The One Who Lives Under the Bed

The key slid into the lock. The tumbler clicked shortly. The man pulled out the key and put it in his pants pocket. He gently pushed the door, which, as if reluctantly, opened a small crack. Tilting his head to the side, the man peered inside, trying to see what was behind the door. But he saw nothing but darkness.

He grabbed the backpack lying at his feet by the straps and pushed the door, forcing it wide open.

“Home sweet home,” a low, sad voice muttered, and the man stepped over the threshold.

Ilya stood in the hallway, trying to get used to the surrounding darkness. He had only recently been in the light, and now he was alone among indistinct outlines, blurred edges, black shadows, and strange sounds. He took a deep breath and coughed from the dust.

“I need to air this place out,” he decided, tossing down the backpack. Something clinked inside, but he didn’t pay attention.

Without taking off his shoes, he walked further into the apartment. He stopped in front of a dark rectangle—the doorway to a room. After standing for a few seconds, he found the light switch. A soft click, and a small electric light flickered in the center of the room, making him squint.

“I haven’t been here in a long time,” he muttered, his cheek twitching in displeasure.

Ilya turned and looked at the open door in the hallway. He quickly approached it, peeked into the corridor, then closed it, turning the key several times in the lock. He reached out and clicked the light switch.

The man walked through the apartment, turning on the lights. Once all the lamps were on, he stopped in the middle of the living room, looking around and turning in place.

“I’ll have to clean everything here,” he said, glancing around at the thick layer of dust on the shelves, TV, and stereo. He added grimly, “Thoroughly.”

Ilya was glad to be home, but after a long flight, an exhausting train journey, and two hours stuck in traffic, he wanted nothing more than to collapse in the apartment, take a shower, fall onto the bed, and sleep. But he couldn’t sleep with everything coated in a centimeter-thick layer of dust.

“Water, cloth, soap,” he ordered himself and went to the bathroom.

A cold wind blew through the open window, swirling the remaining dust into the corners, as if trying to help it hide. Ilya found it everywhere, mercilessly destroying it with whatever he had at hand. The moon watched impassively, sometimes hiding behind heavy clouds.

Only three hours later did the man wearily set aside the cloth, dump the last bucket of dirty water, and put the cleaning supplies away.

“That’s it,” he said, wiping his sweaty brow. “Now just a shower and sleep,” he yawned widely, looked toward the bedroom, and began undressing slowly, trying not to scatter the dust settled on him throughout the bathroom.

The freshly made bed creaked unhappily as the mattress slightly sank under his weight. Ilya leaned back on the pillows, sleepy eyes fixed on the window, where the blurred forms reflected the bedroom and the man lying in bed.

He whispered a short prayer, crossed himself, pulled the blanket up to his chin, and, without turning off the lights, finally fell asleep.

Ilya opened his eyes while the moon still ruled outside, gazing at him indifferently through the glass. Bright white snow contrasted sharply against the dark background. Some snowflakes, blown by the wind, entered the room. The man shivered, wrapping himself tighter in the blanket, remembering he had forgotten to turn on the thermostat.

“Cold,” he complained to the empty room. Then he suddenly threw off the blanket, shivering from the biting cold, rushed to the radiator, and twisted the thermostat knob to the max. He closed the open window and quickly returned to the blanket.

“Half an hour—no more,” Ilya set the rule for himself, as if persuading himself: “or I’ll freeze completely.”

He woke again to find the room unbearably hot, as if he had been transported from the snowy, cold city to the tropics. Ilya jerked awake, threw off the blanket, jumped out of bed, and… realized he had missed the crucial moment.

“Damn, damn, damn!” he cursed himself. “Idiot, why did you fall asleep when you knew you couldn’t?!”

Without leaving the bed, he crawled to the edge, peering cautiously at the floor, at the shadows cast by the lamp. He stood like that for several minutes, observing, listening, sniffing the surrounding space. Then, with hope, he glanced at the radiator where the cursed thermostat was located.

“Just make it in time,” he whispered through his lips and carefully set one foot on the hot floor. He froze, listening. Slowly, he set down the other foot.

It was only three steps to the temperature switch and within arm’s reach. Normally he could do it in two seconds, but now everything was different.

“Fool,” he cursed again, curling inward, and took the first step.

His heart felt ready to burst out of his chest. He longed to breathe, but he couldn’t allow himself to. Not now, with only two steps left.

The second step. What he did every day with ease now felt as difficult as learning to walk again. His hand reached for the thermostat. He noticed it trembling, and sweat poured down his face.

He slowly lifted one foot, placed it forward cautiously, as if stepping on a minefield, put his bare heel down, and began transferring his weight onto it.

A mocking laugh made him flinch.

“Mnyam-mnyam.”

The man spun around abruptly.

“Ilyusha—delicious,” the mocking voice repeated, smacking its lips: “Mnyam-mnyam.”

Ilya lunged for the switch. He managed to touch it, only for his hand to be seized by a sudden cold. It yanked him sharply from the radiator. In the window reflected the terrified gaze of the young man, his raised hand frozen, unable to move.

From under the bed came a nasty chuckle.

“Ilyusha—delicious.”

The man struggled, trying to break free, but he was held tightly, unable to reach the lifesaving switch.

“No!” His scream was desperate. “Go away!”

Ilya felt himself being pulled backward. He planted his feet on the floor, trying to resist, but it didn’t help. Then he grabbed the window handle, trying to slow his movement.

“Delicious,” a guttural voice purred from under the bed.

The man was thrown backward. He released the handle. A soft blow hit his back, and the grip loosened immediately. Ilya realized he was lying on the bed, though his legs still hung over the edge. He drew them up, jumping in fear, pressing himself against the wall.

“No! No! You weren’t supposed to! Go away!”

“I want to eat,” came a disappointed voice from under the bed, and it shuddered, momentarily lifting its legs off the floor.

“Go away!!!” Ilya was close to tears; hysteria was in his voice, and his head ached from the realization of what he had done. He pressed against the wall, trying to merge with it, just to avoid being on the bed—the last fragile refuge separating him from The One Who Lives Under the Bed.

The bed shook again, more strongly this time; his legs buckled, and Ilya fell onto it. He immediately grabbed the blanket, pulling it up to his chin.

“You weren’t supposed to appear. No, no,” he whispered, glancing around.

The mocking laugh interrupted him, and the voice made him shiver with fear.

“I’ll eat you,” it said threateningly.

The man glanced at the thermostat with broken hope, realizing he wouldn’t be able to reach it now.

“Ilyusha ran a lot,” the voice from under the bed scolded, turning into something unpleasant: “I’ll eat you.”

Ilya Skobov would never forget his thirteenth birthday. That was the first time he heard about The One Who Lives Under the Bed. Boys in the yard talked about it, retelling the same story in different ways repeatedly. Back then, it was just a scary story—until evening came.

That day, summer set a temperature record: thermometers didn’t drop below 95°F (35°C), asphalt melted in the heat, and the air stood still.

Even night brought no relief. He had to sleep without a blanket, sprawled across the bed. Ilya got up several times to wash in the bathroom—a brief relief, as even the air conditioner in his room barely cooled him, only refreshing his body slightly.

After one such trip, the teenager decided to sleep on the floor, where it was slightly cooler. He laid a blanket for softness, threw a pillow, and lay down on the makeshift bed, when a disgusting chuckle echoed from the room:

“Ilyusha—delicious,” came a revolting voice, and two red-green eyes flashed under the bed.

The boy screamed so loudly that his father burst into the room with a bat in hand. Ilya spent a long time explaining why he had screamed, what he had seen, and why there was no one under the bed now. Naturally, his father didn’t believe him, threatening punishment if he screamed again.

As soon as his father closed the door, the bed shuddered, eyes lit up underneath it, and a mocking laugh rang out. The teenager stifled a scream, pressing his hand to his mouth. Then The One Who Lives Under the Bed climbed out.

Ilya saw only a shadow stretching clawed hands toward his legs. He felt cold creeping upward. To his horror, he realized he was starting to slide off the blanket—pulled under the bed. Somehow, he managed to break free from the invisible grip and huddle in a far corner of the room.

“Ilyusha—delicious,” the chuckle rang again, and the shadow slithered toward him, spreading across the carpet as a transparent black patch.

It stopped a few centimeters away from his legs. A dissatisfied hiss came from under the bed.

“I want Ilyusha. Give Ilyusha to eat.”

The boy trembled, not understanding why it had stopped. He didn’t understand until he felt the icy air descend from above, covering him like an invisible cloak, preventing The One Who Lives Under the Bed from grabbing him.

Twenty years passed. The One Who Lives Under the Bed appeared several more times, frightening him and promising to eat him. Now Ilya knew how to protect himself: he began sleeping under the air conditioner, flinching at every unclear sound and voice from outside.

Skobov even moved to work in the North to be closer to the cold, but today he had to return to bury his mother. And now he sat on the bed, curled into a tight ball, blanket pulled up to his nose, while the creature under the bed mocked him, promising to eat him.

The clock showed long past midnight. Dawn was approaching, but the terrifying part was that the monster under the bed wouldn’t leave with the first rays of the sun. It would wait patiently, and only the cold could drive it away.

“Ilyu-sha.”

For the last ten minutes, the bed had been shaking without stop, the laughter so vile it tore at his frayed nerves.

Skobov tried to break the window, but nothing heavy was at hand; the pillows only made the glass rattle, triggering another round of mocking laughter.

“Ilyusha—delicious. I want to eat Ilyusha.”

“You’ll do without,” Skobov snapped, scared and angry, noticing the window slightly ajar. He had apparently managed to open it when the creature pulled him. Hope appeared; if the temperature dropped a few degrees, The One Who Lives Under the Bed would leave.

Ilya literally felt the icy air crawl over his legs but shivered again when he saw a clawed shadow stretch onto the bed, grabbing his ankle. The creature pulled him toward the edge of the bed.

“No! Let go!”

“Delicious.”

Skobov managed to break free. He jumped onto the bed, pressed against the wall, throwing the blanket to the floor. The mocking laughter turned into a dissatisfied growl. The bed rose above the floor and crashed down on him, only a few seconds later.

“I want to eat,” a harsh voice ordered. “I want to eat Ilyusha.”

The man kept glancing at the window, where dawn was slowly breaking. Snow was falling. Ilya could jump from the bed into the window, even break it with his body, but beyond it was the emptiness of the tenth floor, with no balcony and no hope of a safe landing. However, if he could grab the windowsill or frame…

“He will leave,” the man said aloud.

“Ilyu-sha,” growled the voice from below, and the bed rose again.

“You won’t get me, creature.”

Skobov pushed off the wall, took a step toward the edge of the bed. Summoning all his strength, he threw his body toward the window. He closed his eyes to avoid cutting himself on the shards…

Cold struck his heated body, freezing him with icy hands, making his heart stop, then beat wildly. Ilya spread his arms, trying to grab something. He felt no support… He didn’t feel the fall. He opened his eyes and froze, unable to breathe.

Skobov hung above the floor. Only about five centimeters to the window. Ilya saw the sun rising outside, heavy clouds gradually clearing a space for him. Snowflakes, large and clumsy, became smaller and nearly invisible.

The man was turned toward the bed. In front of him stood The One Who Lives Under the Bed, not as a ghostly shadow, but in its full true form.

“Ilyusha—delicious,” a mocking laugh echoed.

Skobov screamed.