The Night the Bedding Crawled

The farmhouse outside of Decatur, Illinois, had been in our family for generations. It was a place of creaking floorboards and drafty windows, but we kids loved it. My name is Emily, and I was nine when it happened. My parents had gone to a harvest dance in town, leaving my older brother Jake, my younger sister Lily, our baby cousin Zoe, and me under the watchful eye of our grandmother, who was known for her strict rules and even stricter bedtime.

That night, we decided to have a sleepover in the living room, spreading quilts and pillows across the worn hardwood floor. We arranged ourselves in a row: Jake on the edge, then me, then Lily, and Zoe at the other end. The only light came from the embers in the fireplace, casting long, dancing shadows that made the room feel alive. We whispered stories and giggled until our eyes grew heavy, and one by one, we drifted off.

I woke to a sharp pinch on my side. I yelped and swatted at the air, thinking it was Jake. He lay still, his breathing deep and even. I turned to see Lily glaring at me in the dim light. ‘Stop it, Emily!’ she hissed. ‘Stop what?’ I asked, still groggy. ‘You’re tickling me!’ she accused. I shook my head, but she was adamant. ‘If you don’t stop, I’ll make you sleep upstairs alone!’ she threatened. I knew she meant the attic room, which we all avoided because of the strange noises that came from it at night.

I mumbled an apology and closed my eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. I was too aware of the emptiness around me, the way the shadows seemed to shift. Then I felt it—a light touch on my ankle, like a feather trailing up my leg. I jerked my foot away and sat up, scanning the room. Everyone was still. The fire had died to a faint glow, and the room was thick with darkness. I told myself it was a draft, a mouse, anything.

Then I heard a sound—a soft, rhythmic scrape, like nails on wood. It came from the far corner, near the old rocking chair that had belonged to our great-grandmother. I stared into the darkness, and the scraping stopped. A moment later, it started again, closer this time. I reached over and shook Jake awake. ‘Did you hear that?’ I whispered. He listened, then shrugged. ‘It’s just the house settling. Go back to sleep.’

But I couldn’t. I kept my eyes open, watching the darkness. Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw the quilt at the foot of our bed move. It rippled, as if something were crawling underneath. I held my breath. The lump moved, slowly, deliberately, making its way toward Lily. I wanted to scream, but my voice was frozen. The lump reached Lily’s leg, and she stirred, crying out, ‘Stop it, Emily! I mean it!’

I was about to tell her it wasn’t me when I saw the shape rise from the quilt. It was a woman—pale, gaunt, with long, lank hair that hung over her face. She stood over Lily, her fingers twitching, her head tilted as if listening to something. Then she turned toward me, and her eyes were empty pits, and she smiled a smile that was too wide. She whispered, ‘I only want to play.’

I screamed, and the sound woke everyone. The figure vanished, and the room was still. But the quilt was thrown aside, and there was a cold spot where she had stood. My grandmother rushed in, flicked on the light, and found us huddled together, wide-eyed. She asked what happened, and we told her. She paled, then said, ‘That was Great-Aunt Martha. She always loved to tickle the children.’ She paused, then added, ‘But she died five years ago.’

We never slept in that living room again. But sometimes, on quiet nights, I still feel a light touch on my ankle, and I know she’s still there, waiting to play.