There’s something sinister about the darkness. Even at ten years old she knows that. The world looks different at night. Brooding. Ominous. Frightening.

Most nights she lies awake in her bed listening to the peaceful breathing of her sister and wondering how anyone can slip so easily into unconsciousness at just the time that person becomes most vulnerable. She is certain that vile, treacherous things are lurking in the blackness waiting to attack. One must stay on guard at all times. She pulls the covers up to her ears and carefully tucks them around her, making sure no part of her body below the neck is exposed. Once she is satisfied that her sheets are properly arranged for maximum protective powers, she catalogs her fears.

The dark, of course.
The monster under the bed.
The ghosty thing in the mirror.
The dolls with creepy, vacant gazes.
The bogeyman in the closet.

The closet!

She’d forgotten to triple-check that the bifold door was absolutely completely closed. With trepidation, she glances at it. The door is slightly ajar. Through the slit, evil inky darkness seeps towards her bed. Even the nightlight can’t hold it back.

Her pulse quickens. Is the bogeyman already in the room? Chills wash over her. Goose bumps cover her arms and legs. Yes, she thinks. He’s hiding in the shadows. I can feel it. Panic grips her.

She begins to pray silently. Hail Marys become intertwined with hysterical pleas though she remains completely still beneath the blankets. Something brushes against her foot. She instinctively recoils and immediately regrets it. If the bogeyman didn’t notice her before, he must certainly be aware she’s there now.

She is too terrified to look towards the foot of her bed. Then she feels something heavy slowly crawling up the mattress. The springs bow under the weight, creaking and moaning. She squeezes her eyes closed, grips the cross around her neck, and prays furiously.

The thing stops moving.

And then . . . she feels its breath on her face.

Omigod. Omigod. Omigod!

The bogeyman is right there, inches away from her. Toying with her. In her head she screams and screams until she can’t breathe. She struggles to push a real scream out through her lips, but nothing comes.

The breath on her face is hot and moist and foul. The bogeyman is so close, they’re practically touching. Her stomach feels like it’s been turned inside out. If she weren’t paralyzed with fear, she might cry. Or vomit.

She senses her attacker’s excitement, the tensing before he strikes. Though utterly terrified, she quickly opens her eyes to face her fate.

Stillness. Nothing.

When her heart stops pounding in her ears, she reaches over and shuts the closet door. She settles back into her bed and curls into a little ball. Then she pants in ragged, uneven breaths as she waits for the comfort of dawn.