Mrs. Kellerman at number 9 has not slept in eleven years. She doesn’t speak of it , but sometimes visitors catch her whispering to the wall: Go away. I don’t want you. Go away. And the wall whispers back—not in words, but in the sound of small things being dragged across a ceiling when no one is upstairs.
The street preys on politeness. It thrives on the quiet way you say I’m fine while the dishes pile up. It fattens on the smile you wore to the parent-teacher conference while a black shape stood behind you, whispering: You should have been a better mother. You should have been a better son. o babadook drive
If you ever find yourself turning onto O Babadook Drive, don’t brake. Don’t check your mirrors. Drive straight through, past the weeping woman on the swing, past the boy who knocks on his own front door, past the house where the lights are always on and no one is home. I don’t want you
And if something taps on your window—three slow, deliberate taps—do not roll it down. Do not say Not tonight . Do not say I’m tired . The street preys on politeness