Even as an adult, I can’t shake the childhood fear of something lurking under my bed. The creaky floorboards, the flickering nightlight, the wind tapping the window—it still gets to me.
Last night, just as I turned off the lights, I heard it: a soft rustle, like fabric shifting or a whisper. I froze, listening. Then it came again—clearer this time. My heart pounded. Was it my imagination, or was something really down there?
Fighting the urge to bolt, I grabbed my phone and turned on the flashlight. Slowly, I leaned over and peeked under the bed.
Nothing. Just dust and an old sock.
Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t completely alone. Maybe some fears never grow up.
