Angela was seven, an expert at seeing the unseen. There was Mr. Grizzlesworth under the stairs, his whiskers like prickly wire and eyes glowing green. Mrs. Flutterby the moth-sprite clung to the lampshade, her shimmery wings was a blur of light. And her favorite, Whiskers, was an enormous, invisible cat who left trails of warm fur and purrs only she could hear. Her parents thought these imaginings were cute. Angela was a creative child, they told themselves.

Until Angela froze in the grocery store, screaming “Monster!” as she pointed to an empty aisle. Her mom's gentle explanation – that the monster wasn't real – shook Angela's world. Were her friends, her whole secret universe, just in her head? The thought was both petrifying and strangely thrilling.

Weeks later, she was building a blanket fort in her room when a low, monstrous growl echoed from within. The biggest, ugliest monster she could imagine poked its furry head from behind the closet door. Its razor teeth gleamed, eyes burning. It snarled, then vanished as quickly as it came. But then...another growl echoed from the hallway, even closer.

Heart pounding, Angela peeked out. Her dad stood there, playfully menacing, holding a movie with cartoon villains on the cover. “Ready for some scary stuff, kiddo?”

"The scariest," Angela agreed, a rush of relief washing over her. Tonight, she'd share the monsters with Dad. The movie monsters were pretend, just like her own. Maybe that was okay. Maybe she could have two kinds of friends.

As they settled on the couch, Angela leaned into her dad's side. “All the scary things," she whispered, a mischievous grin spreading across her face, "It is a figment of your imagination.” And sometimes, that was the most wonderful kind of thing to be.