Under the Bed, Behind the Moon

Ellie was seven when she first met Lumpkin.

He had purple fur, floppy ears like pancakes, and eyes that sparkled like melted crayons. He lived under her bed, only came out at night, and had a voice that sounded like jellybeans bouncing in a tin can.

“No one believes in me anymore,” Lumpkin had whispered the first time he showed up. “But you do.”

Ellie blinked, holding her stuffed bunny close. “You’re real?”

“As real as cake and ketchup,” he said proudly. “Now quick—do you want to come on an adventure or not?”

Ellie didn’t hesitate.

She crawled under the bed.

And everything changed.

---

The space beneath her bed stretched and stretched, until it became a tunnel filled with floating socks, lost crayons, and the smell of midnight wishes.

At the end of the tunnel was a door. A round one. Glowing faintly blue.

Lumpkin pushed it open. “Welcome to Mumblemoon.”

Ellie gasped.

Before her lay a sky full of stars, upside-down waterfalls, and trees that whispered lullabies. Creatures with paper wings floated by, and the clouds had freckles.

“This is your world?” Ellie asked.

Lumpkin nodded. “It used to be. Until the Glooms came.”

“The Glooms?”

Lumpkin’s ears drooped. “Sadness that turns to shadows. They sneak into dreams and steal all the light. That’s why I found you. I need your help.”

Ellie felt a tiny spark of bravery. “What can I do? I’m just a kid.”

“But you believe,” Lumpkin said. “And that’s where magic begins.”

---

Their journey started at the Wishing Marsh.

They had to cross it on the back of a giant snail named Harold who only moved when someone told him their biggest fear.

Ellie hesitated.

“My biggest fear… is losing my mom,” she whispered.

The snail blinked slowly, then began gliding forward.

Lumpkin said nothing, but gently held her hand.

That night, they camped under a sky made of soft music. Stars hummed lullabies, and Ellie shared stories about school, about how other kids laughed at her for “talking to herself,” and about the quiet ache she carried since her mom started getting sick.

Lumpkin listened. Really listened. Like each word mattered.

“You’re braver than you know,” he said softly.

---

The next day, they reached the Twisty Forest, where trees rearranged themselves if you told a lie.

“Just say the truth out loud,” Lumpkin explained.

Ellie gulped. “Okay. I don’t always like my baby brother. Sometimes I wish he’d stop crying.”

The path opened.

She smiled, a little lighter.

But the Glooms were close.

They came like fog—silent, creeping, heavy.

They whispered in Ellie’s ear:

“You’re not strong enough.”

“No one misses you when you’re gone.”

“Your mom’s getting worse because of you.”

Lumpkin leapt in front of her, his fur glowing gold. “DON’T LISTEN!”

But Ellie was already crying.

She fell to the ground, heart pounding.

“I’m scared,” she sobbed. “I don’t want to be brave anymore.”

And just when the shadows reached her—

—a memory floated up.

Her mom, tucking her in. Kissing her forehead. Whispering, *“Even when I’m tired or sick, I’ll always love you to the moon and back.”*

Ellie stood up.

“I’m not alone,” she said.

A light burst from her chest.

The Glooms screamed and scattered, melting into sparkles.

Lumpkin blinked. “That was amazing.”

Ellie wiped her nose. “That was Mom.”

---

They finally reached the Mirror of Mornings.

It could only be opened by someone who had faced their fear.

Ellie touched it.

And in the reflection, she saw herself—not perfect, not fearless—but strong, kind, and real.

She pushed the mirror open.

Behind it was the Heart of Mumblemoon—a glowing orb, cracked and flickering.

“Can I fix it?” she asked.

Lumpkin smiled. “You already have.”

She touched the orb, and light poured out.

Trees bloomed. Laughter returned. The stars danced.

The Glooms were gone.

---

When Ellie woke up, she was in her bed.

Morning light spilled through the window.

She ran to her mom’s room.

Her mom was sitting up, pale but smiling. “Had a wild dream?”

Ellie nodded. “Yeah. But it felt real.”

She looked under the bed later that night.

Lumpkin wasn’t there.

Just her bunny and some dust bunnies.

But taped to the bedframe was a crumpled note in purple crayon.

“Dear Ellie,

You saved Mumblemoon.

Thank you for being brave.

Love, Lumpkin.”

---

Moral:

Belief is a powerful thing. Sometimes, the monsters under the bed are just waiting for a friend brave enough to find them—and to shine a light on the darkness we all carry.