There's a Mouse in My Bed

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There's a mouse in my bed. Not on it, nor under it—trust that I've used the right preposition. There's a mouse inside my bed.

At 3 AM, when I'm suddenly awakened, the room still and silent, I hear it. Walking, running along the springs, its weight fighting against my own. My body freezes at this realization, fearing this creature will somehow sense my presence. Then it dawns on me: I should be moving—show it who's the master of the bed it's clearly infested.

I jump around on the mattress, thinking I'll call pest control first thing in the morning to get rid of it. I didn't spend my whole life being single just to end up sharing my bed with a mouse—or worse, a rat.

That thought stills my once-bouncing body. A rat. How did a rat get here?

I listen to the silence, waiting, but there's no movement, just the sound of my breath. I'm tired—so tired. With a sigh, I let myself fall back into the mattress, the thought of solving it tomorrow lingering in the back of my mind. For now, I let sleep take over, the weight of the night easing away.

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Early the next morning, I called pest control, and they arrived around noon to inspect my place. I had just recently moved, and my landlady, Ms. Smith, is an elderly woman who lives across the backyard in what used to be a shed. Her frail body barely allows for big movements, so she downsized to a much smaller space while renting out her main home for passive income to support her daily medications.

My friends told me they found her a bit creepy—not the house, but the woman.

Before meeting her, they would go on and on about how lucky I was to get a house like this, just a bit outside the city. They'd gush about how homey everything felt, how they could see themselves growing old here. Honestly, I thought so too.

But of course, I never shared that thought. It felt odd to think that way about a place you're just resting in. Still, I justified it, assuming it had something to do with knowing the owner was old. If I was lucky, maybe I could buy it off her once she was gone.

I know, it's a horrible thought, isn't it? But no one needs to know; it's my little secret.

Anyway, this admiration for the house would slowly fade once they met Ms. Smith.

One afternoon, while lounging with my friend Veronica on the backyard patio, in the middle of our laughter, Ms. Smith appeared out of nowhere.

"Oh, what beautiful youths," she said sweetly, startling us and cutting our conversation short.

Veronica was clearly frightened.

"Hello, Ms. Smith. Lovely to see you. What brings you out today?" I asked politely, as I'd observed she never left her tiny house.

Our conversation was smooth but short, and she bid us farewell before retreating back inside.

"She's creepy," Veronica muttered, just like all my friends had. When I pressed for reasons, they only said she gave off a weird vibe that didn't sit well with them.

Maybe that's why we stopped hanging out. Between my shift as a nurse and their busy schedules, they also made it clear they didn't want to come over anymore. I couldn't understand why. They blamed it all on Ms. Smith. The discussion eventually grew heated, and no one was on my side. They kept saying I was blinded by something, which seemed ridiculous. They were just hating on an old woman who lived alone in a tiny home.

Since then, I haven't seen my friends, and I stopped going out as much.

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As they arrived, the pest control guy said I'd need Ms. Smith's permission before they could do anything. I needed this fixed now. I had no place to crash overnight—hotels were an option, but too expensive for my nurse's salary.

I knocked gently on Ms. Smith's door, calling her name several times. Nothing.

She must've gone out, maybe to the doctor or somewhere. After all, she was old.

I went back to the pest control guys and told them she wasn't home, and that I'd just sleep with the mouse one more night. The man seemed sympathetic.

"You know what? It might just be a small mouse that made its way into your bed. How about we take a look, make a few assessments, and give you a recommendation? How does that sound?"

Relieved, I agreed.

He moved the bed around, inspecting it thoroughly, which I hadn't expected. I respected how seriously he took his job. After some time, he said, "Well, ma'am, if there is a mouse in your bed, I don't see an entry point. I wanted to lift it to see if I could shake it off, but your bed's too heavy. And my partner, Jimmy, is asthmatic, so I can't have him doing the heavy lifting."

I sighed. "If it's not a mouse, what could it possibly be? I can't sleep on a bed that moves like this."

The man furrowed his eyebrows. "You can feel it moving, too?"

"Yeah," I said.

"Well, mice are too small to make that kind of impact unless it's a rat. But even then, we'd see signs—an entry hole, droppings, anything."

Jimmy chimed in. "How sure are you it's one of those, given there are no entry points?"

The old man rolled his eyes. "We're speculating, Jimmy. That's what inspections are."

Jimmy turned to me. "Could it be something... human?"

I stared at him, horrified. "Excuse me?"

"Sorry," he corrected, "I meant—what was once human."

The old man interrupted, "Alright, enough out of you. I'm sorry, miss. Jimmy's just a bit obsessed with the supernatural. We'll take our leave now. Best for you to get your landlady's consent. Once you do, we can address your concern. Good day."

I didn't have much to say other than to thank them.

Once their van drove off, I shook the unnecessary thoughts from my head and went back upstairs, checking the bed again for any possible entry points. "Human?" I muttered. What a silly thought. No entry point for a mouse, let alone a human. Kids, I thought, shaking my head. But then again, rats... Rats would never do.

That afternoon, I bought a new bed from Walmart, had it delivered the same day, and threw out the old one—frame and all. Ms. Smith wouldn't mind. She'd approve once she heard about the pest issue.

I went about my evening, cooked dinner, and binge-watched my favorite show until I dozed off.

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A nightmare jolted me awake. I couldn't recall the details, only the sensation—like being pulled out of my own skin. Not skinned, but removed. It made every hair on my body stand on end.

Seeing that it was past midnight, I groggily moved to my bedroom.

Just as I was drifting to sleep, I heard it. The scurrying. But not inside my bed—outside, in the hallway.

I held my breath. It was right outside my door.

I grabbed a book and hurled it at the wall, hoping to scare it off. The scurrying stopped. I waited.

Silence.

I exhaled and let myself relax—until the sound returned. This time, it wasn't just one.

A thousand tiny feet, swarming, rushing toward my door.

Then—THUD.

Something large and heavy stomped. Not a rat. Not a mouse. Something else.

A slow, deliberate knock came at my door.

My stomach dropped.

"W-who is it?" I asked, barely a whisper.

A sweet voice answered.

"Well, it's me, dear."

Ms. Smith.

I swallowed hard. "M-Ms. Smith?"

"Why, yes, dear. Could you let us in?"

The word stops me cold, the question clawing its way up from my gut before I can even process it.

Us?

I freeze, my legs hanging over the edge of the bed, my foot hovering just above the floor as I am about to get off the bed. The word circles in my head, the sound of it echoing, growing louder with each breath I take.

"W-why did you say us?" I finally whisper.

Silence.

Then—laughter. Soft at first, then warping—deeper, more guttural.

BANG.

The door shook.

"LET ME IN. LET ME IN. LET ME IN."
BANG.BANG.BANG.

The door crashed open.

Rats. Hundreds of them. And in their midst—her.

A grotesque, twisted thing, standing on two hind legs, her skin warped and leathery like a rat's.

She grinned with jagged, yellow teeth.

"How dare you throw away our bed?"

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Author’s Note:
I delayed posting this several times... but after hearing from a few people (whose opinions I value), I’ve decided to let the rats out. Let me know what you think.

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