The Thing Under My Bed
I was twelve when it happened. It was late October, just a few nights before Halloween. My parents were asleep, and I was lying in bed, scrolling on my phone when I heard a soft scratching sound coming from under my bed.
At first, I thought it was our cat. I called her name — no answer. The scratching stopped. Then, a few seconds later, I heard breathing. Slow. Heavy. Right beneath me.
I froze. I didn’t dare move. The breathing got louder, and something started to tap the underside of my mattress. Tap. Tap. Tap.
I gathered all my courage, grabbed my flashlight, and leaned over the side of the bed.
Nothing. Just darkness.
I slowly bent down and shined the light underneath — and that’s when I saw a face. Pale, wide-eyed, smiling up at me.
I screamed, and my parents ran into the room. But when they turned on the lights, there was nothing there. No one.
The next morning, there were scratch marks on the floorboards — long and deep — right where I had seen the face.
I never slept in that room again.
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