I Woke Up and Found a Dead Rat in My Bed

I woke up, and something didn’t feel right. The smell hit me first—sharp and sickening, like metal and something rotting. My nose crinkled, and for a second, I thought I was still dreaming. But then I opened my eyes, and the world around me snapped into focus.

It wasn’t a dream.

There it was, lying right next to me in my bed, barely an inch away. A dead rat. I froze. My whole body felt stuck, like my brain couldn’t process what I was seeing. It wasn’t just any rat. It was bloated, stiff, with patches of its fur stuck together by something dark and wet. Its little eyes, cloudy and dead, stared right up at the ceiling, as if they could still see.

I screamed.

Or at least, I think I did. I don’t even remember scrambling out of bed. One second, I was lying there, and the next, I was on the floor, breathing so hard I thought I might faint. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely push myself up. My bed—the place where I’m supposed to feel safe and warm—looked like something out of a nightmare. The rat just lay there, like some horrible prank from a horror movie.

I felt tears sting my eyes. I wanted to run, but run where? It wasn’t just the sight of it that was freaking me out—it was the smell, too. It was everywhere, in my nose, on my clothes, in my hair. I wanted to tear off my pajamas and jump in the shower, but I couldn’t move. All I could do was sit there on the carpet, staring at that awful, disgusting thing in my bed.

Who would do this? Why would someone put a dead rat in my bed?

The idea that it had just crawled in on its own didn’t feel right. My windows were closed. My doors were locked. My house isn’t dirty or anything—I clean all the time! It had to be someone. Someone did this. The thought made my stomach turn. Who? And why?

I started crying, real ugly sobs that made my chest hurt. I felt violated, like my room—my safe space—wasn’t mine anymore. How long had it been there? What if I’d rolled over and touched it while I was asleep? Just the thought made me gag, and I scrambled to the bathroom, not even caring how loud I was being.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I left all the lights on in my room and locked the door, even though I knew it probably didn’t matter. I jumped at every sound—creaks, rustles, even the hum of the fridge. My imagination was running wild. Was someone in the house? Were they watching me? I kept looking over my shoulder, half-expecting to see someone—or something—lurking in the shadows.

Days passed, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I started sleeping on the couch with all the lights on. I didn’t go into my room unless I absolutely had to, and even then, I couldn’t be in there for more than a few minutes without feeling like I was going to throw up. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw it: the rat, its dead eyes, its gross, matted fur, the way it just lay there like it belonged.

And then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, I found something else.

I was up in the attic a couple of weeks later, looking for an old box of pictures. The attic is creepy on a normal day, but after what happened, it felt worse. I was shuffling through some old stuff when I saw this little wooden box tucked in the corner, covered in dust. I don’t know why, but I opened it.

I wish I hadn’t.

Inside were all these weird little things—like something out of a witch’s collection. There was a dried-up spider, a locket that was all tarnished and old, and—this part still makes me sick—a tiny rat’s tooth. It was yellow and cracked, and I just knew it had something to do with the rat in my bed.

Someone put that rat there. On purpose.

I don’t know why or who or how, but I feel like I’m being watched. Like someone’s playing a sick game with me. Every noise I hear now makes my skin crawl. I can’t relax. I keep thinking about that tooth, about the rat, about how someone must have come into my house, into my room, and left it there while I was sleeping.

I don’t know what to do. All I know is, I don’t feel safe anymore. My home doesn’t feel like home. Every night, I lie awake, wondering if it’s going to happen again—or worse.