Under the Couch

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I live in the most ordinary building, nothing special: no cemeteries nearby, no burned-down psychiatric hospitals, nothing like that. All of this is happening in my apartment, in my room, under my couch.

I’ve always felt that there was something чужое in our apartment. Or someone—I don’t know. Since childhood I’ve been used to rustling sounds, shadows, clicks. Considering that mice sometimes run in from the attic (I’ve seen them myself), my family pays no attention to it, chalking everything up to rodents that cause no real trouble.

But despite my family’s assurances that everything is fine and that it’s all just my imagination, I felt that it wasn’t so. I felt something. And that something lives in my room. That’s why I’m pathologically afraid of the dark, of closed rooms, of complete silence and loneliness. When I go to bed, it turns into a whole ritual—I do everything to avoid having to leave the room at night: I close the windows and vents in the kitchen, go to the bathroom, pour myself some water, and so on.

Now I should probably talk about that very couch—the one under which everything has been happening lately. All of this happens strictly at night—during the day there is no space under my couch; it appears only at night, when I unfold the couch to sleep. For a long time now I’ve noticed that someone there is… sleeping. Sometimes at night I hear shuffling, sighs, groans, irritated muttering if I do get up to use the bathroom or drink some water. Apparently, I disturb its sleep.

No, don’t ask: I will not look under the bed at night under any circumstances—especially after the recent events, and despite my curiosity going completely wild.

Once another mouse ran into our place. I couldn’t catch it, so that day I went to sleep with a relatively calm mind. The night passed well; I slept normally. That day the whole family left for another city, and I stayed behind to prepare for upcoming exams. The way my couch folds and unfolds is like this: the seat slides out, and the backrest closes the gap, forming a bed.

So when I lifted that damn backrest, I saw stains of dried blood and bones under the couch. Cleanly gnawed. At the moment I jumped back in horror and disgust, I even thought that I might have crushed the mouse while unfolding the couch. But the bones were gnawed! I understood—it was it. I spent that entire day in tension, waiting for night to come. I was terribly afraid to go to sleep.

That night, after completing all my rituals, I lay down on the bed, leaving the light on. When I closed my eyes, I heard a rustle, and at the same moment the light switch clicked. The room plunged into darkness. I couldn’t open my eyes because of the terror that overwhelmed me. There was a rustling sound toward my bed, and then the familiar shuffling under it. After that, everything went quiet. I didn’t open my eyes, and from the shock I soon fell asleep.

The next day, unfolding the couch was terrifying. But something told me that it might get angry, so I did unfold it—but this time I put a piece of sausage under the bed. I turned off the light and lay down—it was interesting to hear what would happen. But nothing happened, and soon I fell asleep.

In the morning, as you might guess, that piece was gone. Since then, every night I started putting either a sausage, or some salami, or something else under the bed. This has been going on for a month and a half. Surprisingly, I began to sleep peacefully, the darkness became much easier to tolerate—the familiar tension vanished as if by magic. I satisfy its hunger, and it doesn’t touch me. Believe me, this kind of coexistence suits me just fine.

But two weeks later something truly terrible happened. Once again, I was alone. It’s already hot here (we live in the south), so at night I leave the balcony open. I woke up at night to noises in the apartment (and it woke up too). Someone was brazenly walking around my apartment, opening wardrobes and cabinets. At first I might have thought that my roommate had gone wild, but it was there, with me, under my couch. There was no doubt left—it was a thief who had broken into the apartment. Even though I live on the fifth floor, climbing in from the roof to our balcony is easy, and getting onto the roof is no harder than going to the neighboring store.

My phone wasn’t near me. I sat quietly, not drawing attention to myself. Then the door began to open, and a person came into the room—an ordinary person. Seeing me, he rushed at me with a knife, but he was not destined to reach me—one step away from the bed, he fell. And at that very moment, something dragged him under the bed.

I didn’t hear his screams. I heard only the disgusting smacking sounds under my bed. I couldn’t fall asleep that night, listening to my tenant’s meal. In the morning, I hesitated for a long time before lifting the couch backrest, but my curiosity won out, and I opened it. There was nothing there. This time it had done a clean job. Not even the knife was left. The only detail—on the wooden support there were marks of dog teeth, as if a dog had been gnawing on the wood.

Many years ago, when I was four years old, our dog Linda died. She died of old age in my room. I don’t remember all of it; I only remember that my nightmare began around that time. According to my parents, Linda was very kind and was always fussing over me. I have a few photos—I can show them.

For two weeks now, everything has been quiet. The dog’s ghost (I hope it’s her) no longer takes the food. I sleep peacefully.

The only thing I’m afraid of is that my ghost’s appetites might grow, and then the creature under my couch might feast on our family.

But Linda was a good dog.