Every night before bed, little Nora had the same routine. She brushed her teeth with bubblegum-flavored toothpaste, arranged her stuffed animals in a perfect protective circle, and asked her mother to check under the bed. It had become so normal that her mother barely thought about it anymore.
“Monsters don’t exist, sweetheart,”
her mother would say each night, lifting the blanket with a tired smile. But Nora always insisted. And every night, nothing stared back except smooth wooden floorboards and a stray sock or two.
One evening, after a long day, Nora was unusually giggly light, playful, a bit strange.
“Check under the bed,”
She whispered, almost excited. Her mother sighed but knelt anyway. She bent down, pushed the blanket aside, and peeked into the darkness.
“See? Nothing…”
“Mommy,”
Nora interrupted,
“the girl under my bed said you always lie.”
Her mother blinked and slowly lifted her head.
“…What girl, Nora?”
Nora swung her legs cheerfully over the edge of the bed.
“The one who looks just like me,”
She said with a smile so wide it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“She said she’s the real Nora… and she wants her place back.”
A cold ripple crept up the mother’s spine. She hesitated, then lowered her head again, this time much slower, much more afraid. She expected emptiness. She prayed for emptiness. Instead, two identical eyes stared right back at her from the darkness beneath the bed wide, frightened, desperate.
“Mom…?”
The voice whispered tremblingly.
“Please… that girl on the bed isn’t me. Don’t let her have me.”
Her mother jerked upright. Her daughter, whichever one sat perfectly still on the mattress, smiling calmly, legs dangling like a child waiting for a bedtime story. Then from beneath the bed, something knocked twice, soft, polite, patient as if asking to be let out. And the smile on the bed widened.
