You Should Probably Move Your Bed

By Margaret Falk

Bedtime is supposed to be a happy occasion for a worn-out child. For me, it was petrifying. While
some children might whine about being put to bed before they have finished watching a movie or finishing
their Call of Duty campaign, when I was a kid, nighttime was something to really dread. Somewhere in the
back of my mind, it still is.
As somebody who is competent in the sciences, I cant prove that what happened to me was
objectively real, but I can swear that what I experienced was sincere horror. A terror which, in my life, I am
happy to say has never been equaled. I will re-count it to you now as best I can. Take away from it what you
will, but Ill be eager to just get it off my chest.
I cant recall precisely when it started, by my trepidation towards falling asleep seemed to link with
my being moved into a room of my own. I was ten years old at the time and until then, I had shared a room,
rather happily, with my older sister. As is perfectly reasonable for a girl six years older than me, my sister
finally wanted a room of her own and as a product, I was given the room at the back of the house.
It was a small, narrow, yet strangely elongated room, large enough for a bed and a dresser and maybe
a few other things and not much else. I couldnt really protest because even at that age, I understood that we
did not have a big house and I had no actual reason to be upset. It was a joyful childhood. During the day.
A lonely window looked out onto our back garden. It was nothing out of the ordinary, but even during
the day, the light which trickled into that room appeared almost apprehensive.
As my sister was given a new bed, I was given the bunk beds that we used to share. While I was
worried about sleeping on my own, I was enthusiastic at the thought of being able to sleep in the top bunk
which seemed far more adventurous to me.
From the very first night, I recollect a bizarre sensation of uneasiness sneaking gradually from the
back of my mind. I lay on the top bunk, gazing down at my various articles of clothing and toys scattered
across the grey colored carpet. As I looked down at the mess on the floor and imaginary battles and fairytales
taking place among my toys, I couldnt help but feel that my eyes were being deliberately drawn towards the
bottom bunk, as if something was stirring in the corner of my eyesomething that did not want to be noticed.
The bunk was empty, immaculately made with a dark maroon blanket tucked in precisely, partly
covering two white pillows. I didnt think anything of it at the time. I was a kid, and the noise gliding below
my door from my parents TV, wrapped me up in a deep sense of safety and security.
I fell asleep.
When you wake from a deep sleep to something moving or stirring, it can take a few moments for you
to really comprehend whats happening and to get your bearings. The haze of sleep drapes over your eyes and
ears, even when lucid. Something was moving. There was no doubt about that.
At first, I wasnt certain what it was. Everything was dark, almost pitch black, but there was enough
light stealing in from outside to outline that thin and overpowering room. Two thoughts popped into my mind
almost instantaneously: One, was that my parents were in bed because the rest of the house lay both in
darkness and stillness. Two, turned to the sound, the one that had clearly awoken me.
As the last cobwebs of sleep escaped from my awareness, the noise took on a more familiar form.
Occasionally, in the simplest of noises, can be the most unsettlinga cold wind whistling though a tree
outside, a strangers footsteps dangerously close, or, in this case, the unassuming sound of bed sheets swishing
in the dark.
That was it; bed sheets rustling in the dark as if some troubled sleeper was trying to get all too relaxed
in the bottom bunk. I lay there in doubt, thinking that the noise was either my imagination, or possibly just my
dog finding someplace comfortable to spend the night. It was then that I observed my door. It was shut, just as
it had been as Id fallen asleep.
Maybe my mom had checked on me and the small dog had slid into my room then? Yeah, that must
have been it. I twisted to face the wall, shutting my eyes in hopeless optimism that I could fall back to sleep.
As I stirred, the rustling noise from beneath me abruptly stopped. I thought I must have bothered Blue, my dog,
but swiftly realized that the guest in the bottom bunk was much less ordinary than my pet trying to sleep and
much more ominous.
As if informed to, and displeased by my presence, the troubled sleeper began to toss and turn
aggressively, like a child having a fit in their bed. I could hear the sheets twist and turn with growing
viciousness. Fear seized me, not like the elusive sense of nervousness I had experienced previously, but
powerful and frightening. My heart raced as my eyes panicked, perusing the almost solid darkness that cloaked
the room.
I let out a cry.
As most young girls do, I automatically yelled to call upon my mom. I could hear something stirring
on the other side of the house, but as I started to breathe, a sigh of respite that my mom was approaching to
save me, the bunk beds unexpectedly started to shake sadistically as if engrossed by an earthquake, grating
against the wall. I could hear the sheets below me whipping around as if tortured by malevolence. I did not
want to leap down to safety as I dreaded the thing in the bottom bunk would reach out and seize me, hauling
me into the darkness. So, I remained there, white knuckles gripping my own blanket like a veil of protection.
The wait seemed like an eternity.
The door finally, and thankfully, shot open, and I lay covered in light while the bottom bunk, the
resting place of my unwelcome guest, lay vacant and peaceful.
I sobbed and my mom comforted me. Tears of fear, followed by relief, gushed down my face. Yet,
through all the panic and relief, I didnt express to her why I was so distraught. I cant describe it, but it was as
if whatever had been in that bunk would reappear if I even so much as spoke of it or even expressed a solitary
syllable of its existence. Whether that was the truth, I do not know. But as a little girl, I felt as if that hidden
menace remained nearby, eavesdropping.
My mom lay in the unfilled bunk, promising to stay there till morning. Sooner or later, my
apprehension lessened, fatigue pushed me back to sleep, but I remained restless. I woke numerous times,
briefly, to the sound of rustling bed sheets.
I remember wanting to go anyplace the next day. Be somewhere but in that narrow and smothering
room. It was a Saturday and I frolicked outside happily with my friends. While our house was not big, we were
fortunate to have an extensive, sloping garden in the back. We played there regularly, as most of it was overrun
and we could hide in the underbrush, climb in the huge sycamore tree which loomed above us all, and
effortlessly envision ourselves in the middle of a grand adventure in some mysterious land.
As enjoyable as it all was, occasionally my eye would turn to that small window; normal, small, and
harmless. But for me, that thin boundary was a looking glass into a bizarre, unfriendly pocket of dismay.
Outside, the lush green environment of our garden full with the smiling faces of my friends could not douse the
creeping sense tearing its way up my spine. The feeling of something in that room, watching me play, waiting
for the night when I would be by myself; eagerly filled with detestation.
 It may sound weird to some, but by the time my parents escorted me back into that room for the night,
I said nothing. I didnt gripe. I didnt even make up a reason as to why I couldnt sleep there. I merely and
grimly sauntered into that room, ascended the few steps into the top bunk, and waited. As an adult, I would be
telling everyone about my experience, but even at that age, it felt practically meaningless to be speaking about
something which I truly had no evidence for. I could be deceitful. But I still felt that this thing would be
infuriated if I so much as spoke of it.
Its weird how specific words can remain hidden from your mind, no matter how deliberate or
apparent they are. One term came to me that second night, lying there in the darkness alone, scared, conscious
of a foul alteration in the air; a thickening of the atmosphere as if something had displaced it. As I caught the
first casual turns of the bed sheets underneath, the first uneasy surge of my heartbeat at the awareness that
something was once again in the bottom bunk, that word, a term which had been sent into exile, sifted up
through my awareness, breaking free of all suppression, panting for air, blaring, etching, and carving itself into
my mind:
Demon.
As this thought came to me, I detected that my uninvited company had stopped moving. The bed
sheets lay tranquil and inactive, but they had been swapped by something far more repugnant. A sluggish,
pulsing, rasping breath heaved and escaped from the thing below. I could imagine its chest rising and falling
with each disgusting, gasping, and mangled breath. I trembled, and wished past all hope that it would leave
without incidence.
The house lay, as it had the preceding night, in a dense blanket of gloom. Quiet conquered all except
for the corrupt breath of my concealed bunkmate. I lay there, horrified. I just needed this thing to go. To leave
me alone.
What did it want?
Then something distressing occurredit moved. It moved in a way unlike before. When it flung itself
about in the bottom bunk, it appeared uncontrolled and without purpose, almost animalistic. This movement,
however, was motivated by mindfulness, with resolve, with a goal in mind. For that thing, lying there in the
dimness, that thing which gave the impression of being so determined on terrifying a young girl, evenly and
casually sat up. Its strenuous breathing had become louder now that only a mattress and a few weak wooden
planks divided my body from the absurd breath below.
I lay there, my eyes brimming with tears. A fear which meager words cannot relate to anyone or
anything oozed through my veins. I would not have supposed that this fear could have been heightened, but I
was so mistaken. I imagined what this entity would look like, sitting there below my cushion, hoping to catch
the smallest hint that I was conscious. Imagination then twisted to a frightening reality. It started to touch the
wooden beams which my mattress sat on. It seemed to stroke them cautiously, running what I imagined to be
fingers and hands across the exterior of the timber.
Then with excessive vigor, it jabbed furiously between two slats, into the bed. Even through the
padding, it felt as though somebody had savagely jammed their fingers into my side. I let out an immense
shout and the gasping, quaking, and moving thing below responded by brutally vibrating the bunk as it had
done the night before. Small flecks of paint powdered onto my blanket from the wall as the edge of the bed
scraped along it.
Nightmare.
This pattern of actions continued for weeks, months, even. Night after night, I would wake to the
sound of rustling sheets. Each time I would shriek so to not offer the atrocity time to poke and feel for me.
With each shout, the bed would quiver aggressively, ending with the entrance of my mother who would devote
the rest of the night to the bottom bunk, apparently oblivious of the menacing force tormenting her daughter
every night.
Along the way, I managed to fake sickness a few times and come up with other less-than-truthful
excuses for snoozing in my parents room. But frequently, I would be alone for the first few hours of each night
in that room. The room where the light from outside did not sit right. Alone. With that thing.
In time, you can become numb to mostly anything, no matter how dreadful. I had come to understand
that for whatever reason, this thing could not harm me when my mom was there. After a few months, I had
grown used to my nightly guest. But dont mistake that for some ridiculous alliance because I utterly despised
the thing. I still dreaded it greatly because I could almost sense its wants and its personality, if you could even
call it that. A character of a warped and perverse odium, yearning for me.
My deepest fears were became a reality in the winter. The days were shorter, and the longer nights
only provided the wretch with more chances. It was a tough time for my family. My grandma, a delightfully
generous and kind woman, had deteriorated seriously since the passing of my grandpa. My mom was trying
her best to keep her in the community for as long as she could, but dementia is a punishing and devastating
illness. As she grew worse, it became clear that she would have to be moved from her house to a nursing home.
Before she could be moved, my grandma had a tough few nights and my mother decided that she
would stay with her. As much as I treasured my grandma and felt nothing but suffering at her disease, to this
day I feel embarrassed that my first thoughts were not of her, but of what my nightly visitor may do if it
became mindful of my mothers absence; her company being the one thing which I was sure was shielding me
from the full horror of this things grasp.
I hurried home from school that day and instantly pulled the bed sheets and mattress from the lower
bunk, getting rid of all the slats and placing an old desk, a trunk of drawers, and some chairs that we kept in a
closet where the bottom bunk used to be. I told my dad that I was making an office which he thought was
delightful, but I would be damned if Id give that thing a place to sleep for one more night.
As darkness advanced, I lay there knowing that my mom was not in the house and I had no idea what
to do. My only instinct was to sneak into her jewelry box and take out a small family crucifix that I had seen
there before. My family was not overly religious, but at that age, I still believed in God and hoped that that
would defend me. Although fearful and anxious, while clutching the crucifix under my pillow firmly in one
hand, sleep finally came. As I floated off to dream, I trusted that I would awaken in the morning without
occurrence.
I woke slowly. The room was once again, dark. As my eyes adjusted, I could slowly make out the
window and the door, the walls, some toys on a shelf and
Even now I shudder to think of it but there was no racket. No rustling of sheets. No movement at
all. The room felt dead. Lifeless, but not empty. My nightly visitor. That undesirable, gasping, hate-filled thing
that had petrified me night after night was not in the bottom bunk.
It was in my bed!
I opened my mouth to shriek, but nothing came out. Absolute horror had stunned the very sound from
my voice. I lay there, unmoving. If I could not yell, I did not want to let it know that I was awake.
I hadnt seen it yet. I could only feel it. It was covered under my blanket. I could see its figure, and I
could feel its company, but I risked no look. The heaviness of it pushed down on top of me, a feeling that I will
never be unable to call to mind. When I say that hours passed, I do not overstate. Laying there, immobile, in
the dark, I was every bit a terrified and alarmed young girl.
 If it had been in the summer months, it would have been light by then. But the hold of winter is long
and merciless and I knew it would be hours before the sun rosea sunrise which I longed for. I was a shy child
by nature, but I got to a breaking point, a moment where I could delay no more, where I could continue under
this deviant atrocity no longer.
Fear can occasionally wear you out, make you worn-out, a shell of nerves leaving only the smallest
hint of you behind. I had to get out of that bed! Then, I remembered. The crucifix! My hand still lay under the
pillow, but it was empty! I deliberately moved my wrist about to find it, lessening as best I could the sound and
vibrations produced, but I just couldnt find it. I had either bumped it off the top bunk, or it hadI could not
even stand to think of itbeen taken from my hand.
Without the crucifix, any sense of hope vanished. Even at such a young age, you can be very aware of
what death and deeply terrified of it. I knew I was going to die in that bed if I lay there, inactive, submissive,
doing nothing. I had to leave that room behind, but how? Should I spring from the bed and hope that I make it
to the door? What if its quicker than me? Or should I gradually slip out of the top bunk, hoping to not bother
my eerie bedfellow?
I realized that it had not moved when I stirred while I was trying to find the crucifix. I started to have
the oddest of thoughts. Was it sleeping? It hadnt so much as inhaled since I had awakened. Maybe it was
resting, thinking that I was at last in its clutches? Or maybe it was playing with me like it had been doing for
countless nights. And now, with me underneath it, trapped against my mattress with no mother to protect me,
maybe it was holding off, relishing in its triumph until the last conceivable second. Like a wild animal
savoring its victim.
I tried to breathe as shallowly as possible, and gathering every modicum of bravery I could, I stretched
over slowly with my left hand and started to peel the blanket off me. What I found under those covers almost
stilled my heart. I didnt see it, but as my hand moved the sheets, it brushed against something. Something
smooth and taciturn. Something which felt distinctly like a bony hand. I held my breath in horror as I was sure
it must have known that I was awake.
Nothing.
It didnt stir. It felt lifeless. After a few moments, I positioned my hand cautiously further down the
blanket and felt a reedy, ill shaped forearm, my confidence and almost sick sense of curiosity grew as I moved
down to a strangely larger bicep muscle. The arm was extended, lying diagonally across my chest, with the
hand on my right shoulder as if it had grasped me in my sleep. I realized that I would have to move this ghastly
appendage if I even so much as hoped to escape.
For some reason, the feeling of torn and ragged clothing on the shoulder of this evening intruder
stopped me. Fear expanded in my stomach and in my chest as I withdrew my hand in repulsion at the touch of
stringy, greasy hair. I could not bring myself to touch its face.
Holy crap. It moved.
Yep, it moved. It was subtle, but its hold on my shoulder and across my body tensed. Oh, how I
wanted to cry. But no tears would come. As its hand and arm slowly wound around me, my left leg brushed
along the cool wall that the bed lay against. Of all that transpired in that room, this was the weirdest: I realized
that this clasping, rotten thing which drew great pleasure from violating a young girls bed, was not completely
on top of me. It was sticking out of the wall.
Swiftly, its grip moved from a measured constriction to an abrupt crush. It dragged and scratched at
my clothes as if scared that its chance would pass. I wrestled against it, but its thin arm was too sturdy for me.
Its head rose, squirming and twisting under the blanket. Then I understood where it was trying to drag me
into the wall! I brawled for my dear, young life. I sobbed and unexpectedly, my voice came back to me,
roaring, blaring, but no one came.
Then it occurred to me why it was so keen to hastily make its move; why this thing had to have me
right then. Through my window, that window which seemed to signify so much malice from outside, marked
hope; the first glimmers of sunshine. I thrashed on, knowing that if I could just hold on, it would be gone soon.
As I struggled, the unearthly pest loosened, slowly heaving itself up my chest, its head poking out from under
the blanket, gasping, coughing, rasping. I do not recollect its features. I just remember its breath against my
face, vulgar and rotten and as cold as glacial ice.
As the sun broke over the vista, that dark placethat disgusting room of contemptwas bathed in
daylight. I passed out as the creatures skinny fingers wrapped themselves around my neck, choking the life
from my little ten-year-old body.

I awoke to my father offering to make me some waffles. A delightful sight! I had endured the most
horrifying experience of my life until thenand now. I relocated the bed away from the wall, leaving behind
the stuff I had thought would stop that thing from taking a bed. I never supposed that it would try to take mine.
Or me.
Weeks passed without so much as a wheeze or vibration. But on one cold and frostbitten night, I woke
to the noise of the furniture where the bunk beds used to be, pulsating aggressively. In a moment, it passed. I
lay there, sure I could hear a detached rasping coming from deep within the wall and finally disappearing into
the coldness.

I have never told anyone this story until now. But even to this day, I still break out in a cold sweat at
the sound of bed sheets swishing in the night, or a wheeze brought on by a common cold. And I sure as hell
never sleep with my bed against a wall. Call it fantasy if you want, but as I said, I cannot discount predictable
explanations such as sleep paralysis, delusion, or that of an intense imagination to describe what happened. But
what I can say is this: the subsequent year I was given a bigger room on the other side of the house and my
parents claimed that oddly elongated place and their room. They said they didnt want a big room. They just
needed one big enough for a bed and a couple of things.
They lasted twelve days. We moved on the thirteenth.