When I was about twelve, maybe younger, I remember my mother always sending me to retrieve things for her. Easy tasks really. She’d simply ask if I would get something upstairs for her, like a brush, or some sandals. Nothing too complicated if I can recall. She wouldn’t do this very often though, so when I was asked, I didn’t really have any complaints.
Though I do remember one night, for some reason, I didn’t understand-and still to this day, don’t, I didn’t want to go into her room. Her room, was on the second floor of our home, and I was only allowed to enter it when she asked. There were no long hallways, or creaky stairs, nothing that could logically make a kid wet their pants. But for some reason I felt on edge, maybe even frightened to go to her room.
Needless to say I did go, I took my time on the stairs and opened her door with caution, I felt so foolish at the time, like a paranoid idiot, all I was asked to do was grab her laptop. It was something so simple. Yet I had a nagging feeling of fear at the back of my head. I recall opening a few drawers, obvious places she would likely hide the expensive thing. Though, it wasn’t in any of the nightstands.
I even checked the dressers in slight irritation, I didn’t want to be in there after-all, though I knew my mother would be more irritated than I. So, I decided to make sure I checked everywhere before addressing my mother empty-handed. Walking to the left of the queen-sized bed I propped myself with my knees to my chest and peered under the bed. I could the see the faint shape of the laptop against the shadow of the dangling sheets.
Admittedly, I remember giving a sigh of relief before standing and walking around the bed. Kneeling beside the bed I lifted the hanging sheets I reached my hand under the bed. A small breeze passed over the side of my face, I looked to see the closed window just across the room, that was when I suddenly felt a tight grip at my wrist, It was cold and felt odd, like a wet glove. I gave out a scream for my mother as i fell back. I tugged and pulled, trying to free my arm from the hard grip on it.
Just as fast as it had latched itself onto my wrist, it was gone. I panted as I hastily looked under the bed again. I saw nothing except the laptop. I remember grabbing it and running out of there as fast as I could.
After I had given my mother her laptop I told her about the hand that had grabbed me, though there was no mark on my wrist, to my surprise. Though she held a calm, almost impatient stare as I told her of what had happened. When she did speak, she held her fingers pinched at the bridge of her nose, her eyes closed calmly.
“I asked you to get my laptop yesterday night,” she had said. As it had dawned upon me she continued.
“You’ve been asleep since then.”