Under The Bed

They used to hide, shiver in the night, be scared of opening their closet doors. We would have tales told of us, cautions and threats. Behave themselves, or see us.They’d ask their parents for just one more story, in an effort to keep us away for just a little longer. Light; adults; safety.

They do no such thing now. They just laugh at any prospect of danger, eyes wide open and minds firmly closed. We are obsolete, unneeded, in this era where the real monsters are outside their rooms, on laptops and in the back streets.

They already know what this world holds for them, their place in the world mapped, all they ever need to know only a click away; why bother to explore? Their eyes are glassy, and they complain eternally of being bored. They don’t remember a parent’s voice, the satisfying crackling of pages under fingers, the words that wormed into their heads and stayed there. terrifying them, tantalising them, showing them what magic was.

They have no stories, no hopes and no fantasies. Why bother, when a screen will make them instead? They have never believed in fairies, and they look straight to their parents when asking for Christmas presents. They open their wardrobe door, reach for the back expecting only jumpers and shirts. They are safe from us, safe from dreams.

So we crawl back under the beds, us monsters, us nightmares from the closet, and we hide from them. They terrify us more than we will ever frighten them.


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