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Monster Under Your Bed

 Monster Under Your Bed


A man in the room. 


He’s come in through the window. Cool summer air tussles verdant branches outside. 


One unfamiliar to me. He smells like ash, like drink. Looms over the bed, dirty hands caressing lovingly folded fabric and smooth skin clumsily. 


I do not know him. He is not the man the child has the eyes of, nor the woman who has its hair. The whispers he speaks in are soft, but grating. There is no love in those words. 


I do not like him. 


I move my bulk underneath the bed and he shuffles, looking around. Pulls the knife from his pocket like it’s a worthy threat. I let him hear my laughter, bathe in the chill of his blood. His stupor, even afraid, is too great to be diminished.  


The unwelcome man bends, ducking to look under the bed. To the usual visitors— I am unseen. 


But for him I make an exception, and before the scream can wake peaceful, happy dreams, I pull him close into the dark.

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