A little Halloween Horror Story…

It’s been a long time since anything new made it up here. I solemnly apologize for that, we had a few issues with another blog (this one) that had to be sorted out. Those are ironed out (for now), and I can finally get back to here.

The good news is that I finally found something to throw your way! With no further ado, here’s a short story I wrote for a friend last year entitled “The Bedshakers.”  I hope you enjoy. =D


The Bedshakers

They shouldn’t be here, they shouldn’t be here, they shouldn’t be here, they shouldn’t be here…

I pull the sheet up over my eyes, but that won’t get rid of them. Instead it just brings them dancing in my mind’s eye. Horrible, impish little things they are. Pink, wrinkly skin is stretched over their knobby boned bodies, hanging listlessly as if it is simply too big for the creatures that wear it. It hangs in great bags beneath their bulbous eyes, awful spherical things made of a sickly tint of yellow, interlaced with veins of red. They smile. Their smiles are-

No, no I cannot look on any longer. It is too much to bear, too much to take in.

I open my eyes, pull down the sheet, and look out into my dark bedroom. There is nothing there to see, for my eyes are not yet adjusted. There is nothing to hear either, save for silence.

Then something penetrates that silence.

Shake shake. Shake shake. Silence. Then, once again, shake, shake.

It comes from beneath me. It comes from just beyond the wall made by the ruffled bed skirt that hangs just below my bed. Somewhere, in the pocket of total darkness that rests below my mattress, something is rustling.

Of course, nothing could be there rustling, could it? I’m not a child, and monsters beneath the bed are nothing more than the tricks a child’s mind plays on him as shadows dance across shadows in the night. They are the things that go bump in the night, figments given form by a juvenile imagination. They are not real.

They cannot be real.

Shake, shake.

Things that are not real cannot shake my bed.

Shake, shake.

They cannot rustle the covers.

Shake, shake.

They cannot because they ARE not.

Shake shake, shake shake, shake shake.

I pull the sheet to my chin and shut my eyes as tightly as I can. The room is black for a second, then they appear again.

Gone is that sickly pink skin, this time around. Now they are awful green things, tall and burly. Great sharp teeth line their mouths, dripping and glinting with sticky, sweet-smelling saliva. Their tense muscles ripple just below the surface of their skin. They open their mouths and a whisper, faint and distant like a wind off the ocean, escapes through their chapped and splitting lips.

Shake, shake.

My eyes snap open. I do not hear the whisper. I do not listen for it, and I do not listen for the shake beneath my bed.

Tonight is going to be a long night.


Next night.

The rustling is louder. What was once a shake, shake is now a shuffle shuffle. It is a ruffle ruffle. It is scratch, a claw, a scrape and it is all punctuated with ghastly moans. It is the thing of nightmares, but so awful as to take even nightmares from me.

I still have not seen the things, though my vision is filled with their ugly teeth, grotesque faces and ghastly smiles. When I open my eyes, they depart. Still, I am afraid they may show themselves for what they truly are at any time. I do not know that I can face this. Perhaps it is better, then, that I allow them to simply dance harmlessly inside my own head.

They can do me no harm from there. I hope.


This one comes with a certain conviction that is lacking in the others. There is force behind it, power. It is the result of a very real thing, no figment of imagination.

Only barely, I can make out a small toy rolling across the bedroom floor. It is a truck, the paint chipped, the wheels creaking. Strange, I do not remember putting a truck beneath my bed. I haven’t played with a toy like this since…

The wallpaper is a pale blue. A wallpaper trim depicting dinosaurs that runs just below the ceiling. A diorama hangs listlessly from the ceiling, twirling only slightly, pushed by an unfelt breeze. Outside wind chimes clink quietly, too far away to be overwhelming. Rain falls lightly on the window.

School was good to day, though it could have been better. I was pushed over by a bully. Luckily, he was seen by a teacher. She look him by the ear and led him away. We didn’t see him again. I’m not sure what happened to him.  If I were bigger, could have stopped him myself. When I’m older, I’ll be bigger. When I’m older…

There is no truck on the floor, no pale blue walls and dinosaur trim, no diorama and wind chimes to be pushed by a faint breeze. There is not even a pitter patter of rain.

There’s only that goddamn shaking.

It last all night. I count myself lucky to have managed the same.

Last night.

Rustle, rustle.

The rustling only comes one tonight.

Then a laugh.

Then those eyes, those crimson red eyes with the orange fire raging. At first, just the two points, then something new beneath them. Just a white point, that stretches and spreads, drawn out into a thin line. Then, the thin line becomes a thick line, that becomes a triangle, that becomes an awful, devilish grin.

The teeth spread ever so slightly, and a rank smell permeates the room. On its heels comes more laughter, then I close my eyes.

I keep them shut, as tight as I can, and focus on keeping those awful things from my vision. I will not see those awful faces. I cannot see them.

I stay on like this for a while.

When I open my eyes…


…Well, I don’t open my eyes again.

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