The town was the kind that forgot its own name after dark. A place of silent streets, shuttered windows, and long, creeping shadows that stretched across cracked pavements.
Billy was an ordinary boy—at least, in the daylight. He scraped his knees, lost his crayons, and carried his stuffed bear, Mr. Fuzz, wherever he went. But at night, Billy was different. At night, Billy was afraid.
“Daddy,” he would whisper as John tucked him in, “will you check for monsters?”
It was their ritual. John, ever the patient father, would sigh, ruffle his son’s hair, and indulge him. He’d pull back the curtains (nothing there), check the closet (nothing there), and finally, kneel by the bed, lifting the covers to peek underneath.
Every night, there was nothing.
Until tonight.
The wind outside scraped against the house, rattling the windows like unseen fingers. The air inside felt different—thicker somehow. Billy clutched Mr. Fuzz tight to his chest.
“Check under the bed?” His voice had an edge to it. A hesitation.
John hesitated. Just for a second.
Then he knelt. The floorboards creaked. The wooden slats of the bed pressed cold against his forehead as he leaned down, lifting the fabric.
His breath stopped.
There, in the suffocating darkness, Billy stared back at him.
Wide-eyed. Trembling. Face pale as the moonlight spilling through the window.
John’s pulse thundered in his ears. His stomach lurched. His thoughts scrambled, tried to make sense of what he was seeing.
Then—the other Billy whispered.
“Daddy… there’s somebody on my bed.”
John jerked back, slamming his head on the bedframe. His hands shook as he scrambled up, his breath hitching, his mind spinning.
He turned to look at Billy—his Billy—lying in bed, blinking up at him.
“Daddy?” The voice was the same. Soft. Innocent. But something—something was wrong.
John couldn’t breathe. He forced a tight-lipped smile. “N-nothing, buddy. Just… just some dust under there.”
Billy nodded. Seemed satisfied.
John switched off the light. The darkness swallowed the room whole. As he stepped out, he hesitated at the door, his hand trembling on the knob.
The house was silent.
Too silent.
The kind of silence that pressed against your eardrums. That listened.
Then—
A whisper.
Soft. Fragile. Crawling up his spine.
“Daddy… there’s someone on my bed.”
John stiffened.
His body knew before his mind did.
The voice—it was coming from under the bed.
A rustle of fabric. A slow creak of the mattress shifting.
John’s stomach twisted.
Behind the door, Billy stirred. Not the one under the bed. The other one.
The real one.
Or was he?
A shadow flickered under the door—small feet, unmoving.
Then, from inside the room, the sound of slow, deliberate breathing.
Not a child’s.
Something deeper.
Something waiting.
John’s fingers curled around the doorknob. Cold. Damp. He tried to turn it.
Locked.
He hadn’t locked it.
His breath turned shallow. The air shifted behind him.
Then, from inside the room, the mattress creaked again. A sound like someone sitting up.
The voice that followed was no longer a whisper.
It was a mockery of one.
“Daddy… please help me.”
John’s grip tightened.
And then—
The light under the door flickered out.
Darkness.
Something moved behind him.
Too close.
The morning news reported a tragedy—John Carter was found unconscious in his home, muttering about “the boy under the bed.” His son, Billy, was found lifeless in his bed, a deep wound in his chest, the kitchen knife still clutched in John’s trembling hand. Authorities confirmed there was no intruder. No forced entry.
Ever since his wife lost her battle with cancer, John had drowned himself in alcohol and prescription medication—benzodiazepines, opioids, anything to quiet the grief. 178Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEvYXOvLDNG
Even as they took him away, his glassy eyes darted wildly, lips cracked and shaking as he whispered one final thing—
“The thing in the bed wasn’t my son.”
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