Bedfellow

I woke up to a sound outside the bedroom: a door opening. I shook my husband awake and hissed in his ear, “There’s someone outside!”

He held his breath as we listened. Footsteps were moving through the hall toward our room.

“Do something!” I pleaded through gritted teeth, but he was just as paralyzed as I was.

The footsteps stopped outside the bedroom, and the doorknob rattled. “They’re coming in!” I squeaked, shaking my husband’s shoulder in an attempt to rouse him to action. He didn’t budge. The door opened.

It was my husband.

My heart stopped, and as I turned toward the thing in the covers next to me, it finally stirred.

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