The creeper

We were sleeping soundly, my wife and I, one recent weekend morning. It was pitch black, the sun still seemingly hours away from rising. It was a blissful moment of much-needed rest that was interrupted by my wife’s panicked scream.


I popped my head up fast and, although my eyes were still groggy and adjusting to my surroundings, I immediately saw the source of my wife’s terror. It was a haunting silhouette of a child next to my wife’s side of the bed, her head eerily illuminated by the light coming from the monitor that we keep nearby which looks into the girls’ room. My heart skipped a beat, and for a brief moment I wondered if we were in the middle of some demented, Children of the Corn-esque horror movie. The shadowy child said nothing, but looked on, stoic, undeterred by our panic.

Finally she spoke, undoubtedly, I figured, to reveal some demented clue that may help us escape a terrible fate—“Seek the medallion from the evil jester in three midnights or beware, beWAAAAARE!”—before disappearing completely.

“I want to get in your bed,” the child whispered ominously.

“What the … NO!” my wife, her heart still beating a mile a minute, bravely and defiantly said to the mysterious figure.

Silence as the apparition pondered her next move. Then:

“I have to go poop.”