The Claw Under the Comforter

It was the summer before I turned thirteen, and we’d moved into the old Merriweather House on the edge of Saltmarsh. The house had been built in the 1920s, and it had that heavy, dark wood paneling everywhere, creaky floorboards, and a staircase that seemed to sigh every time you stepped on it. My younger brother, Caleb, and I shared a room on the second floor, right above the living room. Our room had a big bay window that overlooked the marsh, and a door that never quite stayed closed. Every night, without fail, that door would swing open with a bang against the wall, and we’d both yell at each other to get up and shut it. I always made Caleb do it, because he was closer to the door, but he’d complain that the door was ‘haunted’ and that he felt like something was watching him from the hallway. I’d laugh it off, but secretly, I was terrified of letting my feet or hands hang over the edge of my bed. I’d tuck myself in so tight that I was like a burrito, and if a toe peeked out, I’d jerk it back under the covers as fast as I could. One night, I woke up to a sharp tug on my ankle. I was so scared that I couldn’t even scream. I just pulled my leg up and hugged it, my heart pounding. I never told anyone about that.

The worst part was the dining room. Every evening, my mom would set the table, and we’d all sit down for dinner. From where I sat, I could see the front staircase, with its worn oak railing, leading up to the dark hallway upstairs. Sometimes, when we were eating, I’d hear footsteps on the stairs—a quick patter, like a child running up and down. At first, I thought it was Caleb, but he was always sitting right next to me. I’d look up at my mom, and she’d have this frozen look on her face, and she’d say, ‘Don’t mind that, it’s just the house settling.’ But I knew it wasn’t. It was the sound of bare feet on wood, not the creaking of pipes. I started to dread dinner, because that sound would always come, and I’d feel a cold draft sweep down the stairs, even in the middle of August. My dad would eventually excuse himself, and he’d go check the upstairs, but he’d come back saying there was nothing there.

One night, I couldn’t take it anymore. I decided I was going to find out what was making that noise. I waited until everyone had gone to bed, and I crept out of my room. I had a flashlight, and I kept it pointed at the floor, because I was too scared to look into the darkness. I tiptoed to the landing and looked up the stairs. At that moment, I heard it again—running, but it was coming down. I froze, and the sound stopped right at the top of the stairs. I saw a shadow move, but it was too fast. I told myself it was just a cat, but we didn’t have a cat. I ran back to my room, slammed the door shut, and dove under my covers. I didn’t sleep the rest of the night. I just lay there, with the covers pulled up to my nose, listening for any sound. And then I heard it: a soft scratching on the floor, right outside my door. It was like something was dragging its fingernails across the wood. I squeezed my eyes shut, and I thought about the times I’d felt something grab my ankle. I knew, in that moment, that it wasn’t my imagination. There was something in that house, something that wanted to get in.

The next morning, I told my mom that I wanted to move back to our old apartment. She just looked at me, and I couldn’t read her expression. She said, ‘We can’t afford to, sweetie.’ But I could tell she was scared too. Later that day, I was in the bathroom, washing my hands, and I saw a scratch on the mirror. It was a thin, red line, like a claw mark. I touched it, and the glass was cold. That’s when I noticed that the bathroom window was open just a crack, and the curtain was billowing. I knew I hadn’t left it open. And I felt that familiar icy breath on the back of my neck, the one I’d felt in the dining room. I spun around, but there was no one there. I looked into the mirror again, and I saw a figure standing behind me—a small, dark shape, like a child, but with long, thin arms. It was there for just a second, then it was gone. I screamed, and my mom came running. She saw my face, and she said, ‘It’s time to tell your father.’ We never talked about what I saw, but he decided we were moving. We sold the house to a couple with two kids, and I always wondered if they heard the door slam at night, or if they heard the footsteps on the stairs. I never went back, but I still have nightmares about that house. I still sleep with my covers pulled tight, and I still check under my bed before I go to sleep. I don’t know what it was, but I know it wasn’t just my imagination. It was real, and it wanted something.