Under Covers

The little boy could not remember when he started seeing it, the little grey man. Not much taller than himself, bulbous head, pure black eyes, long thin fingers which flexed restlessly. When he closed his eyes, there the little grey man was.

He knew the little grey man was not real, only an image. He did not know what put it in his mind. Maybe a picture book or a video game. But it was there now and it would not leave.

He was not even sure what it was. It being there was not scary, but a thought arose which added a drop of dread, what if it was there for him. This idea always appeared when he went to bed. The lights would be turned out and he would be snug under the covers and the thought would creep in. And he would be compelled to pull the sheets and the comforter over his head.

At that moment the little grey man would appear. It would stand right by the bedside and wait, looking down on him. The little boy’s breath would be all he could hear. In. Out. Entirely too loud. It became an oven under the covers. Sweat would bead his face.

He wished to lift the covers, just a bit, to let in some cool air, but the little grey man was there and now his little grey friends had joined him, dozens of pitch black eyes, darker than the room they resided in, watched for the slightest movement, the briefest opening between the covers, for any glimpse of bare skin; the little boy did not know how he knew but he knew if this happened this would be their signal to act and they would snatch him from his bed and spirit him away and they would be there every night waiting, the little grey men.

It was unbearable under the covers. The heat. His racing heart. The nauseous fear. The pressure of their presence radiating from the side of the bed. He could not sleep. He could not endure another torturous night. So, with a whimper, the little boy lifted the edge of the covers and saw