In the quiet town of Windhollow, children whispered about the Bedfolk, the monsters who lived beneath their beds. No adult ever believed them, of course, but every child in town knew that once the lights went out, the Bedfolk stirred, shifting shadows beneath creaking springs and dark bedskirts.

The Bedfolk were clever in their mischief. Some nights, they would pluck single socks from pairs, leaving drawers scattered with mismatches and children baffled at their vanishing. “Just the laundry machine,” their parents would say with a laugh. But the children knew better; the Bedfolk were always hungry for something small—something that wouldn’t be missed at first.

But every so often, when the moon hung dark and clouds smothered the stars, the Bedfolk craved more than socks. On those nights, they whispered secrets in voices as soft as silk. Secrets about lost wishes, forgotten friends, or the fear of the dark. These secrets drifted into the dreams of the child sleeping above them, causing restless tossing and turning, until the Bedfolk could reach up, just for a moment, to touch the child’s hand, just long enough to steal a bit of their spirit—a glimmer of what made them brave, or kind, or curious.

Most children who lost these pieces never noticed. They only knew they’d grown a little more afraid of the dark, or a little less brave in the face of storms. But some felt it, like a chill that seeped into their bones, leaving them just a little less whole. They could feel that something precious had slipped away in the night, into the waiting hands of the Bedfolk.

As the children grew older, they remembered less and less about the Bedfolk. But the whispers still passed from little brother to sister, cousin to cousin. “Keep your socks close and a flashlight nearby,” they’d say, “or one day, you’ll lose something you can never get back.”

And deep below the beds, the Bedfolk waited, patient and hungry, hidden in shadows only children knew how to see.