I told my parents there was something underneath my bed.

They laughed at first.

But every night, I heard it.

Whispers.

Sometimes crying.

Sometimes screams.

The police searched my room and found nothing.

“Nothing is there,” they told me. “You need help.”

So I saw a therapist.

It didn’t work.

Because every night, the voice came back.

“We’re still here.”

Then my best friend came over.

She noticed how I kept staring underneath my bed.

“What are you looking at?” she asked.

I didn’t answer.

She crouched down.

Then she suddenly went quiet.

I blinked.

She was gone.

After that, my sister disappeared.

Then my parents.

Then everyone else.

And somehow, nobody believed me.

The voice beneath my bed only got louder.

“Not enough.”

“Still hungry.”

One night, I finally screamed:

“WHO ARE YOU?”

The room went silent.

Then a voice whispered behind me.

“You already know.”

I slowly turned toward the mirror.

My reflection was crying.

I wasn't.

It pointed toward the floor.

Written across it were four words:

THEY WERE NEVER UNDER THE BED.

Then another sentence appeared.

YOU PUT THEM THERE.

And suddenly, I remembered.

Every missing person.

Every scream.

Every night I blamed the thing beneath my bed.

It was never a monster.

It was me.

The voice whispered one last time:

“You got rid of everyone who could remember.”

I looked back at the mirror.

My reflection smiled.

And behind it stood everyone I'd lost.

Staring at me.

Then my reflection whispered:

“Now there's nobody left to stop us.”