The Woman Buried Below My Bedroom Comes to Visit

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Darkness pressed into my soul. The frigid air clawed its way across my body each time the blankets moved. It’s a hard lesson to learn that the night exists to connect the empty space between realms, especially when your bedroom sits over the graves of the dead.

That night as I crawled into bed, I chanted my mantra — it’s all in my mind. Closing my eyes tightly, I curled into a ball, begging for sleep to erase the thoughts in my head.

When she came to me, her breath stank of decomposing earth. Her spirit talked without making a sound, but still, I heard the words that she spoke. She complained of the cold ground where she lay and cursed the vile person who took her life. That terrible murderer wrapped her in an old blanket and threw her in a hole. Worms burrowed through her remains.

Unable to find any pity, I begged that she leave me alone.

Her laugh echoed in the silence of the dark night. She was bound to the place where my bedroom was built. If she could simply find peace, then she would stop haunting me. All she needed to do was uncover who killed her, and then steal that person’s life.

I felt the blankets lift as she crawled into my bed, her icy arms wrapping around me tightly. She said that I felt warm, and she’ll sleep next to me until I die.

Why did I bury her below my own bed?

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Shea Oliver

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