The Name Under the Bed

I never believed in checking under the bed. It always seemed like a childish habit, something people grew out of once they understood how the world worked. When I moved into my new house, a quiet place on the edge of town, the thought never even crossed my mind.

The first night, everything felt calm. The house was old but clean, with wide hallways and wooden floors that creaked softly when I walked. I slept deeply, exhausted from moving boxes all day. It wasn’t until the second night that I heard the whisper.

It came just as I was drifting to sleep. A soft voice, barely louder than my own thoughts, spoke my name. I opened my eyes instantly. The room was dark, silent, and still. I held my breath, listening. Nothing followed. I told myself it was a dream forming too early and turned onto my side.

The whisper returned the next night.

This time, it was clearer. Slower. It said my name the way someone does when they want your attention but don’t want to be heard by others. My heart began to race. I sat up and turned on the bedside lamp. The room looked normal. Shadows rested quietly in the corners. I laughed nervously and blamed stress.

Over the next few nights, the voice became more familiar. It didn’t speak often, only once each night, always just before sleep. It never said anything except my name. Yet each time, it sounded closer.

One evening, I noticed something strange. When I sat on the edge of the bed, a cold draft brushed against my ankles. The windows were closed. The air conditioner was off. I bent down and felt the space beneath the bed

Cold.

That night, the whisper came again. My name was spoken so softly it almost felt kind. My throat tightened. I finally gathered the courage to speak. “Who’s there?” I asked quietly.

There was a pause. Then the voice replied from beneath the bed. “You forgot me.”

My blood ran cold. I jumped up, turning on every light in the room. My hands shook as I stared at the bed, the dark space beneath it now painfully visible. Nothing moved.

The next day, I searched the house for answers. I asked the neighbors about the previous owners. One elderly woman hesitated before telling me that a child had once lived there. She said he had died in the house years ago. No one liked to talk about how.

That night, I didn’t sleep. I sat on the bed, light on, waiting. Just after midnight, I heard slow breathing beneath me. The bed dipped slightly, as if something was pressing against the mattress from below.

“My name,” the voice whispered again. “Say it.”

Tears filled my eyes. “I don’t know your name,” I said.

The breathing stopped. The air grew heavy. Then the voice spoke again, shaking with anger. “You do. You’ve always known.”

The bed creaked as something shifted underneath. Fingers appeared, curling slowly around the edge of the mattress. Pale, thin fingers, gripping tightly.

I screamed and ran out of the room, grabbing my phone and keys. I spent the night outside, sitting in my car until the sun rose.

In the morning, I returned with courage I didn’t feel. I looked under the bed.

There was nothing there.

But carved into the wooden floor was my name, written over and over, deep and uneven, as if scratched by fingernails.

I moved out that same day.

Sometimes, just before sleep, I still hear it. My name, whispered softly, from beneath places I never think to check.