Things That Go Bump in the Night

I live where the carpet ends,

where the wood is bare and cold,

where dust-bunnies drift like dandelions,

and the air tastes like old secrets.

I am the shadow stitched between floorboards.

The ruffle under your bedskirt.

The pause between one heartbeat and the next.

⸻

They call me a monster.

A creep.

A crawler.

A collector of shadows.

But that’s not the whole story.

I am older than bedtime.

Older than lullabies.

Older than the word scary.

When the first humans built the first fire,

I hid behind the rocks,

curious.

Hopeful.

But they saw my teeth and thought danger.

They saw my claws and thought harm.

They didn’t see my hands were empty.

They didn’t hear the kindness in my hum.

⸻

The little girl above me doesn’t know my name yet.

She calls me it.

She hears my bump-bump-bump at midnight

and hides beneath her blanket fortress,

fingers clenched like little white moths.

Her name is Lila.

She dreams of dragons and dresses,

pirates and planets.

She draws pictures of rainbows and foxes,

but never of me.

Not yet.

⸻

One night,

a storm swells outside her window,

and the wind plays the chimney like a flute.

She wakes with wide eyes,

and I peek out —

just enough for her to see two puddle-black eyes

and a crooked grin.

She squeaks.

I squeak back.

It sounds like laughter and lightning all at once.

⸻

“Why are you here?” she whispers.

Her voice is a matchstick,

tiny but brave.

I tell her the truth.

“I’ve been here since the beginning.

Before you.

Before your bed.

Before your very street even existed.”

She frowns,

not scared now,

just puzzled.

“Do you… want to eat me?”

I laugh so hard my knees knock against the bed slats.

“No! Oh no. I want to watch over you.

I like the way you dream.”

⸻

She tilts her head,

thinking.

“But you’re creepy,” she says.

Not mean.

Just honest.

I nod.

“Yes. I am a little bit creepy.

But sometimes creepy is just another word for different.

And different is what makes the world beautiful.”

⸻

I tell her about my job:

to rattle,

to creak,

to make the night feel a little wilder,

so the morning feels warmer when it comes.

“The darkness is my dress,” I explain.

“I wear it so the light looks brighter.

Without me,

you’d forget how much you love the sun.”

⸻

Over the next weeks,

we get to know each other.

Sometimes she lowers a cookie to me on a string.

I nibble the edges carefully,

so my teeth don’t scare her.

Sometimes she leans over the bed,

whispering her secrets into the shadows,

and I catch them like fireflies,

holding them safe until she sleeps.

⸻

I learn her laugh —

like little silver bells.

She learns my laugh —

like the sound of dry leaves chasing each other down the street.

She asks me questions:

“Why do you hide under the bed?”

Because it’s where I fit best.

“Do you have friends?”

Only you, for now.

“Do you ever go outside?”

Sometimes… but the daylight makes my eyes ache.

⸻

One night she says,

“You’re not scary anymore.”

I smile.

“I haven’t changed, Lila.

You’ve just learned to see me differently.”

⸻

I tell her I’ve been misunderstood for centuries.

Humans ran from me.

Shut doors on me.

Told bedtime stories about me.

Made me the villain.

But I never stopped watching over them.

“Why?” she asks.

Because every story needs its shadows.

Every heart needs its night

to appreciate the day.

⸻

We make a pact.

She’ll tell people the truth about me —

that I’m not bad,

just different.

And I’ll keep making my little bumps in the night,

to remind her of the balance between dark and light.

⸻

Now, when she hears me—

bump, bump, bump—

she doesn’t hide.

She smiles into the shadows and says,

“Hello, old friend.”

And I smile back,

crooked,

wide,

and true.

Because I’m not here to hurt her.

I’m here to make her remember

how bright the light can be.

And how even a monster

can be part of the beauty of the world.