The children of Mildew do not know about the Murkmares. You are about to. This guide sets down what they look like and where they wait, then the six signs they leave behind. Read it in daylight.
A Murkmare is two inches tall, small and grey. It wears a pointed felt hat, rust red and floppy at the tip, and no shoes. Its face is pale and blank, with two hollow dark eyes and no mouth. No two faces are the same.
You will not see one alone. They come by the dozens, with their uncles and aunts and their nephews and cousins. They are patient. They are quiet. They are not at all sweet.
Murkmares live in forests, near beaches, in towns, and in fields. In your own bedroom they keep to the dark corners: the gap by the wardrobe, beneath the bed springs, the crack of the door, the shade of the chair. They have always been there.
While you are awake they sip pond-scum with milk and a flea, and they wait. They wait while you wriggle and yawn and get up for a wee. Then your breathing goes slow, and your eyelids go still, and they creep up the bedclothes like mist up a hill.
Check for these in the morning, in this order. It is the order they work in.
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Cold toes.
Your blankets were tucked in at nine. They are not tucked in now. The Murkmares stop first at the foot of the bed and untuck every blanket and sheet, with a twist and a pluck. Your toes are left out in the cold and the damp, where they go blue, and go numb, and curl up with a cramp.
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Knotted hair.
Next they climb to the pillow and on to your head. They knot up your hair and plait it with thread. They backcomb the fringe and tangle the crown. By morning it sticks up like straw, or goes sideways, or down.
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Crumpled clothes.
The clothes on your chair were pressed. The Murkmares crumple the collar and wrinkle the vest. Then they fold it all back up again, so that nobody knows it was ever begun.
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A crust in each eye.
Each Murkmare picks its own nose, rather deep. What it finds, it dabs in the corners of your eyes, just so, where it dries in a crust. Then it wipes off its fingers. On you.
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A wet pillow.
They tickle your tongue till your mouth starts to drip. The drip spreads on the pillow in a lukewarm grey pool. The youngest ones learn how to swim there, as a rule.
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Something you tasted and would rather forget.
This comes last. They stand in a row on your chin, two by two, and they take turns. They do not say excuse me. They do not say please. What they leave on your tongue is small, and it’s brown, and it’s round. The last one, being last, gives a tip of his hat.
A Murkmare never goes inside you. All of this is done from the outside. It is not much of a comfort.
Tape on your lips. Pegs on your nose. Sleeping head-down, hanging on by your toes. Sitting up until three with a lamp, reading late. You will blink. Only once. And they won’t need to wait.
Keep your mouth tightly shut. Hold it shut. Do your best. They’ll make do with your nose.
The full report is in the book.
