Under the Blanket

He woke in the middle of the night to a dull sound coming from the hallway. His eyes instantly focused on the door. What made that sound? Breathing heavily, feeling a wave of fear rising from the depths of his consciousness, he realized with a shudder that he had thrown off the blanket in his sleep. Quickly lifting it, he wrapped his body around it, trying not to leave any skin exposed. He felt safer this way. Only a small gap remained between the blanket and the mattress, through which he could observe what was happening outside; the pillow became his shield. It reminded him of childhood, when he would escape imaginary monsters. However, what was happening now seemed much more dangerous and tangible.

That sound again... coming from outside, it seemed louder and deeper. Trying to remain calm, he mentally ran through things that could make that sound. For example, the drainpipes, which had been groaning for several weeks with increasing frequency (but they couldn't make such a deep, low sound). The bathroom blinds hung on the open window (though he always closed all the windows and doors at night). Maybe it was his parents, returning home late at night, slightly tipsy (but they were supposed to be on vacation on the islands for another week). The cat wandering around the house (but he'd locked the cat in the garage that night). Despite all his attempts to find a logical explanation for these sounds, he felt a growing panic and tried to tuck the blanket under himself, thereby closing the "peephole."

Again. Even louder, just a few centimeters from the door to the room. His brain obligingly pulled from the depths of his memory the nightmarish images of childhood fears—masked psychopaths, giant spiders, terrifying creatures: skeletons with cartilaginous growths, twitching through the apartment, tugging at the doorknob with rotten fingers, and then tearing and gnawing at pieces of his body.

Again. His breathing was hoarse and shallow—almost suffocating. His throat was dry, his lungs refused to breathe, his stomach alternately lurched and heaved. His eyes were wide open and staring. The blanket still enveloped him, his body lying motionless beneath its useless protection. Only three centimeters of cotton wool stood between him and whatever was about to burst into the room with blazing eyes and dull-gleaming claws to claim its prize.

Suddenly, he realized the source of the sounds was the old, rickety bookcase standing in the hallway. One of its legs had broken, and the books were now falling to the floor one by one. If you listened carefully, you could hear the rustling of pages before each book fell, making that same sound.

Reassured, he glanced around the room, still tightly wrapped in the blanket, before drifting back to sleep. His eyes had already adjusted to the darkness, so he could make out his desk, chair, and television. The familiarity of his surroundings finally calmed him and gave him confidence.

However, before he closed his eyes, he saw something that sent an icy chill down his spine.

There, on the floor, lay his blanket.

His scream was barely audible.