Short Story
Do you know that noise?
The crick-creaky scrape at midnight. The one that tumbles and rumbles about your ear, invades your bone and quivers down your spine. That puts your teeth on edge and makes you wince. Where you close your eyes so very, very tight, because you’re afraid to open them. The one that all the bedtime stories warn you against.
That noise?
It’s coming from under my bed.
About a foot to the right of my teddy bear.
It’s not my imagination.
There’s something there.
Making the noise.
Hiding.
Waiting.
Last week I did a bad thing.
A very bad thing.
Do you know what happens to children that do bad things?
The boggles come for them.
That’s what my Grandma said. She told me all the stories about the boggles. She said they’re hairy and have foul breath, and sharp teeth and very long claws. Claws long enough to make scraping noises. Crick-creaky scraping sounds you hear at midnight. Oh, and she also said they have red eyes. Just like the pair I saw when I peeked under the bed two nights ago.
Scary, glowing, red, red eyes.
There’s a boggle under my bed.
I know it.
Because I did a bad thing.
I shouldn’t have poisoned Grandma. The boggles were her friends.
And now I think they’re mad at me.
Oh, there’s that noise again.
It’s louder now.
I wiggle and jiggle and peer over the edge of the bed.
I see a claw.
No, no, no.
I hide under the covers.
It goes quiet, and I wait. And wait.
I think the boggle is gone.
Maybe it’s hiding again.
I hope so.
Cause I’m afraid.
Afraid of what happens when it stops hiding.
Whaa—what?
I think I fell asleep.
Oh, oh, I hear that noise. It’s so close.
Eww, what’s that bad, bad smell.
Something is tugging at the covers!
Stop, stop!
Leave me alone!
Oh.
I don’t think the boggle is hiding anymore.
