Chapter 4: The Scuttling Under the Bed

Chapter 4: The Scuttling Under the Bed

Don’t give it a name. Don’t speak to it. Don’t even think at it if you can help it.

The words had become a desperate, looping mantra in Alex’s mind, a fragile shield against the creeping terror that now saturated her apartment. She lived by the rule. When a kitchen cabinet door, one she knew she had closed, was found hanging open, she would force her gaze away, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. When a shadow in her peripheral vision seemed to twitch with unnatural speed, she would stare intently at her laptop screen, focusing on the pixels until her eyes burned.

Each act of willful ignorance was a victory, but it was costing her. Sleep was a luxury she could no longer afford. The sofa had become her bed, a lumpy, uncomfortable fortress in the center of the living room, as far as possible from the loft bedroom and the memory of what lurked beneath its frame. But sleep, when it came, was shallow and haunted, filled with the image of wide, bloodshot eyes and a grin that cut to the bone.

Her work, once her pride and her sanctuary, was suffering. A deadline for a major client had slipped by, earning her a curt, disappointed email that made her stomach clench with a shame that was almost as sharp as her fear. She looked at the designs on her screen—logos, web layouts, branding guides—and they seemed nonsensical, artifacts from a life she no longer lived. How could she worry about kerning and color theory when there was a… thing… a hungry thought, as her mother called it, sharing her space?

Her isolation was a palpable weight. She ignored calls from Sarah and Liam, the thought of trying to explain her reality, of hearing their well-meaning skepticism, was more than she could bear. The apartment, once her trophy of independence, had become her prison, and the silence within its walls was a constant, ringing reminder of her solitude.

After the fourth night on the sofa, she woke with a searing pain in her neck and a grim, exhausted resolve. She couldn’t live like this. Hiding in her own home was a form of acknowledgment, a concession of territory. It was attention, just of a different kind. She had to reclaim her space. She had to sleep in her own bed.

The decision felt monumental, a declaration of war. That evening, she climbed the short staircase to the loft, each step a conscious act of defiance. The air in the bedroom felt colder, stiller than the rest of the apartment. She didn’t let her mind wander. She focused on the mundane: changing her sheets, fluffing her pillows, setting a glass of water on her nightstand.

She refused to look under the bed. To do so would be to admit she expected something to be there. It would be a question, and she couldn't bear the answer.

Lying in the dark, her body rigid beneath the duvet, Alex focused on the sounds of the city outside. The distant wail of a siren, the rumble of a late-night train, the hum of a world that was still rational, still normal. She held onto those sounds, using them as an anchor. Her breathing was shallow, her ears straining against the silence in the room. Minutes stretched into an eternity. Slowly, impossibly, the tension began to drain from her limbs. Her eyelids grew heavy. Maybe this was it. Maybe ignoring it, truly starving it of her fear, was working.

She was drifting in the grey space between wakefulness and sleep when she heard it.

A faint sound from beneath her. A soft, dry skittering.

Her eyes snapped open. Her entire body went rigid.

It’s the pipes, she thought, her mind scrambling for a logical foothold. The building is old. It’s just the heating.

The sound came again, louder this time. It was not the groan of metal or the rush of water. It was a light, quick, pattering sound. It was the distinct, unmistakable sound of small, bare feet and questing hands moving across the wooden underside of the bed frame.

Scuttle. Scuttle. Pause. Scuttle.

It was moving. It started near the foot of the bed, a faint, almost imperceptible noise. Then it began to travel, slowly, deliberately, up the length of the mattress towards her head.

A scream built in her throat, hot and sharp, but she choked it down, biting her lip so hard she tasted the coppery tang of blood. Her mother’s voice screamed in her mind, overriding her own panic. You feed it with your attention! A scream was a feast. A terrified glance was a banquet.

She squeezed her eyes shut, her knuckles white where she gripped the duvet. The urge to look, to lean over the edge of the bed and confront the source of the sound, was an overwhelming, physical force. It was a magnetic pull, a violent curiosity that felt like it would tear her apart. Her neck muscles trembled with the effort of keeping her head pinned to the pillow. Her own imagination, her greatest asset as a designer, had become a torture chamber. She could see it perfectly without opening her eyes: the curtain of greasy black hair, the pale limbs moving like a spider’s, the bloodshot eyes staring up through the mattress, right at her.

The scuttling stopped.

The silence that followed was somehow worse, thick with anticipation. Alex held her breath, her heart feeling as if it would explode.

Then came a new sound. A slow, deliberate scratch. The sound of a fingernail dragging across wood. It was coming from directly beneath her pillow.

Scratch. Scraaaaape. Scratch.

It was toying with her. It knew she was awake. It knew she was terrified. This wasn't a random haunting; it was a calculated, psychological assault. It was enjoying the game she had so foolishly started. The intimate, probing sound was a direct violation, a mockery of her attempt to reclaim her sanctuary. This wasn't just her apartment anymore; it was her bed, her personal space, and it was methodically, sadistically, turning it into a place of absolute horror.

Her resolve shattered. This wasn’t a battle of wills she could win. With a strangled sob, she clamped her hands over her ears, pressing down until the world was reduced to the frantic, muffled drumming of her own blood. It was a child’s defense, primitive and desperate. She couldn’t hear the scratching anymore, but she could feel it. A faint vibration through the pillow, a phantom touch against her skull.

She lay there for an hour, or maybe a lifetime, a statue carved from fear, waiting for the final, terrible moment.

And then, nothing.

The vibration ceased. The feeling of a predatory presence seemed to recede, leaving behind a cold, heavy emptiness. But Alex knew it wasn't gone. This was a tactical retreat. It had tested her, found her breaking point, and was now content to wait. She slowly, cautiously, removed her hands from her ears. The room was utterly silent. But it was not the silence of peace. It was the silence of a predator holding its breath, perfectly still in the darkness, waiting for its prey to make the next move.