I'm not the best at writing but I hope y'all enjoy. I was inspired by hp Lovecraft and every kids fear of what's under the bed.

UNDER THE BED

Compiled report

These reports were taken from an office that should not have existed, assigned to a beuracrat that seemingly was never actually born. The names of the folks who survived have been redacted–however their stories have not

Somewhere in the Ural Mountains, Russia, 1910

The gate to a pantheon lies unperturbed under the bed of a boy.

Early in the morning, the air grows thick with anticipation, with dread.

“MOOOMMMM”

His mother, Nedehzdha, makes no haste, groggy and ruffled, the night still heavy on her eyes as she walks in to find no child.

By morning the police arrive and the investigation starts

She tells the police that Aleksandr, her child, is missing

Mikhail Ankovich, the lead investigator, sets into his rhythm, tracking clues with his monocle, moving from object to object rigidly. He picks up fragments of the boy's hair near the bedside and spots a ruffled carpet he believes indicates a struggle that leads under the bed. With a heavy breath, he heaves the large bed away from the floor and begins cutting through the carpet that was there with a letter opener from his coat pocket.

He was compassionate towards Nedehzdha, assuring her that he would get to the bottom of this in no time with a smile on his face that would soon fade.

A sweet burnt smell wafts from under the carpet its warm

Warped foundation stones etched with sigils in a style nobody in the village town knew of.

Later that night, Nedehzdha believed she had had a dream of her young boy.

She recounts to the detective at a local coffee shop about the dream

Warped castles, rivers that flow upward, a domain beyond comprehension in the middle of a crimson field of roses tied into bunches of posies lie aleksandr her boy.

She can see a force surrounding him, creeping towards him, that only she could sense.

She can be heard screaming from the home of her neighbor, who reports it, and the next day

Mikhail Ankovich returns to check on her and follow up with the investigation.

Mikhail takes note of what she tells him in her dream, and he leaves without a single word, suddenly distant and he gives the mother a look as though he felt bad for her.

He was last seen being driven from a government facility in moscow to an unknown location

In the weeks following, a whisper can be heard. A rambling plea, a broken and raspy voice begging for its life, cast out downtrodden, the whisper doesn't belong. Everyone gets the sense that there will be no mercy for this soul. The feeling as though the gavel had dropped on your life sentence, that you've gone somewhere so forbidden that even god could show no mercy upon your soul

A deep, dreadful paranoia began to leech through the people

Some families report a strange illness. A depravity of the mind, a madness of such a brutal and subtle sort as to go undetected by the sufferer themselves. A father was found standing over a crib with a knife for hours, but never acting. Instead, by morning, he had no memory of the event recounted to him by his wife

A child reports that their parents begin staring under his bed blankly without response to his pleas of confusion.

People run into the woods, but don't run out

Businesses close by the end of the week.

Everyone in the town was found in a bad way, relying on rosary and compass to guide them through their own thoughts, maps of their home etched into their arms by blade, survival means adaptability.

Markov, a farmer, is found dead, and the coroner determined the mode of death to be suicide.

The events surrounding his death were highly speculative. Some say he got too close to something, others say his death was the first sign of government involvement its hard to say sense anyone close to the spectacle degraded over time. His suicide note is as follows:

I write this not for forgiveness, because I do not believe that is something afforded to men who have seen what I have seen. Nor do I write to be understood. There are no words in our language that can hold it.

It began with the boy. We all said his name in hushed voices, as though it might carry to wherever he had gone. But it is not the boy we should have feared, its where he went, and what seen him.

There is a place beneath things. Not under the bed, not under the house, but beneath the idea of them. I have stood at its edge without moving my feet. I have seen it in the dark spaces when I close my eyes, and in the moments between one thought and the next.

It is patient.

At first it whispers like memory. A voice you almost recognize, asking you to look again, to just check. Under the bed. Behind the door. Beneath the floorboards. It makes a kindness of a curiosity i feel my resolve to fight slowly withering.

I wont give it the chance and i will go while im still my own

- markov

The next day, the government shows up with their scientists, and the mother is taken for her “safety”, and nobody knows where

A white canvas dome was erected around the home for privacy, and high-ranking officials enter daily

People stop looking under, the concept of under itself the theme of officials refusing to lift their cups or look down in the towns presence

Every night, the canvas dome expands as if inhaling, gently lifting and wafting back down.

On the 45th day, scientists came running out; it seemed they had made a discovery. An evacuation order is set for the town, and all the residents are paid a modest restitution for their homes and land. Not generous, but enough

Nobody has located the families closest to the home in that town after evacuation, not by postage, not by word, never seen, not heard.