It is called the World Under the Bed, and it belongs to all manner of things.
Monsters dwell in that world beneath. Beds are merely doorways to their world of screams and horror. Below your sheets, your mattress, your box-spring, crawls a twisted world all about eating and being eaten. The lower class of their kind slinks out from under childrens' beds, into the shadows, around the low glow of night lights. It reaches it’s clawed hands out of the darkness, curling the fingers around the edge of your bed, raking the comforter until it finds the lump of your leg, maybe your side.
You feel it, ever so lightly, placing it’s leathery hands around your bicep. Young throats crush down on screams as they awaken to their nightmare, dragging them away, to the World Under the Bed, from whence they shall never be heard from again.
Yet there is hope. There are those children whose throats clamp, hands clench in fear, eyes shut tightly. They breathe heavily, knowing their parents were wrong, it wasn’t just the wind the night before, not just the creak of the house. Then they hear a small sound.
“Meow.” Suddenly calmed, they lift their heads and look down at the furry creature stepping across their arm. Just Mr. Fluffy, Ms. Pretty, or Kitty-kins. This child is of the lucky few whose household keeps a cat. Warden of the night, Mr. Fluffy frightens away the monster prepared to eat his family with a glare. The monster’s hand, the fresh cut red, glowing in the night light, slowly retreats below the bed. He didn’t know this house was protected. He’ll think twice before returning to Mr. Fluffy’s domain.
Monsters dwell in that world beneath. Beds are merely doorways to their world of screams and horror. Below your sheets, your mattress, your box-spring, crawls a twisted world all about eating and being eaten. The lower class of their kind slinks out from under childrens' beds, into the shadows, around the low glow of night lights. It reaches it’s clawed hands out of the darkness, curling the fingers around the edge of your bed, raking the comforter until it finds the lump of your leg, maybe your side.
You feel it, ever so lightly, placing it’s leathery hands around your bicep. Young throats crush down on screams as they awaken to their nightmare, dragging them away, to the World Under the Bed, from whence they shall never be heard from again.
Yet there is hope. There are those children whose throats clamp, hands clench in fear, eyes shut tightly. They breathe heavily, knowing their parents were wrong, it wasn’t just the wind the night before, not just the creak of the house. Then they hear a small sound.
“Meow.” Suddenly calmed, they lift their heads and look down at the furry creature stepping across their arm. Just Mr. Fluffy, Ms. Pretty, or Kitty-kins. This child is of the lucky few whose household keeps a cat. Warden of the night, Mr. Fluffy frightens away the monster prepared to eat his family with a glare. The monster’s hand, the fresh cut red, glowing in the night light, slowly retreats below the bed. He didn’t know this house was protected. He’ll think twice before returning to Mr. Fluffy’s domain.
