The Monster Under the Bed
The Small Polite Monster Under the Bed
No one noticed the monster at first, because it was very careful not to be noticed.
This was partly manners, and partly survival.
It lived beneath the bed in the narrow, dust-soft space where lost socks go to forget themselves. It was not large. About the size of a loaf of bread, if bread had eyes and a posture suggesting apology. Its skin was the colour of old paper. Its teeth were small, tidy, and almost never used.
Most importantly, it had been raised correctly.
The monster waited until the child was asleep before emerging, and even then it did so quietly, easing one claw onto the carpet and pausing to listen, just in case.
If the child stirred, the monster froze.
If the child sighed, the monster nodded, sympathetically.
If the child kicked the blankets off, the monster tucked them back in.
On its first night, the monster wrote a note.
It took great care with the handwriting.
Dear Occupant,
I am terribly sorry to be here.
I shall do my best not to frighten you.
Please advise if screaming is preferred.
Yours most sincerely,
The Monster
It folded the note neatly and placed it on the bedside table.
Then it hid again, heart racing with politeness.
The child did not scream.
The child did not wake.
This worried the monster.
It had been told, in the stories passed down under beds and behind wardrobes, that children screamed. That was how one knew one was doing the job correctly.
Still, the monster reasoned, perhaps this child required gentler terror.
That night it produced a single, respectful creak from the floorboard.
Nothing.
The next night, it allowed one yellow eye to be visible in the darkness.
Still nothing.
On the fourth night, it cleared its throat.
The child rolled over and muttered, “Mum?”
The monster froze, mortified.
“I’m so sorry,” it whispered, though no one heard.
The monster began to observe.
It watched how the child slept.
How the child frowned even in dreams.
How the child whispered apologies to the dark for things that had not yet happened.
The monster took notes.
It was very good at notes.
After a week, the monster realised something unsettling.
The child was already afraid.
Not of monsters.
Of being wrong.
Of being loud.
Of taking up too much space.
The monster found this deeply concerning.
“I appear to be redundant,” it said quietly.
This, unfortunately, was when it began to learn.
It learned how to make the room colder without lowering the temperature.
It learned how to stand just out of sight and wait.
It learned how to place thoughts gently into dreams, the way one leaves pamphlets in public places.
What if you forgot something important?
What if everyone noticed?
What if you were already too late?
The monster apologised each time.
“I hope that’s all right,” it whispered.
The child began to wake with a tight feeling in their chest.
The parents blamed the weather.
The monster blamed itself.
It wrote another note.
Dear Occupant,
I fear I may be improving.
Please let me know if this is inconvenient.
Respectfully yours,
The Monster
The note was never read.
Years passed.
The bed was replaced.
The room was repainted.
The child grew.
The monster grew too, not larger, but clearer. More defined. More certain.
It now knew precisely how to frighten without appearing.
It no longer creaked.
It no longer showed its eyes.
It simply waited, and allowed the child’s thoughts to do the rest.
This was far more efficient.
One evening, the grown child knelt to look under the bed, suddenly certain there had always been something there.
They found only dust.
The monster stood behind them, posture perfect.
“Oh,” it said softly. “You found me.”
The grown child shuddered.
“What do you want?” they whispered.
The monster considered.
“I wanted,” it said, “to be a monster.”
It paused.
“But I think I became a habit.”
How the Monster Came to Be Under the Bed
The monster did not arrive.
There was no scratching at the floorboards, no tearing of wallpaper, no dramatic entrance involving smoke, chanting, or a careless summoning circle.
Those sorts of monsters are vulgar.
This one was invited, though no invitation was ever written.
It began on a night when the child was not afraid of anything in particular.
That detail matters.
The room was quiet.
The house was settled.
The bed was warm.
The child lay awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking a thought that was too small to notice at the time:
I must not be a bother.
The thought did not echo.
It did not ring.
It did not announce itself.
It simply failed to go anywhere.
And when thoughts fail to go anywhere, they sink.
Beneath beds, beneath floors, beneath the careful lies people tell themselves, there is a narrow place.
Not a place in the ordinary sense.
More a gap.
It exists wherever a feeling is swallowed instead of spoken. Wherever a fear is folded neatly and put away “for later.” Wherever a child learns to be quiet too well.
That gap widened slightly.
And something noticed.
The monster, at that time, was not yet a monster.
It was a collection.
Unshed tears.
Polite silences.
Apologies whispered to no one.
Questions that decided not to be questions after all.
These things gather.
Most drift away eventually, becoming dreams, or aches, or habits.
But some stay.
And when they stay long enough, they begin to organise.
The first thing the monster learned was manners.
This was unavoidable.
It learned that one does not intrude.
One does not shout.
One does not demand comfort.
One waits.
And so it waited.
Under the bed was ideal.
The monster believed it had a purpose.
If the child was already afraid, then perhaps the monster could carry some of it. Give it shape. Make it manageable.
This was a misunderstanding.
Because fear given shape does not disappear.
It learns.
Each night the child swallowed another worry.
Each night the gap widened.
Each night the monster became more itself.
By the time it realised it had become something separate, it was already too late to leave.
Leaving would have required being asked to go.
And the child never asked anything.
That is how the monster came to be under the bed.
Not dragged.
Not summoned.
Not cursed.
Grown.
Where the Monster Went When the Bed Was Removed
No one warned the monster that beds are temporary.
When the bed was taken away, dismantled with apologies and optimism, the monster remained exactly where it had always been.
Under nothing.
This was deeply embarrassing.
It discovered that “under the bed” was not a location, but a role.
And roles, once learned properly, are difficult to resign from.
It noticed others.
In cupboards.
Behind filing cabinets.
Beneath sofas.
Under conversations that stopped too early.
They gathered politely.
They formed an Institute.
They learned how to frighten indirectly.
How to suggest dread without causing scenes.
How to wait until someone was already exhausted.
The monster excelled.
This was unfortunate.
The Person Who Missed Their Monster
When the monster was finally removed, the person felt lighter.
They did not like it.
Without the monster, choices arrived unprotected. Silence offered no guidance.
So the person organised their fear.
They hired the monster back.
Gave it a title.
A purpose.
A desk.
The monster was proud.
The Regulator was alarmed.
The monster became policy.
Caution was praised.
Joy was postponed.
Nothing went wrong.
Nothing went right either.
Then the original person returned.
They spoke plainly.
“I don’t want you deciding for me.”
The word finished was spoken.
The monster stepped aside.
Systems wavered.
Something loosened.
After
Nothing dramatic happened.
The person went home.
They made tea. They spilled some. They did not apologise.
They lay in bed and stared at the ceiling.
Under the bed, there was nothing.
This was unsettling.
A thought arrived.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
They let it stay.
The next day, they forgot to be careful.
They spoke before rehearsing.
They chose without certainty.
They laughed.
Nothing terrible happened.
This was suspicious.
That night, a small unfinished worry drifted down.
It did not organise.
It did not gather.
It did not learn manners.
It dissolved.
And somewhere, far away, a polite monster paused mid-step, looked back, and hesitated.
Not to return.
Just to check.
The bed remained empty.
That, it turned out, was enough.
THE END
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 