Something Is Living Under My Bed

I used to believe monsters only existed in a child’s imagination.

Sharp teeth, glowing eyes, clawed hands reaching from the dark—things parents dismiss with a laugh before turning off the lights. I believed that too, once. Until the night I realized the fear under my bed wasn’t imaginary.

It was patient.

The first time I noticed it, I was seven years old.

My room was small, painted a dull sky blue that faded into gray once the lights went out. My bed sat low to the ground, just enough space underneath for dust, forgotten toys, and shadows that stretched longer than they should.

Every night, just as sleep crept in, I felt it.

A pressure.

Not on my body—but on my awareness. Like being watched from a place I couldn’t see.

I would lie still, clutching my blanket, staring at the ceiling while my heart raced. The air felt heavier near the floor, thicker beneath the bed. Sometimes, I swore I could hear breathing—not mine, not my parents’—slow and careful, as if whatever it was didn’t want me to notice.

I never looked.

Children know some rules without being taught. Don’t answer voices calling your name at night. Don’t open the door if no one knocks. And never, ever look under the bed when you feel something looking back.

I told my mother once.

She smiled gently, brushed my hair back, and said, “It’s just your imagination. Monsters don’t exist.”

That night, after she turned off the lamp and closed the door, I heard something shift beneath me.

Not a sound of settling wood. Not the rustle of sheets.

Movement.

Slow. Intentional. Like a body adjusting its weight.

I pressed my eyes shut and stayed perfectly still until morning.

Years passed.

I grew older. Braver. Or so I thought.

At twelve, I finally looked.

Armed with a flashlight and fueled by embarrassment at my own fear, I waited until midnight. My room was silent, except for the hum of electricity in the walls.

I slid off the bed and knelt.

The beam of light cut through darkness, revealing dust bunnies, an old shoebox, a missing sock.

Nothing else.

Relief washed over me—until the light flickered.

Something pulled back, deeper into the shadows. Not fast. Not panicked. Calm.

Like it had been expecting me to look.

The flashlight died in my hand.

From beneath the bed, a whisper curled into the air.

“Too soon.”

I screamed.

My parents came running. The light turned back on. There was nothing there. No sign of anything unusual.

They moved my bed the next day.

I slept better after that.

Or so I told myself.

Adulthood has a way of convincing you that childhood fears are just echoes. Memories that lose their power under logic and routine.

I moved out. Went to college. Got a job. Lived in apartments where beds were higher off the ground, where darkness didn’t pool so easily.

Years passed without incident.

Until last week.

I had just moved into a new place—a small apartment with creaking floors and thin walls. The bedroom was barely big enough for a bed and a nightstand. When I assembled the frame, I noticed it sat lower than I liked.

Too close to the floor.

That first night, I slept restlessly.

At 3:17 a.m., I woke suddenly.

The room felt wrong.

The air was cold near the floor, warm near my face. I lay frozen, staring at the ceiling as a familiar pressure settled over me.

Awareness.

Recognition.

Then I heard it.

Breathing.

Slow. Controlled. Right beneath me.

My heart pounded so loudly I was sure it could hear it.

A soft sound followed—fingers brushing against fabric. The underside of my mattress dipped slightly, as if something was pressing upward.

I wanted to scream. I couldn’t move.

A voice whispered, clearer than it had ever been before.

“You left.”

Tears slipped down my temples into my hair.

“I waited.”

The bed shifted again.

Closer.

“You grew up,” it said, almost amused. “You stopped believing. But I never stopped living here.”

I felt something touch my ankle.

Not claws.

Not cold.

Warm. Dry. Almost human.

I jerked my leg back, finally able to move, and scrambled out of bed, slamming into the wall. I flipped on the light with shaking hands.

The room was empty.

But the space under the bed was darker than it should have been. Too deep. Like it didn’t end where the wall did.

A shadow moved.

Not retreating.

Stretching.

Smiling.

I didn’t sleep after that.

The next morning, I checked out of the apartment. Told the landlord I had an emergency. I left my bed behind.

I thought distance would help.

I was wrong.

Last night, in my hotel room, I heard it again.

Not under the bed this time.

Inside the walls.

Waiting for me to settle.

Waiting for the lights to go out.

Because I finally understand something I never did as a child:

It was never trapped under my bed.

That was just where it liked to watch me sleep.