The Monster Under The Bed

I was drawn like a moth to a flame to anything spooky or scary when I was a kid. My mom could tell some great ghost stories, and I watched The Outer Limits and The Twilight Zone whenever I could. I remember pretending to fall asleep on the sofa one night when "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?" was the featured movie, and being scared silly when Jane served the dead rat to Blanche for lunch. I relished horror movies and mystery books.


My mom rearranged furniture frequently, and I would wake up in the night sometimes in my room completely disoriented because I couldn't figure out where I was. It was a scary feeling, but also rather pleasantly thrilling. Mom's penchant for room changes backfired on her one night, though, when I got up in my sleep to use the bathroom, and my parents woke up to find me peeing on the foot of their bed. I went back to bed, and didn't remember a thing. If she hadn't moved my bedroom furniture all around, I wouldn't have made a wrong turn.


I did sleepwalk sometimes when I was little, and so did my mom's older brother when he was a boy. One time my grandparents woke up to find Uncle Clarence on the roof of the house. Other times, Grandma would go downstairs to fix breakfast to discover that Uncle Clarence had set the table in his sleep. My mom started putting chairs and other impediments in front of our doors before bed, because my parents woke up one night to hear me crying to get back inside; the door had locked behind me when I went outside. Once again, I never woke up and didn't remember a thing the next day.


I do remember one night, however, and it was very scary indeed. I'm guessing I was about 8 years old, but I'll find out for sure when I get to the correct year in my mother's diary archives. That day, Mom had moved my furniture into a new configuration, and I popped awake in the dead of night. And I could hear it.


Slow, steady, raspy breathing coming from the foot of my bed. In an instant, every nerve in my body was on high alert. I tried to convince myself that I was imagining things, but it was undeniable. The breathing continued, and there was no doubt that it was coming from the foot of my bed. This was the real deal. I was truly more frightened than I could ever remember.


I couldn't believe this was happening. All of the times I had awakened in the night and had been afraid of the boogeyman or the monster in the closet paled in comparison to hearing the real thing just a yard away. The heavy, gasping breathing continued. I tried to figure out a plan of survival.


Every child knows that if you can make it to your parents' bed, you will be safe. Home free. Nothing can touch you if you can get to your mom and dad's bed. It's like the safe zone on the Sorry board. I had to get there. But how?


My parent's room, just at the end of the hall. might as well have been in Canada. I needed to defend myself against attack when I made my move. I wracked my brain, trying to think of a weapon. I couldn't move a muscle to look around, because that would alert the killer that I was awake and aware. That would mean instant death.


There was a wooden musical instrument on my nightstand. My dad had brought it to me from St. Thomas, and I could use it as a club. I would lunge for the weapon, bash the killer on the head as he sprang, hit the floor running like the wind, and leap into bed with my parents. Safe. My dad would kill the beast; my mother would hug me. Problem solved.


But, I couldn't move. The breathing continued, and I was paralyzed with fear. Safety seemed so close, and yet so far. I pondered this cliché as I listened to the killer draw air into his lungs. Finally, I had enough. Better to lose an arm or be killed than live in this suspense. I threw back the covers and reached for my weapon.


And suddenly everything changed. My movement gave me a different perspective on the threatening sound. It wasn't coming from the floor beyond my bed; it was coming from the ceiling. It wasn't a killer; it was one of my parents breathing as they slept. We had recently had a new heating system installed, with forced-air ducts in the ceilings. In the silence of night, the vents carried household noises from room to room. When my mother rearranged my room, it threw the sounds from their room to the end of my bed.


I almost laughed and cried at the same time with relief. I settled back into my warm bed and went back to sleep.

I have Lisa to thank for this memory of nightime spooks. Click here to read about hers.