Fearing the Boogie Man

There I was. A wee child. Hidden under the covers.

I would not. No way. Allow my feet to dangle over the edge of the bed.
No way.
No how.
Only because I suspected the Boogie Man was lying in wait. Waiting to grab a foot. Or both. And drag me under.

My whole body was covered with a few thin blankets.
But not my light brown hair. My hair managed to escape. Above my head. Out from under the covers. Not on a pillow. Just on the flat mattress.
As I lay there, quietly, wondering if my thoughts would go away if I just pretended I wasn’t there.
On the bed.

I somehow knew my thinking was not right. That the Boogie Man didn’t exist.
Yet, I wasn’t sure.
I never told anyone my fears. Kept them to myself. Dealt with it alone.
Knew how to jump off the edge of the bed, as far as I could. Far enough away. To run out of the room. Before an outstretched, ugly grey arm reached for my foot. And dragged me under.


As an adult.
When I allow my feet to hang over the side of my bed, I sometimes wonder about my small self. Wonder why I thought those thoughts. Where did they come from? What made me think of them?
There was no TV in our house.
Just lots of books.
And plenty of outdoor activities. Where maybe I overheard someone talking about the Boogie Man hiding under the beds of children.

I don’t know.

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