My muse is the boogeyman, and is hiding in your museâs closet. Send âUnder the coversâ for a starter.
As the lights went off, the closet door ajar, Â and the person in the room slipped into bed. Someone waited just in the darkness of the slightly open closet. You know him, as all children do, and all adults seem to cast it off into fiction as they get old. Â But it was very real, and still taking victims. Though you wouldnât know, because it was very good at throwing off the scent. How else would it so easily slip into fiction, myth, all this time, for so long?Â
After a while, enough time for the person in the bed to be asleep, the closet door silently started to open. In the darkness a silhouette slithered out. Stepping purposefully toward the bed. Careful not to make noise. But this person should of been more cautious, yes, because it had spent days scaring them. Making them seem mad.Â
Reaching out itâs hand, long dark nails poking out from his fingers, it gently places them against the blanket, walking closer to the person laying in the bed, itâs fingers trailing up their leg, tickling them a little before it suddenly grabbed the leg of the person in the bed and jerked hard enough to pull the leg from the bed, then it dropped into the floor, seemingly vanishing.
