FICTION
I Met the Man Who Was Living Under My Bed
A true story
Lots of people fear the man who lives under their bed. Children, in particular, are terrified of them. Even as we age, the man under the bed never truly goes away; we just hide our fears, as we would be embarrassed to confess we still have them. But lately, something was about to change forever.
I guess I’m approaching the second adolescence—the return to innocence. I’ve been shutting the closet door before I go to bed so the monster who lives there doesn’t come out. And before I leap into bed with the lights off, I fear the hand that would come out from underneath and grab my ankle.
I don’t really believe that, but I do. And one of these nights, when I was not expecting, it happened. My ankle was firmly grabbed by a hand that came from under my bed. I couldn’t fucking believe it, but it finally happened. I tried to set myself free, but the grip was overwhelming, irrational. After struggling for a few moments, I could not set myself free. I turned my phone’s flashlight and slowly peeked under the bed.
There he was. The man who lived under my bed, in flesh and bone and gore. Get the fuck out of my house! I yelled, but there was no response; he just kept looking at me with the sobriety of who works for a living—a few minutes passed, which…
