
27 Mar Under the Bed
βUnder the Bedβ
Written by Eli Pope Edited by Craig Groshek Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek Narrated by N/ACopyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).
π§ Available Audio Adaptations: None Available
β° ESTIMATED READING TIME β 20 minutes
1
My mom told me about Dadβs quirky habit of sleeping under the bed when he was young. My dad was a tough cookie, so hearing such a thing about him made it hard to believe. I guess his father had been in the Navy. Mom said sometimes his father came home and tried to use him as a punching bag. I guess that saying of the nut not falling too far from the tree is sometimes a fact. My dad seemed to grow right into the mold his dad made for him. He liked to drink vodka like Grandpa and when he didβheβd sometimes get nasty with his attitude. Short-fused and vocal. Sometimes physical. Mom said he wasnβt that way before he went to Vietnam. She said that hellhole ruined a lot of good husbandsβif they were lucky enough to even make it back home. Anyway, I guess my dadβs safety zone from his father when he was a kidβwas under the bed. Most kids, like me, were scared as hell of what kind of monsters lived under our beds once the lights went out. My dad took refuge there. I felt a weird kind of smile stretch through my lips with the thought.
Life can have a way of turning oneβs feelings about a parent from outright wonder and fear to a downright sorrow-filled compassion. I thought Iβd never forgive my dad for some of the whoopings I got from him, but now that heβs old and fragile, I see things differently. He looks at me now and Iβm not really sure heβs even still in there. His eyes seem to tell me there is a faint memory of who I am. Or was.
***
I remember on occasional nights my mom would come in and warn my brother and I not to argue with Dad. Sheβd have that look of concern in her eye as she quietly walked over to the bunkbeds we slept, mine was the top, cause Johnny was older. He wasnβt as scared of the dark side underneath, as I was. Anyway, Mom would stand beside the bed and whisper to us, βIf your father comes in, keep your eyes closed and pretend youβre already asleep. Heβs spoiling for trouble tonightβdonβt give it to him.β
βYou gonna be alright, Mom?β Johnny asked in a hushed whisper. βCause, Iβll stay up and protect you.β
βIβll be okay, Johnny. Just go to sleep and ignore anything you hear. Iβll wake you up in the morning. Itβll all be okay, I promise.β
Johnny and I went to bed many nights to those words of concerned warning from our mom. Too many nights we heard arguments and sounds of struggle downstairs in the living room and kitchen beneath us, underneath our beds. My brother would try and make me feel better when heβd hear my sniffles from under my blankets. Sniffles brought on by tears that were caused by our dadβs demons left over from the war mixing with his glass of clear liquid he called, βnot water.β
One time I asked how come he changed so much when he was drinking water, βIt donβt do that to me and Johnny.β Iβd asked.
My dad looked up at me with a blank stare that scared the hell out of us. I think back now and what I saw behind his eyes were the leftover fears from the North Viet Cong. I see movies now and I wonder how in the hell he lived through that. But after his eyes followed down his arm to the glass he was holdingβhe looked back at me and said only three words, βItβs not water.β And from that day on, thatβs what Johnny and I called the poison he poured down his throat, for what seemed as fast as he could. The nights when he didnβt drink βnot waterβ became fewer and fewer. Fun Saturdays at the zoo or lazy Sundays in the park throwing a ball faded into nothingness.
There were plenty of nights that didnβt turn bad. I donβt want to paint the picture that my dad was some broken evil devil looking to hurt us. What I saw then was different, but today what I think I looked at was a scared boy who was made to be a man too quick. I really donβt think he held a mean bone in his body when he wasnβt fighting his past with the bottle. I love my dad. I feared him at timesβ mostly he was just with his punishments. Mostly. I believe Johnny would have said the same thing, if he were still alive.
Unfortunately, my brother did not live long enough in this world, and I miss talking to him. I didnβt do nearly enough with him when he was here. Johnny died just before the Christmas I turned twenty-three. He was only twenty-seven. I hated Christmas for many years after the melanoma cancer stole him away from me and my family. I believe that helped feed my dadβs demons too. I know it fed mine.
Sometimes in this life, even at my age now, I still want to jump up high in the air to the mattress when I go to bed. It just feels like itβs safer to give those damned goblins under the bed a harder target to grab. You know, if they are under there. I swear I still see two eyes in the darkβbarely shining through the black, observing my every move.
***
My dad is eighty-seven years old now. He never seemed to have goblins under his bed. All his scary nasties were out here in the world of daylight. The time when everyone else feels safer. His mind is falling into the grips of dementia. He appears frailer each time I make it to see him. The man couldnβt hurt a soul now even if it were the Vietcong war demons coming over the wire.
He remembers me, though. I wish I could be more regular seeing him. Somehow the guilt eats at me for not being a better son. I, of course, try justifying myself with thoughts like, where the hell was he when I needed helpβ¦. It still hurts to watch someone grow old. Especially someone youβre supposed to love but never felt like you ever knew them but surface deep. I hear now that I was his favorite between Johnny and me.
Damn my mom for telling me such a thing after Johnnyβs gone. How could I ever live up to something like that?
Iβll be damned if I didnβt try though, more than once, even though he deserted me way back when I was five. Thatβs a story for another day.
My parents divorced for reasons I later understood but try to explain it to a five-year old. He may have scared the shit out of me as a child, but he was still my dad. And then one day, he was not. He pretended to play the part for the three or four weekends he would visit and two weeks in the summer when Johnny and I would stay in Kansas City with him. He tried not to drink the βnot waterβ then. I think Momma mustaβ warned him not to fuck up. So, I guess he loved us enough not to drink when we were with him after he moved out.
2
I didnβt really want this story to turn the way of a me-me-me story, Doc.
βWell, Steveβhow does this make you feel?β Doctor Charles Stangheart asked.
βYouβre kidding me right? Do you βeducatedβ fuckers really believe asking a lame ass question like βhow does this make me feelβ do a goddamned thing to someone with serious or even mild issues, feel any better. Or is this just an academic question that is supposed to cure us all by showing us our βfeelings and how to just deal with them?β Or maybe only used as a backup option when youβre caught not knowing what the fuck youβre talking about?β
I knew my vein had to be bulging from my left side temple. It always swelled first and then came the splotchy red and white skin. βYou pay thousands upon thousands of dollars to be βschooledβ in all the most technically advanced therapies and all your types rebound to βhow does this make you feelβ? Well, isnβt that freakinβ phenomenal!β
Damn. I guess this proves the nuts donβt fall too far from the tree even if they donβt share the experience of a devastating war between them. βIβm sorry, Doc. Itβs just that I got job pressures, my dad is dying right in front of me when I make myself go see him. His wife is a manipulative bulldog who lies to me constantly. I love my dad, but sheβs stolen him from me for years now andβ¦Iβ¦I canβt deal with it.β I suddenly felt totally overwhelmed and fatigued. βAnd THAT is how it makes me feel, there ya go, I answered the goddamned question. Now cure me!β
βSteveβI have to say, those outbursts are not a necessarily a bad thingβunder controlled circumstances. Surroundings like here with me in the office, letting off some steam off Β without scaring the hell out of any civilians out thereβ¦β Doc Charles pointed his finger to the window where I could see people walking down the sidewalk of downtown Union City. ββ¦you donβt want to scare the masses, especially in this age of times.β Doc smiled. βI think weβre making progress though. And I hate to ask this, butβ¦β He winked at me. ββ¦how does that statement make you feel?β
βYou got me, Doc. But seriously, I feel better. Feels like a few less monsters under the bed today. I wonβt have to jump as high tonightβwhen I hit the bed.β I laughed.
***
I have to admit, the highball glass filled with a double shot of George Dickel, fine Kentucky bourbon, helped nurse me back into a more satisfactory state of mind. Yes, Iβd made strides towards feeling better about life and myself tonight, but I wasnβt instantly cured. There were still rough edges to be honed down and bourbon did that for me at times. I didnβt abuse it. It wasnβt like my father and his βnot water.β
I relaxed and sipped as I let my head softly fall to the back of my recliner. My eyes quickly felt heavy.
3
The atmosphere was thick and foggy. The moon shined almost full through the window. I reached out to touch his face. He was hollow and frail. His silver and white hair now matched the color of his motherβs. Or at least the way I remember her. She lived to be a hundred. This felt terrible but as I looked over at my father, I didnβt wish the same lifespan for him. Not in the shape he was in, mentally.
I imagined the hell it would be like not ever knowing exactly what was going on around me. Not fully recognizing the people in my life or being bullied by a woman who surely thought she was doing the right thingβbut obviously was mistaken. I blamed her for my fatherβs memory loss in some ways. She never let him finish a sentence. Ever. Iβd ask a question and before he could answer it, she would be hollering the βcorrectedβ answer from the other room. Always.
The only time my father could speak uninterrupted by herβwas when he prayed. For dinner, or menβs bible study, or church. She didnβt interrupt him then, but the minute he was finished, she was back on bulldog patrol. She was a difficult person to care for.
There were many times I felt the pull of my hands to her throat. I had always enjoyed the few times my dad told her to, βLet me finish my damned thought!β It was jubilance I felt every damned time it happened, even if seldom and far between.
I hold a bit of self-pride when I look back in my life and think how few grudges with people I still hold. There is one Iβm currently guilty for and thatβs for my dadβs second wife. I Β call her She-Who. She whose name I will never speak. That grudge will never go away. I donβt feel the guilt very long when it questions me. She-Who always fills in the blanks with her coy behind your back comments, usually right after the caramel-sugarcoated compliments she drizzles over you like an endless bottle of sickening sweet syrup. God help her if my father passes first.
***
My dadβs eyes begin to haunt me again. He reminds me of the pictures Iβve seen of Howard Hughes in the days he was living locked up in his high-rise apartment during his crazy hermit days. Hair wild and uncombed, beard growing out in every direction with no attempts of calming it. Youβd think his damned loving wife would help him, but she is probably too busy shoving banana cream custard pies down her diabetic throat.
I knew my thoughts resonated with ugly overtones. I was making progress, but Iβm not perfected yet. She just may be the one stumbling block I may never overcome. My blood boils at the thought of her taking up space residing in my head.
I stirred a moment and felt myself turn from one side to the other of my empty bed. I swore I heard something. It was like a faint eerie cry. I listened again, more closely. Was I still asleep and this wasΒ part of the dream? Or had I actually been awoken to a monsterβs cry?
I lay in silence, straining my ears to block out the city noise of cars and sirens to focus on something closer. It almost felt like a faint muffled whimpering very near.
I heard it again. Was it coming from under the bed? Dare I lean over the edge and peak? At damn near sixty years old, I felt foolish to be nervous at the thought of looking under my own damned bed! The only monster I would find was a stinky old pair of Converse tennis shoes that have been missing since 2014, or God forbid an old pair of underwear that went MIA.
I began to twist over on my stomachβlaying sideways on the lonely king-sized bed, nervously beginning to crane my head over the edge. The old lacey frilly thing my wife put on our bed so long ago was still hanging over the mattress edge. She left me years ago because of my βissues.β Iβd finally gone to the psychologist like she asked, Doctor Charles, but she left me anyway. She forgot to take the damn doylyΒ quilt with her though. It was yellowed and as stained as our marriage ended up being, but I couldnβt seem to rid myself of the memories it now held. I began to pull it upwards so I wouldnβt have to lean down as much.
4
Iβm sure every family throughout the world has some form of dysfunction that lives within the unit somewhere. Either close inside like at the core or some brother-in-law or distant uncleβsomewhere in the family fabric. I know in the interior of our family, some of my stepsiblings, even though Iβve never personally felt like a step or thought of them as one, that their feelings may differ. Itβs all about perspective. Oneβs prize is anotherβs goose egg. Oneβs happiness or contentment may be the otherβs hell.
But Iβve always tried to find the positive note, the silver lining wrapped up in the dark storm cloud. No life is perfect. The one I remember as a young child with my birthfather, or the man afterβthat entered my momβs life. It was a new situation we all found each other in. Parents new romance and marriage. Seven of us thrust into an instant family. Five children became confused collateral damage from our parents love. The new man brought himself and three new young kids, my new brothers, when I was very happy and settled with just one and my mother. I always felt they were the lucky ones to gain older brothers and the best damned mother in the world. I accepted. I shared. My older brother Johnny resented and rebelled.
I saw very covertly to myself at many times throughout our entire sharing of a home, that we, my mom and brother were the ones who made any sacrificeΒ if one was actually to be tallied as made. I later found out while I basically settled into what I saw as a happy family, some of my siblings did not see things the same as time passed.
βShit, Doc, no one will ever see your notes youβre taking will they? This would be a fucking shocker to my family if they ever found out what was in my head all these years.β
βSteve, your secrets are safe with meβunless I surmise youβre planning someoneβs demise.β
βIβm a lover, Doc, not a killer. I couldnβt even shoot a deer when my stepdad took me hunting. Iβm safe. Remember? I took that mental test, you know, the one that you told me I was so normal that you couldnβt believe it!β
I was actually feeling like Doc Charley might be helping me. Iβm finding out that I am normal! I am the sane one. I just hope I donβt follow the way of my dad. I donβt want to be lost inside my own mind, unable to claw my way out. My dadβs recent line which he seems stuck on is, βLately, I donβt know my ass from a hole in the ground.β He says it over and over and smiles with a chuckle. I guess in some strange way, he derives pleasure from letting it roll off his tongue. Heβs not the man I barely knew before the dementia took over. This is who he is now. I suppose I donβt really know this man any better than I did the other.
And somehow, I love him. I wonβt ever really know him, but I do love him. Itβs not just the shared blood thing either. Thatβs never been of importance to me. Family is love and backing one another. Helping each other through struggles. Crazy thought since I really donβt remember a single time when my father was actually ever there to do just that. My stepdad was. Multiple times. Even though we mixed like oil and water throughout and to this day still. There were many times when I felt like my stepdad suffered from the βheβs not from my blood syndrome,β he was still always there for me. I love him too. I love my entire family. I get mad as hell at each of them, but I love them.
βYouβre cured!β Doc smiled with the biggest grin Iβd ever seen him wear in the three years Iβd been visiting him after my wife left.
I, of course, knew he was being facetious, but it felt good hearing the words. It was like a lead brick being lifted from each shoulder. Instant relief, and I drove home with a new attitude. The world was suddenly mine again.
I drove home with a new attitude. I hoped this time the feeling would stick.
5
The phone was ringing before I got the door open. I raced to it, picking it up to a dial tone. The caller ID told me it was my dadβs neighbor. I dreaded calling back. Frank never brought good news. I felt my new attitude begin itβs faulterΒ . I hit redial.
βFrankβ¦β I began to shake my head. ββ¦is he okay? Does he realize what happened to her?β
It seems the bulldog was gone. Not like sheβd cleared out her belongings and left. Her body was still there, on the floor, the odor that filled the room reminded me of the venom sheβd been capable of delivering. It hung over me as a bad memory.
My dad had apparently tripped over her and fell at some point. Heβd been lying on the floor beside her for hours. Heβd hollered my nameβand hers until becoming too hoarse to speak.
βIβll be right there, Frank, thanks for being the good neighbor youβve been.β
I realized instantly in this time of aging that life truly is very short. One should enjoy the happy moments they are allowed to the very fullest. Those are the moments that seem to fill oneβs entire world when young and unaware of what time is doing to you in the background. Wearing you down slowly, pilfering bits and pieces, minute seconds of time in the blur of all the magnificence happening in the foreground. Now, watching someone else who already enjoyed their time on this world, reaping the nanoseconds of richness and memory making, begin the process of regressing back to the child we all come from. Knowing nothing but what we see in front of us. No benefit of realizing the consequence of what the seasons of life led to. Watching life fade away, but not knowing what to do even if we realized the revolution we were made to endure.
We all become ghosts of our past born to haunt us with memories of the best of times. Dangling them in front of us to taunt what we once held and took for granted. Those reflections of our past joy, become the poisons that cause our pain as we see the fading of our loved ones. Our stories coming to a close. Leisurely at first and then like a speeding train, rushing head on with its bright light shining with the fury of an attacking mountain lion with no fear. No relent.
My mind wouldnβt let these thoughts escape as I made my way over to the house that had been lost to them both recently. Taxes. Insurance. Utilities. Nothing had been paid. His wife just decided one day she neednβt take care of those things anymore. My dad unaware of the life nearly stolen from him by negligence. The bulldog never told him. Never told me. I had to hear it from the neighbor. The neighbor she called her enemy now. Now that sheβd been exposed. The loving neighbor that told me just in the nick of time so I could find a way to pay the three years of back taxes before the house was taken with all its contents, them thrown to the street.
And now as I wrestle with all of this, knowing my father is helpless in the realization his world is very different suddenly. Not even knowing why his wife is lying motionless on the floor. Not understanding why heβd been made to lie beside her for God knows how many hours, wondering what he was supposed to do. All I could think and filter out of this mess of bullshit rushing around my mind wasβthe domineering, all self-knowing bitchβwas gone. I couldnβt find any sorrow or even satisfaction in the fact. Life was now changed. Not only for my dad, but for me. Where would he go? What would I do? Iβd never taken care of anyone in the shape he was in. I didnβt know what channels to go through all the bureaucracy to get assistance for someone left penniless in this world. The taxes I paid had emptied a good portion of my retirement, the economical collapse having taken most of it to begin with. I suddenly saw the foreshadow of my future. His mirrored mine in some ways. The thought scared me back to the current situation.
The house couldnβt be sold while the bitch was alive because my fatherβs name was on the title, and he wasnβt mentally capable of signing if it sold. My name was taken off by the bulldog years before because she got mad at me. I was fucked, right along-side my dad. My future every bit as devasted. Iβd never be able to retire and now, all I could think of as I pulled into the drive, flashing lights of police and medical careβwas he would need to come home with me. At least until I could sort things out.
Life exploded in what now felt like a nanosecond. The truth being that this train wreck had been set on its course of destructive mayhem months, if not years earlier. It was either kept from me or I chose to ignore it. The blame held no value now. Life would be very different. My ghosts from the past now surrounded me. A man I had feared, a man whom I felt deserted me and our family only to disappear into several other peopleβs lives throughout his life, was now sitting in my passenger seat with a blank empty stare and the silence of a planet millions of light years away. He would be dependent on me for everything in his life now. As scared as this thought was to me, I couldnβt imagine what it was to him. I glanced over trying to smile with an assuring and pleasant loving faΓ§ade across my face. In reality, the draw to push the pedal to the floor and then steer into a telephone pole making both of our lives end without suffering through the restβtook all the self-control I could muster.
6
The whimper grew louder as I lay in bed, the sheets now lay twisted in a ball beside me. My eyes wearily trying to focus on the darkness under the bed. Everything in my recent past was being relived most every night in the form of dreams and nightmares. I never knew when I woke up, if life was real in the moment, or in the terror of dreamworld. What did I do so terrible in lifeβback in my youth-filled magic times, to deserve the outcome I was now living? Was God angry and punishing me? Why at my ripe old age now, were the monsters under the bed coming back to terrify me? I was supposed to be on my way to retirement and looking forward to my golden years.
But here I was. Working my ass off during the day. A small apartment I now shared with a man I barely knew, who had been under the thumb of his fourth wife for the last thirty-years. Sheβd robbed him of his mental capacity and didnβt even have the decency, even though she was several years younger, to stay and finish her goddamned job of taking care of the man she stole from me all those years ago. She should be here, not me. Iβm Laying in a bed alone because my ex-wife was smart enough to read the writing on the wall. Iβm hearing noises and feelingβfuck, I donβt know what Iβm feeling. Self-pity? Guilt? Anger? No, itβs fear right now. I donβt know where my life is going. My doctor told me I was curedβbullshit! What the hell did he know? How does that make you feel? βI know how the hell I feel, doc. I feel betrayed by life! My good moments havenβt stacked up against the shit dealt to me!β I wonder if God was even listening. Was this entertainment for him? Like when I turn the channel over to reruns of βCheersβ to help knock the edge off my day?
I suddenly just felt anger beyond belief run through me. βWhat the fuck? If itβs a monster under this damnedβI hope it rips my head off the moment I see it! You hear me, monster? This is my home! This is my bedβmy fucking rules! Show me your face and rip mine off!β With that, I plunged my head down quickly below the yellowed lace which still remained attached to the blanket Iβd never been able to remove. Every time I tried Iβd stopped. Most all of the pleasant memories I still retained were made either on top of it, or underneath it with the woman who now shared another manβs bed. I had nothing to care enough to live for anymore. A monster wasnβt going to scare me. Hell, I relished the thought of it taking me from this eternity of dilemma.
Hanging upside down now from the edge of my bed, I slowly opened my eyes when Iβd realized the monster hadnβt removed my head as Iβd challenged. There in the furthest corner of the darkest darkness Iβd ever seenβI saw them. At first, I held no idea who they belonged to. They had to be the devilβs. But then I realized they didnβt hold any violence or cruel hatred within them. The eyes that stared back into mine didnβt blink or so much as flicker with movement. No, these eyes held something very different. Other-worldly. The two barely visible white circles surrounding a strange pair of reddish-brown irisβ encircling their black pupils, were filled with nothing but question and mystery. With doubt. But all the sudden they became warm in appearance. Heated with a feeling of overwhelm as if something magical just cut through the darkness. Thatβs when I knew who owned those hard to read optical orbs. The pressure valve inside my brain gave a little relief inside as my eyes connected with those begging to see the same relief in mine.
They belonged to my father. This was his safe zone I remembered. Heβd carried the look of fear. A fear so deep Iβd never seen. Heβd worn the look of a young man who witnessed killing of men who looked scary to American soldiers such as he, who were dropped into their jungles. Taken like others from school and girlfriends, best friends and family. Dropped into the middle of a quagmire not caused by the young men sent to settle by force.
I think something hit him when he looked back into the same eyes filled with emotion. Something clicked, because that scared and petrified gaze from the darknessβbecame beams of hope that he would be saved. My heart warmed and I didnβt know why. Tears gushed from eyes as I dropped down onto the floor with a thud and began to belly crawl towards him. His legs and arms tucked in the fetal position, I moved slowly, βDad, itβs me, Steve. You remember me donβt you? Iβm your son.β
I watched the familiar smile grow across the manβs face I never really knew other than the fact he was my father. The familiar gap in his front two teeth showed from the widened smile and became the evidence for me to know who he was. In this instant, my dad was now a man who needed me for the first time in his life.
I held a choice. I could be the man who turned his back like the many times I felt that way about what heβd done. Or I could be his savior. I could crawl deeper under the bed and hold him in comfort. The comfort I knew he longed for.
Iβve been a believer of Faith my entire life. My dad was at one time, early in his life, a Methodist preacher. He left the ministry for the larger portion of his life. He left me for most of his life too. At least thatβs the way it felt. But he came back into ministry after he retired from secular work, to become a local pastor in three churches not far from where I and my wife and family lived. He became a little closer to me and we shared some quality times together. Sailing on his yacht on the lake or a sharing a menβs bible study together. Sometimes just short, mostly pointless conversations. But this time shared together didnβt last very long. A mere drop in the bucket of our lives. Times we were removed from each other crept in at several points. Maybe because Iβm more like him than I want to think. Maybe the bulldog was at fault. It didnβt matter now.
I canβt answer those questions. But I know one thing. In the moment we shared within the darkness under the bed, was the closest Iβd ever felt to him. I was his assurance everything would be alright. He wasnβt alone in this new trial. He was now like the son who needed his dad to make things feel right. We laid under the bed arm in arm for several hours before I could convince him to crawl out and into the light once again. To face the challenges set before us. Weβd tackle them together.
Iβm seventy-eight now. Iβve had some difficult times, but Iβve enjoyed great ones too. My father has been gone now for almost seventeen years. At times itβs felt fast, yet at other times it feels like quicksand holding me at a deathly slow pace. Doc Charley once again helped me out after I lost my dad. I guess he ended up knowing more than that one stupid question every shrink always pops off, βHow does that make you feel?β
Well, now that my time is more than likely my latter daysβI find myself crawling under the bed at night when Iβm feeling lost and lonely. Itβs now become my source of comfort like it was my fatherβs. I now realize that in most circumstances, the monsters rarely live under the bed, itβs just the noises from memories past that rattle in the dark and haunt us from circumstance or choices we sometimes land in. Embrace them and meet them head on.
Thatβs when instead of scary creatures or devilsβyouβll find comfort in the dark shadows under the bed.
I know I do.
***
Five years to the day, Steveβs son Jake found his father passed away in the apartment heβd lived since his divorce. Jake and his mother entered the apartment with the police to do a well-check after failing to get phone calls returned or answers from knocking on the door. They were about to give up and mark him as a silver alert, before Jake peeked underneath the lacy bed spread and into the darkness below. He was curled up in the fetal position but held a smile frozen across his cold blue lips.
π§ Available Audio Adaptations: None Available
Written by Eli Pope Edited by Craig Groshek Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek Narrated by N/Aπ More stories from author: Eli Pope
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takes so long to get to the point