It's in Closet, Silly

In the dimly lit room, a young girl sits beside her bed, absorbed in a book, seemingly unaware of the mysterious presence lurking just beneath the mattress - Luvv It Short Stories

Every night, it’s our ritual.

A silly little routine, born half out of love and half out of habit.

I tuck her in-first the blanket snug under her chin, then the pillow fluffed just right, then the stuffed rabbit pressed into her arms. She insists the rabbit protects her dreams, and I’ve never had the heart to question it. The lavender spray by the window leaves the room smelling faintly sweet, masking the old wood and dust that cling to the corners of this house.

She watches me with wide, unblinking eyes, waiting for the part that matters most.

The promise.

I always kneel, let my knees creak against the floorboards, and peek beneath the bed. Shadows stretch long and crooked under there, but I still whisper the line.

“Not tonight, monster.”

Every time, she laughs. Her laugh is light, like glass chimes on a breezy day.

“Daddy scared it away again,” she says, voice full of trust.

It’s become our anchor- hers to feel safe, mine to believe I can protect her from anything.

It’s our game. A comfort. A promise that no matter what, I’ll keep the darkness away.

But lately, something feels… different.

The laugh isn’t as quick, not as effortless. Sometimes it’s delayed, as though she’s waiting for me to say the words first before remembering how to laugh. Sometimes, in the half-light of her night lamp, her smile looks stiff like a mask. She doesn’t cuddle the rabbit as tightly anymore. Instead, her eyes drift to the shadows in the corners.

Two nights ago, I thought I heard something scratch inside the walls while I knelt to check under the bed. Old homes groan. But the sound came again last night. A faint scrape, slow and deliberate, followed by what sounded too much like a breath.

I asked if she wanted me to check inside. She shook her head quickly. Too quickly.

“Just under the bed,” she whispered.

Tonight, I go through our ritual. I tuck her in. I kiss her forehead. I kneel to the floor, the floorboards cold beneath my palms. The shadows under the bed seem thicker tonight, ink pooled too deep. I lean close and whisper the words that have always been our shield.

“Not tonight, monster.”

Silence. No laugh.

I glance up, expecting her smile, her giggle. But she’s staring at me with eyes too wide, her lips twitching at the corners as if she can’t decide whether to grin or scream. Slowly, she lifts a finger not to point at me, not to reach for comfort but to gesture toward the closet.

Her voice is soft, almost playful, but too calm for a child.

“Daddy… it’s not under the bed.”

The smile on her face spreads too far, showing too many teeth. Her tiny body doesn’t move, but the shadows in the closet seem to pulse, darker, thicker, as though something inside is leaning closer to listen.

She whispers, still smiling.

“It’s in the closet, silly.”

And in the quiet that follows, I hear it—something shifting inside the dark, slow and deliberate.

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