Underneath

He heard it from all the way down the hall. 

His tossing and turning. Thumping against the bed. Even some of his whimpers as they echoed out of his room. 

He felt badly for his son. Knew what he was going through. He himself had dealt with the dreams, the nightmares, even sleepwalking when he was younger. And deep down all he wanted to do was go into the room, sit on the corner of the bed and comfort his son, tell him that everything would be alright. They were all dreams. Not real. All he had to do was clear his mind and go back to bed - morning would arrive in no time and the sun would push any of the bad thoughts away.

They had gone to the doctor. He and his wife. Sometimes with their son, sometimes without. They had put him through all the tests. Monitored his sleep patterns, tried giving him some medicine, hooked him up to a bunch of devices, electrodes pasted all over his body. He was a trooper, enduring it all - fear behind his eyes.  The machines made weird noises, buzzing, clicking, and hissing around him. When they could - he and his wife would hold their son's hand, coach him through as much as they could. But the times when they had to sit on the other side of a thick pane of glass were the toughest - seeing their son helpless, lost inside the belly of a large machine.

When all the tests were done, they waited. The doctors had said it would take some time. Not only for the results to come back but for them to have the necessary time to analyze the findings. So they went home and the nighty routine continued. The longer it took to hear back from the hospital, the worse the nights became. At first the problem seemed to have subsided a bit. He was sleeping throughout most of the night. Only a few moments here or there. But as time wore on, his sleep patterns were getting worse and worse. It seemed like he was up more than he was asleep. Genuinely scared to go to bed. And when the results finally did come back - they were shocked to find that nothing seemed to be wrong with their son. No abnormalities. No ailments. He was as healthy as he should be - if not even healthier. There was no explaining what was going on each night. The doctor suggested therapy or even medication, but they refused - worried that either could have too adverse an effect on their son. They had raised him properly, given him a great life, so therapy didn't seem to make sense and of course no parent wants to drug their child every night.

So they took turns. Waiting with him until he fell asleep, until the first time he'd sit up in bed, eyes wide - showing him that they were there - everything was alright. Each night as they sat in his room, they heard stories about something in there with him, waiting for him to fall asleep, chasing him in his dreams, breathing in the dark. All things that they had gone through as children too. The dark was scary - but there wasn't anything there to get him. After a week or two, things started to return to normal. He seemed to be more comfortable, knowing they were right there. So they eased off, eventually to the point where a simple kiss on the forehead would be all that he needed.

And then one night he was shaken awake. Startled. He could feel his son's hands on his wrist, gripped tightly, shaking feverishly. Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes and put his hand on his son's head, tussling his hair, comforting him. Taking his son's hand in his own, he guided him back down to his room, picking him up and placing him back onto his bed. As he pulled the sheets up, tucking the edges below his body, he heard his son whisper,

"Daddy, there's a monster under my bed."

Smiling, to show his son that everything was alright, he bent down and looked under the frame - shocked to see him, another him, under the bed, eyes wide and quivering, whispering,

"Daddy, there's somebody on my bed."