I’m still afraid of a hand reaching out from under my bed, grabbing at my ankles and pulling me under to join it. I think about it every time I go to lie down, even during the day. Some demented hand, broken, dark green, coated dried blood slipping out and tripping me up. I can’t fit under my bed it’s much too low, and when I lie down on the hardwood beside it there’s nothing to see but clumps of dust. Still I’m afraid. That won’t stop the hand. And what of the shadows? I swear they’re watching me turn side to side, flopping about in search of comfort and rem sleep. I keep my eyes closed under my forcefield covers. Or if I’m feeling brave I’ll turn on my flashlight and chase away the shadow man. I imagine he goes to conspire with the owner of the sickly green hand, to devise a plan to finally snatch me away into their vague other world. Perhaps they hide in my closet, behind my clothes and boxes packed with the past, useless to present me. Present me knows this is all very silly, there isn’t a hand poised to pull me under or an ominous shadowy man glowering at me from the corner. I reassure the little girl in my chest and head, speak to her softly and rationally–but she remembers sleeping in the attic of our great uncle’s house, the one he died in the day before, and how he stood there in the doorway watching us stiffen and stretch the blankets tight as they would go to keep him out.