There’s Someone Under My Bed — And It’s Not Human

🕯️

I used to think horror was funny.

Ghost stories? Just bored people with wild imaginations.

Monsters under the bed? Kids needing attention.

Even sleep paralysis stories seemed like excuses for nightmares.

I was one of those people who could sleep anywhere, anytime, and laugh in the dark. Until one night, everything changed.

It was the first weekend I stayed alone in my aunt’s old farmhouse. She had gone on a spiritual retreat and needed someone to feed her cats. I volunteered, thinking a quiet weekend in the country sounded peaceful.

Friday night, I made tea, turned on a crime documentary, and climbed into her creaky old bed. The wooden floor groaned under every step, and the wind outside howled like it was angry at the world. I laughed to myself, joking aloud,

“If there’s a ghost here, bring me a blanket. It’s freezing.”

🛏️

Around 2 a.m., I woke up suddenly.

No sound. Just… a strange feeling. Like something was watching me.

I brushed it off and shifted under the covers.

That’s when I heard it.

Breathing.

Not mine.

It was deep… slow… like someone trying not to be heard. It was coming from beneath the bed.

I froze. My heart began hammering in my chest. Maybe it was the cats?

But I remembered—they never came into the bedroom. My aunt said they avoided it completely.

I slowly reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. Soft yellow light filled the room.

Silence.

I leaned over the edge of the bed, forcing myself to peek.

Nothing.

The floor was empty. Just dust and an old sock.

I exhaled shakily. “Just your imagination,” I whispered.

I laid back down and turned off the light.

That’s when the breathing started again.

Only this time, it was faster.

🐾

I shot out of bed, grabbing my phone flashlight.

I scanned the room again. Nothing.

My body trembled, not just from fear—but something instinctual. That sense that something was wrong. Something unnatural.

As I stood by the bed, debating whether to sleep on the couch, I noticed something.

The bed. It had been moved. Only a few inches, but enough to reveal something scratched into the wooden floor.

Kneeling down, I shined the light.

It was a word.

Carved deep. Rough. Desperate.

“RUN.”

And next to it… claw marks.

Not scratches like a pet might make. These were long. Sharp. Carved into the floor like someone—or something—was trying to crawl out.

Or in.

Suddenly, I heard a whisper.

“Don’t look.”

It came from under the bed.

I didn’t listen.

I dropped to the floor, heart pounding, and shined the flashlight under the bed.

Eyes.

Wide, white, inhuman. Staring right back at me.

It smiled.

Its jaw opened far too wide.

And it mimicked my voice:

“Just your imagination…”

I ran.

Not calmly. Not quietly.

I sprinted out of the room, into the living room, locked the door, and stayed awake until morning with every light on. The cats hid the entire night, eyes fixed on the hallway.

I never went back to that room.

My aunt returned and found me pale, sleepless, shaking.

When I told her what happened, she didn’t laugh.

She simply said:

“That’s why I leave the door closed. And the bed untouched.”

📜 Famous Quote:

“Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.”

— Stephen King

Since that night, I sleep on a mattress on the floor.

No more beds.

No more dark bedrooms.

And I never, ever, check under the bed anymore.

Because what if it’s still there?

Waiting.

🕷️

Final Note:

If you read this at night, sleep tight.

And if you hear breathing where there shouldn’t be any…

Don’t look.