I knew something was under the bed because it purred when the lights went out as if the darkness stroked it’s tufts of fur, eliciting a meditative rumble in its throat. The sound is soft at first, but grows as the blackness settles on my room.
I saw the creature’s paw once; a giant baseball mitt with talons that scratched scars at the end of my bed posts. But I’m not afraid, because I’ve learned to sleep with a flashlight ever since I noticed the purring. It doesn’t emerge when the beam of my flashlight pierces holes in the darkness.
Tonight, I hear a new noise. Something rolling across my wooden floors. I clutch the flashlight beneath my two quilts, and peek out over the layers. The rolling continues, its source slowing. Unafraid, I ready my flashlight and squint into the shadows. I flip the switch on my flashlight. But nothing.
Then, I made out the shape of the thing that rolled.
The thing purrs.