do sometimes form small packs. These we call calamities, as in a calamity of grubkins. Thankfully, they aren’t well coordinated, and spend just as much time infighting as anything else. They’ll often, during fierce storms, converge to form mock parades. You might, on occasion, witness a procession wandering though the rain, marching and dancing to thunderclaps.
“And should you ever endure the misfortune of a disaster, as in a tornado, flood, earthquake, or the like, you stand a fair chance of spying one or more of them. Such events draw them out into the open for some reason, as if they’re emboldened by the chaos and destruction. Fire, in particular, holds their fascination. It both lures and terrifies them. They cannot seem to manage its creation on their own, which is a definite mercy, though you’d be good and wise not to leave any lit candles untended. That means unwatched or uncared for.
“Now once a grubkin has settled itself, to do away with one is no simple feat, so it is just as important to dissuade their attention as it is to avoid it.” The mother motions to the wind chimes dangling nearby, tinkling in the breeze. “Hear the chimes? Grubkins hate the sound. That’s why I’m so diligent in keeping them untangled. Not surefire, you understand, but it’s good enough. Fragrant flowers do a similar trick. Perfume and potpourri, not so much, so tend your garden. But the best thing you can do is to place a guardian to watch over your home, a faithful beast, be it dog, cat, bird, or any other. Nourish them, treat them kindly, and they’ll have the power to ward off any grubkin. We don’t have old Adda for just her company, you know.”
The child has been staring beyond the walkway, into the street. With eyes grown large, it inhales sharply, then points towards the storm drain across the way. The mother lowers its arm and strokes its hair. “Be calm,” she soothes. “Understand that I tell you all this not so you can simply elude grubkins all your life. There is no guarantee in that. It is more important for you to recognize their presence and ways so that you are better able to live in the same world that we and they share. They are just another unpleasant fact of life, like the common cold or growing old. But now that I’ve shared my knowledge with you, you’re that much more prepared, or as prepared as you might ever be against their kind. Now you can share it with your own loved ones someday, and they with theirs. And, of course, now you finally understand what I mean whenever I tell you not to be such a little grubkin.”
