That Night at Grandpa's (And Other Scary Stories)

"Oh! Good. You're awake."

"Oh, good. You're awake," I read as I felt something shift under my bed.

I turned the page.

The lad slowly turned to look under his bed to see what moved.

I felt compelled to slowly turn and look under my bed. I stopped mid-roll. What am I doing? I don't want to look under my bed. I smacked my face. Ouch! Yep. I'm awake.

I shifted under my blanket, adjusted my weight, and as I twisted from laying on my right side to my left,  gave an extra firm bounce with my hip. I reopened my book with a smug look on my face. That should convince the whatever ... or ... me that nothing is under my bed. Something moaned. I kept reading.

"Ouch! That hurt! You'll pay for that." Arms reached through the bed and pulled the boy into the mattress. The blankets wrapped him like a piece of rock candy.

I sat up, crossed my legs, and ... kept reading.

"Oh, I see. You think you're smart. I've dealt with kids like you before. Just step onto the floor and see." The lad tempted his fate by stepping out onto the floor.

To my horror, my feet straightened out from me. I resisted the weight pulling them to the floor. No way am I going to ... I glared at them, book in hand, as my naked feet hovered against some invisible power. My index finger firmly pressed the fold of the page down to hold my place. I flayed open the book as I battled the invisible tugs on my legs.
   
    "Fine."

My legs shot straight up, hitting the top bunk and almost cast me onto the floor. I grappled with a blanket for my life, still finger-marking the book.

I had won.

I sighed. Was that a snicker from below? I pushed myself into the corners of the wall at the foot of my bed and kept reading.

    "It is not uncommon to feel relieved after almost losing your life. But I would gain nothing from your death. I just want to nibble." The lad spread his fingers and ran them over the edge of the bed frame.

Something puppeteered my right hand, extended my fingers, and moved them toward the wooden frame's edge. I caught a glimpse of my Boy Scout knife between the mattress and the upper bunk mattress. I groped for it with one hand while staring at my other. I found it. Yes! Wait. NO! NOT my brothers rubber chicken! Dry-mouthed and sweating, I quickly grappled it into a bookmark and dropped it on the bed. I tried for the knife again while continuing to resist the spell. A pulsating bass drum absorbed all sounds. A shadow rose between my fingers. Wave after wave the darkness milked at my hand, pulling it to do what ... the ... storybook ... said. I strained at the book. The chicken had disappeared. Tears ran from the edges of my widening eyes as my fingertips twitched a tug-of-war across the top of the frame toward a slurping sound.

The shadow grew and darkened. Horror mixed with resilience. I had to do something. I launched an panic-stricken summersault, grabbed my book, and with a bounce, flipped to a resting position with my backside on my heels. Exhausted, yet surprised at my own ambility, Awesome! How I did that on the lower bunk I'll never know. I collapsed backward against the pillows stacked at the head of my bed.

Riffling through the pages, I found my place in the book. So what's next?

I had to find out.

[To be continued]