Haunted

Years. It had been years since I’d heard that familiar scratching beneath my bed, starting so faint that one could almost mistake it for something benevolent. But not me. I knew the sound intimately and it sent my heart into a painful, hammering rhythm that I had foolishly thought behind me.

I should have known better than to think that I could simply be forgotten, that time and distance could render me safe. I grew lax in my routines as I achieved adulthood. After all, why should I sleep with a light on? Why should I cover myself to the neck every single night with blankets.

The scratching grew louder as it crept from the foot of the bed up toward the head. I closed my eyes tightly. It didn’t help. The room was already dark enough that my retinas couldn’t tell the difference, and my mind knew every detail clearly enough to paint a picture, whether I wanted it or not.

A shuddering, raspy breath, hot against my ear, caused a ripple of goosebumps down my body. A whimper escaped my lips, one that I regretted immediately. It was always worse if I made a sound. She was back.