Under the Bed

I don't like reading scary stories. I think those are usually the kind of people who've never been truly scared in their lives. They've probably never even been bullied. Because desperately trying to be scared is stupid. And making up all sorts of nonsense to scare yourself and others is even stupider.

There's someone living under my bed. You know, I have one of those old Soviet-era beds, with a plywood bottom, very low. It's no more than twenty centimeters from the floor, maybe even less. And there's someone under there. It's been a little over three years since they appeared. Do you know what it's like to lie in the middle of the night, clutching the blanket in your hands, covered in a cold sweat, and somewhere near your lower back, something is very, very quietly scratching at that damn plywood? Very quietly, slowly, but never stopping. At first, faintly, then louder and louder. No, even at its loudest, it's very quiet, but still...

Knocking. Scratching. Every night.

When it first started, I barely slept for a week. I'd sit in the kitchen, smoke, sip coffee. Then I got used to it. I had to get used to it. I'd peek in there sometimes during the day. There's nothing there. It's dark, cobwebs, and tons of dust. I've never wiped the floor there once in all that time. There's nothing there, except the slippers I left by the bed every night, which always ended up under it. Usually at opposite ends. Now I don't wear slippers anymore—it was too creepy, having to reach under the bed almost shoulder-deep to get them. Although every morning I still have to worry about some cold, white hand reaching out and grabbing my bare foot.

About six months ago, my mother and I used to move the bed—her ring had rolled there. I was already terrified when I moved it, but the wallpaper—that was a shock. Behind the bed, near the floor, the wallpaper had been stripped down to the concrete. My mother shrugged, saying it was probably from old age. Naturally, I didn't tell her anything.

And this thing keeps knocking and scratching. It's a very unpleasant sensation, you know. The plywood isn't that thick, and I feel something moving across it. I feel every movement.

All sorts of fears creep into my head. My fertile imagination conjures up images of hands punching through the plywood and digging into my stomach. Remember how in "A Nightmare on Elm Street," Freddy Krueger dragged Johnny Depp's character into bed? Same thing. And you say scary stories...