There is something under my bed.

I hear it gurgling and squishing. Slurp, slop, glop. Each night, it gets a bit louder. Every morning, I look under there to spot it, but it’s gone. Maybe it’s hiding in the mattress. At first, I thought it was my imagination. Then, I started finding small bones scattered across the floorboards. Mice then squirrels, and lately cats, or maybe rabbits.

There is something wrong with my parents.

Each night, after they think I have gone to sleep, they stand in my doorway holding hands, watching me. Their eyes glow a dull orange. Sometimes, I wake up and see my dad kneeling beside my bed. I ask him if he is looking for the monster. He tells me to go back to sleep and that there is nothing to be afraid of anymore. Maybe he’s the one feeding it.

In the morning, I sit at the table with them. Their skin is gray and sags off their bones like poorly fitting costumes. They do not eat. They do not talk. Sometimes, I see shapes moving under their clothes.

There is something wrong with the students in my classes.

Many look like my parents: sagging skin, glowing eyes, things moving beneath their shirts and dresses. Others look frightened but won’t talk about it. We sit in our chairs, watching the professor write nonsense on the board with a hand that looks more like a tentacle and drips mucus as he writes.

This morning, I found dog bones under the bed. It must have been a big one, given the size of the skull. In class, my professor is writing his lines of insanity on the board when suddenly he collapses, as though something has dissolved all the bones in his body. I glimpse something like a luminescent orange squid as it streaks from the folds of his skin and hides in the coat closet. No one else seems to notice.

There is something under my bed.

It’s big now. I can feel it moving the boxspring, lifting it slightly before it falls with a wet plop to the floor. I see the dull orange light spilling out from underneath the bed and the many slick arms of the thing rising around me. They slither under the covers, wrapping themselves around my arms and legs, quickly moving up my thighs and hips, sliding around my chest and stomach. Their touch is deep and warm, and I am relaxed. A translucent arm hovers in front above my face then slides into my mouth and down my throat. The tentacles are inside me, stretching my skin, pulling it away from my bones. Soon, it is over.

In the morning, I sit on the edge of my bed. My pajamas are in shreds and lie in a pool of mucus and blood behind me. I feel dull and disconnected. I look in the mirror and see a dull glow of orange in my eyes. After a few days, I see shapes moving under my skin. It will go fast now.

I find my parents lying on the floor when I come home from class, two boneless piles of skin in the kitchen. In bed, I feel my mind fading and my bones dissolving. At least my dad was right about one thing: there is nothing to be afraid of anymore.