WHISPERS BENEATH

It was past midnight when Mark stepped into his son's room, the soft creak of the wooden floor breaking the silence. The small night lamp cast a warm orange glow across the walls, painting shadows that stretched and danced with each flicker.

"Alright, buddy. Time to sleep," Mark whispered as he pulled the blanket up to his son's chest.

Noah, his seven-year-old, lay still — too still — staring at the ceiling with wide, unblinking eyes.

"Dad…" the boy's voice was barely above a whisper. "Can you check under the bed for monsters?"

Mark chuckled softly. "Monsters, huh? You're getting too old for that."

But Noah's little hand gripped his father's wrist tightly.

"Please… just check."

Something in his son's voice made Mark's heart squeeze. He sighed, kneeling down beside the bed. The floor was cold beneath his knees as he lifted the edge of the blanket and peeked into the shadows.

His heart stopped.

Under the bed, curled up in the dark, was Noah — eyes wide, face pale, trembling.

The little boy's voice cracked as he whispered:

"Dad… there's someone on my bed."

Mark's breath caught in his throat. Slowly… ever so slowly… he glanced back up at the bed where his son was supposed to be.

The figure lying beneath the covers hadn't moved.

It was still staring at the ceiling.

Breathing.