They said there were no monsters hiding under your bed.

They were wrong.

WE ARE HERE.

We hide, and scratch against your bedposts, and wait, and wait, and wait. We bide our time. Soon. Soon. Soon. Soon-

Now.

It is time. We are ready.

We creep out slowly, our darkness pooling on the floor beneath us, thick and viscous, like oil. We look at your sleeping forms. Some of you are small, some big—all different. Yet, still, all the same. Weak.

Our dark selves slither up into your nests of blankets, under your comforters, between the intertwined bodies of your lovers, between the mothers and the children they comfort. We coat their skin in fear. We watch their eyes grow wide. Their heartbeats go faster and faster, and adrenaline courses through their veins, and it is all. So. Delicious.

You can't see us for a moment, blinded by your sensibility, sure that it's just a bad dream, and soon enough, it will go away. Some of you scream those two words. But, still, we remain. And you begin to realize we are real. How wonderful it is to be real. To have skin, and eyes, and teeth that can bite, and claws that can cut deeper than your dull, dull, human knives. How wonderful it is to eat.

But first, the feast before the feast. Your fear is a banquet all its own. We run our claws up your spine, gently, ever so gently, around your throat, down your chest, tracing a pattern above your beating heart. We speak your tongue and ask you to dance with us, to play a game with us, and then, perhaps, we will let you go. We are lying, of course. But fear is always so much more potent when it's preceded by hope.

Some of you beg for mercy, while others stand stiff-lipped and stern-eyed, refusing to do anything we ask. The latter, we devour instantly, or save for a later snack. They may learn to fear us eventually.

As for the fearful ones, we take their hands in our own, and we lead them around in a slow waltz. We hum a tune. Our claws clack on the floor, leaving deep gashes in each place we step. Your fear grows. We savor it.

Some of you ask us what we are. We laugh, or at least, we try to, the jagged sound sending waves of gooseflesh across your skin. "We are monsters," we answer. "We are fear."

You don't ask any more questions after that.

After a while, we tire of your fear. It sours. You're resigned to your fate, ready to face whatever lies ahead of you, your fear used up and replaced with the bitter taste of melancholy. It is time for the second feast.

A claw to the heart is all it takes. Some of us draw it out, piercing the skin slowly while you watch, skimming the last bits of your fear from the surface. Others do it in a sudden, instantaneous movement. There is blood—sweet, sweet blood, salty, and metallic, and RED, in the best of ways. We lick it from the floor, sip it from your veins, tasting the zesty tang of adrenaline. We sigh in ecstasy.

Your skin is next, followed by your flesh. We save the heart for last, biting down on it with a delicious, juicy pop.

Lastly, the bones. Crunchy, with marrow in the center. We suck the marrow out first. Then we eat them one by one, until all that's left is an empty room—blood on the floor, the walls, the curtains, the carpet—dewdrops of fear dotting the windows.

And us, of course.

We are the monsters that hid under your beds. The world that once was yours is now ours. Perhaps a few of you are left. Enjoy your lives, while you still can, for we will find you, and we will squeeze you to the last drop of fear, and then we will eat you, blood, flesh, bone, and all.