My Mom used to hide under my bed at night.
I was born in 2000, grew up in a small town in Northeast Ohio. We had one of those little ranch-style houses, all on one floor, three bedrooms. It was just me and my mom for most of my life. My dad left when I was a baby.
She was a good mom, from what I remember. We didnβt have much money, but she made sure I always had what I needed. She worked as a waitress at a restaurant in the center of town. Always tired, but always kind. Weβd watch movies together at night. Sheβd tuck me in, kiss my forehead, and tell me she loved me. I felt safe.
**Except at bedtime.**
I mustβve been about six or seven the first time I noticed it. One night after she tucked me in, I heard the floor creak after she turned off the light. Not out in the hall, right by my bed.
I remember freezing, listening. Then I heard the sound of her breathing. Slow. Heavy. Right underneath me.
I leaned over the edge and whispered, βMom?β
She didnβt answer. Just this soft little giggle. Not mean. Not playful. Justβ¦ weird.
I called for her louder. After a few seconds, she crawled out from under the bed like it was the most normal thing in the world. Smiled at me and said, βGo to sleep, sweetheart. Mommyβs here.β
Then she left the room.
The next night, same thing. I heard her crawl under right after lights out. The soft thud of her knees and hands against the floorboards, the shift of the mattress as she settled in. Then the breathing.
I was too little to really question it. I thought maybe it was just a game she liked to play. But the older I got, the more I realized it wasnβt a game.
It became a routine. Sheβd tuck me in like normal, turn off the light, and then sheβd get under the bed. Everyhe bed like night.
And then she started doing little things.
She would tap on the wood under my mattress in these odd rhythms. Three taps, then two, then four. Sometimes it sounded almost like a song, other times like random patterns. If I moved or sat up, sheβd stop until I lay back down.
A couple times, I caught her peeking out from the foot of the bed. Iβd feel eyes on me and look down, and there she was. Her face just visible in the dark, one eye glinting in the faint light from the hall.movies together at nMy Mom used to hide
I stopped sleeping well. Iβd lie stiff under the covers, too afraid to move or call for her. If I tried to leave the bed, sheβd grab my ankle. Not hard, just enough to stop me. Then sheβd giggle again, that same soft weird giggle.
I never told anyone. How do you explain something like that when youβre a kid? I figured no one would believe me.
It wasnβt every night that something scary happened. Some nights sheβd just lie there quietly. Iβd hear herred, but always to herself sometimes. Words I couldnβt make out, soft and steady, like she was talking to someone I couldnβt hear.
This went on fore ranch-sty
During the day, she was totally normal. Made my lunch, helped with homework, joked with me, hugged me. I remember trying to work up the courage to ask her about it once when I was around ten. I said something dumb, like, βMom, why do you sleep under my bed?β
She just blinked at me and smiled. βOh buddy, I donβt do that. You must be having silly dreams.β
But that night, she was there again. And the tapping was louder.
By the time I was nine or ten, I stopped looking under the bed. I started sleeping on the couch when I could get away with it.
Eventually, when I turned eleven, she told me I was old enough to have a lock on my door. She never came back into my room.
I donβt know why she did it. I donβt know what changed.
She passed away when I was twenty-three. Cancer. In her last weeks, she was confused a lot of the time, drifting in and out. But one night, when I was sitting by her bed, she grabbed my wrist and said very clearly:
"I kept you safe, you know. **You were never alone at night.**"
I still donβt understand what she meant.
