Her Side of the Bed
Every night, Nathan heard the same sound just before he fell asleep—three faint taps against the wall behind his headboard. He lived with two roommates, so he told himself it was just the townhouse settling, or maybe his roommates making noise.
The townhouse was new. Too new. When he rented one of the rooms, the landlord had avoided answering questions about why the other rooms had sat empty for nearly two years. “Some roommates just don’t stay long,” he had said with a forced smile.
One night, after the usual tapping, Nathan awoke to a strange coldness pressing against his side. Half-asleep, he rolled over—expecting maybe a draft from the cracked window. Instead, he felt the unmistakable weight of someone else lying in the bed.
His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and that’s when he saw her.
A woman. Pale, sunken skin stretched across a face that had clearly been rotting for decades. Her hair was matted and damp as though she had crawled up from the grave. Her cloudy eyes stared straight through him, wide and unblinking, and her mouth hung open in a silent scream.
Nathan couldn’t move. Every muscle locked as her bony fingers crept over the blanket, inching toward his chest. Her breath was cold, rancid, brushing against his ear as she whispered,
“Don’t push me out of my bed again.”
In a rush of terror, he realized the truth: this had been her bedroom before she died. She hadn’t left—she had just been waiting for someone foolish enough to take her place.
The next morning, the neighbors heard him screaming, but when they rushed inside, the bed was empty. The only trace left was the heavy impression of two bodies still pressed into the mattress.