Ever since I was little, the idea of something lurking under my bed has always given me chills. The creak of old floorboards, the way my nightlight throws strange shadows across the walls, and the occasional gust of wind rattling the window all feed into that quiet dread — the sense that I’m not entirely alone. As I got older, I told myself it was just childish imagination. After all, monsters aren’t real… right?
But last night, something happened that made me doubt my own reassurance.
I had just turned off the lamp and pulled the blanket up to my chin when a soft sound broke the silence — a faint shuffle, like fabric brushing against wood. My body went rigid, my ears straining for any movement. Then it came again, louder this time, almost deliberate.
My heart thudded against my ribs. Part of me wanted to jump out of bed, flick on the light, and prove nothing was there. Another part — the part that still believed in childhood fears — urged me to stay still. What if it wasn’t just my imagination? What if someone, or something, really was hiding under my bed?
Finally, curiosity overpowered fear. I reached for my phone, thumb hovering over the flashlight icon. Its pale glow sliced through the darkness as I leaned over, breath held, and looked beneath the bed.
Only dust. Only shadows. Only an old sock I’d forgotten.
Yet even as I set the phone down, the uneasiness stayed with me. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had been there… and had simply slipped away before I looked.
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