Questions from the woman below me

The woman under my bed keeps asking me questions.

The first night I heard her, the question was almost playful:

“Do you like the color blue?”

I sat up, confused. The voice was faint, coming from beneath the bedframe. I told myself it was the apartment settling, a dream, anything but what it was.

The second night:

“What’s your favorite food?”

I whispered pasta, not knowing why I answered. The room felt heavier afterward, but quiet.

By the third night, she was waiting.

“What was the last thing you wished for?”

Her tone was gentle, like a child’s, but too close to my ear, though nothing was there when I checked. I told myself to ignore it.

But the questions kept coming.

“Do you ever feel someone watching you when you’re alone?”
“Why do you lock the door, when you know I'm already here?”
“Do you think prayers reach this room?”

The voice never raised, never shouted. Just asked. Curious. Innocent on the surface, but each question pressed deeper, like a fingernail against skin.

I didn’t sleep. I lay rigid, staring into the ceiling, afraid to shift my weight in case she felt it.

“What scares you more: being seen, or being buried?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

Tonight, I lay in bed, heart pounding, and waited. The silence stretched so long I thought maybe she was gone. Then, finally, her voice curled out of the dark. This question scared me the most out of everything she'd ever asked me.

“Why did you put me here?”