The Whispering Blanket

Every night, the blanket rose and fell gently. As if someone invisible lay beneath it.

They told themselves it was the fan. The air. Anything but what it looked like.

One night, they held their breath and watched. The blanket kept rising.

Slow. Steady. Not matching their breathing. They pulled the

blanket off. The bed was empty. The blanket lay still. Then—

it inhaled sharply. A hollow gasp filled the room. The blanket twisted, folding itself,

forming the shape of something curled on its side. Something trying to sleep.

They backed away slowly. The blanket settled, utterly still. Each morning,