31 Days of Horror

The night was thick with silence, the kind that seemed to press down on the room, swallowing every sound. The only light in the bedroom came from the dim glow of a lamp on the nightstand, casting long, eerie shadows on the walls that seemed to writhe and twist in the corners. The air was heavy, still, and cold, with a faint dampness that clung to the skin. Outside, the wind howled softly, but inside, it was suffocatingly quiet.

Tom sat on the edge of his bed, his heart still pounding from the nightmare that had ripped him from sleep. He could still feel the phantom weight of the dream pressing against his chest, the echo of his own screams lingering in his throat. His bare feet dangled just above the floor, the hardwood icy beneath him, sending a shiver crawling up his spine.

He rubbed his face with trembling hands, trying to shake the lingering terror. It’s just a dream, he told himself, his breath shallow, barely more than a whisper in the oppressive stillness. Just a fucking dream.

But the room felt wrong. There was something in the air, something thick and dark, like a presence lurking just out of sight, watching him. His skin prickled with unease, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end as though the shadows themselves were holding their breath, waiting for him to move.

He swallowed hard and forced himself to exhale. Slowly, he leaned forward, reaching for the half-empty glass of water on his nightstand, his fingers brushing the cool surface of the glass. Just as his hand closed around it, he felt it.

Cold.

Wet.

Fingers.

They wrapped around his ankles like iron cuffs, the grip sudden and forceful, and real. His heart leaped into his throat, his breath hitching in a strangled gasp as he stared down in disbelief. The fingers tightened, dragging him forward, yanking his legs down toward the dark, gaping void beneath the bed. His body jerked violently, panic seizing every muscle in his body.

Tom’s mouth opened, but no scream came out—just a choking sound as the icy hands pulled harder, dragging him off balance, his hips slipping off the bed. He flailed, grabbing onto the mattress with both hands, trying to anchor himself. His fingers dug into the sheets, his breath coming in frantic, shallow gasps, his eyes wild with terror.

The hands pulled again, and this time he felt his knees hit the floor. The force of it rattled through his body, sharp pain shooting through his legs as he kicked wildly. But the more he struggled, the stronger the grip seemed to become, the cold hands clawing at his skin, nails digging into his flesh. It was as if the darkness itself had come alive, reaching up to claim him.

“Let go!” Tom gasped, his voice hoarse with fear, but the hands didn’t loosen. They only pulled harder, dragging him inch by inch closer to the black abyss under the bed.

His heart pounded so hard it felt like it would explode. He twisted, trying to see what was pulling him, but there was nothing there—just the black void under the bed, and those relentless, freezing hands. The darkness seemed to throb, alive, growing thicker, heavier, swallowing the light from the lamp. The air around him grew colder, biting into his skin, and the faint sound of whispering filled the room.

Low. Guttural. Mocking.

And then, he heard it—a voice. Faint at first, like a distant echo, but growing louder, closer.

"How much blood do you think it takes?" The voice was a rasp, cold and hollow, dripping with malice. It was the same voice—the voice of the thing that had taken so many before him. The same voice that had lured Detective Hale into the void. The Crawler.

Tom’s blood turned to ice as the realization hit him. The stories. The disappearances. The bloodstains. It wasn’t just some urban legend. It was real. And now, it was coming for him.

The hands yanked again, harder this time, pulling his body down until his chest hit the floor with a thud. He cried out, his fingers scrambling for something—anything—to hold onto, but there was nothing but the smooth surface of the hardwood, slick with his own sweat. The cold grip around his ankles twisted, and Tom felt his skin tearing as the nails dug deeper, cutting through flesh.

Blood.

He felt it before he saw it. Warm, thick, it trickled down his legs, pooling beneath him, soaking into the floor. The scent of iron filled the air, sharp and metallic, mixing with the cold dampness of the room.

Tom thrashed, his legs kicking wildly, but it was no use. The hands were too strong, too relentless. His body was dragged further under the bed, the darkness consuming him, wrapping around him like a living thing, suffocating, cold. His heart hammered in his chest, every beat louder than the last, each one echoing in his ears like a countdown.

Then, through the rising panic, he felt something else. Something worse.

More hands.

They slithered out from the shadows, cold and slimy, gripping his arms, his legs, his neck. Dozens of them. The fingers curled around his body, pulling him deeper into the darkness, deeper under the bed. The nails raked against his skin, tearing at his flesh, ripping through muscle. Blood poured from the wounds, hot and thick, staining the floorboards in deep crimson streaks.

Tom's vision blurred as the pain became overwhelming, his mind spinning in a fog of terror and agony. He could feel his body being torn apart, piece by piece, the hands pulling, twisting, breaking him. The cold breath of the Crawler brushed against his ear, the voice whispering again, low and mocking.

"How much blood do you have left, Tom?"

He tried to scream, but the sound died in his throat, swallowed by the darkness that engulfed him. His body was dragged fully beneath the bed now, the cold, wet hands pulling him deeper and deeper, into a place where no light could reach, where nothing human had ever escaped.

And then, the pain stopped.

The room was silent again. The bed was still. The light flickered once, twice, before finally going out, plunging the room into total darkness.

All that remained was the blood—thick, red pools seeping from beneath the bed, dripping slowly onto the floor.

Tom was gone.

And the house, like so many before it, would wake to find yet another name added to Ridgemont’s growing list of the missing.

But the bed—it would always know what lurked beneath.