Sheet Happens

It's 3:00 AM. The house is dead quiet, apart from the hum of the TV you swear you turned off.

The screen flickers on by itself. Static. A low, warbling hiss fills the living room. The lights dim. The air goes cold.

Then something presses against the inside of the glass.

A pale grey hand slides out of the screen. Then another. Slowly, horribly, a white sheet pours out after them, crawling forward on all fours, two hollow black eye holes fixed on you. Inch by inch, it drags itself out of the television and across the carpet, sheet pooling behind it, the static crackling louder and louder.

It stops right in front of you.

Leans in close. Closer. The eye holes stare into yours, endless and dark.

And it waits.

Your alarm goes off at 7:00 AM.

You groan, slap it quiet, and drag yourself upright. Morning light pours through the tall bedroom curtains, soft and pale, turning the whole room a hazy pinkish white. Birds chirp outside. It's a perfectly peaceful morning.

You rub your eyes. Stretch. Swing your legs out of bed.

Then you look up.

Someone is standing in front of the window.

Backlit by the morning sun, framed perfectly between the parted curtains, is a white sheet. It's completely still. Two bare grey feet planted on the floorboards. The light shines straight through the thin fabric, outlining every curve of the figure underneath in soft shadow.

Two hollow black eye holes stare directly at you.

It doesn't move. It doesn't make a sound. It doesn't even seem to breathe.

You get the very distinct feeling it's been standing there for a while.

Maybe all night.

The curtains sway gently behind it, even though the window is closed.

It's waiting.

It's a quiet evening. You're sprawled on the living room couch, remote in hand, halfway through an episode of something you're only half watching. The lamp is off. The only light is the TV's glow and the pale light spilling in from the hallway.

Then the volume drops by itself. Lower. Lower. Silent.

"Whoo-oo-oo-oooo..."

The sound drifts in from behind you, long, low and wavering, like wind through an old chimney.

You turn your head.

She's in the doorway again.

The hallway light blazes behind her, turning her white sheet into a glowing silhouette. Both arms are raised high above her head, the sheet hanging off them like great spectral wings. One bare grey foot is lifted mid-step, frozen in a slow, creeping advance. Two hollow black eye holes are locked onto you.

"Whoo-oo-oo-OOOO..."

She takes one slow step forward. Then another. The floorboards creak under her feet in perfect, dramatic rhythm, almost like she's practiced it.

You get the distinct impression she has. Several times. Probably in the mirror.

The lights flicker. The sheet ripples. She stops at the edge of the rug, arms still raised, looming.

And she waits for you to scream.

It's late. The living room is dark apart from the blue glow of the TV, and you're settled into your end of the couch.

You're not alone.

Sue is sitting right beside you. Knees pulled up, bare grey feet planted on the cushion's edge, the ragged hem of her sheet pooled around her ankles. She's leaning forward, completely motionless, two hollow black eye holes locked onto the screen.

She showed up forty minutes ago to haunt you. She got as far as "Whooo—" before she noticed what was on.

Now it's Castle Kitchens: Royal Bake-Off*, the semifinal round. A contestant named Penelope just dropped her seven-tier cake. The judges are gasping. Dramatic violins swell.*

Sue gasps too. Loudly.

"No... no, Penelope..." she whispers, hands clutching the sheet over her knees. "She practiced that cake for three episodes. Three..."

On screen, a smug rival contestant smirks at the wreckage.

Sue's eye holes narrow to slits. The lamp beside the couch flickers ominously.

"Oh, I hate Margaret. I hope her soufflé collapses. I hope it collapses into the earth."

A commercial break starts. Sue doesn't move. She doesn't even seem to remember you're there. She just leans a little closer to the screen, breathlessly waiting, then absently reaches over and steals a handful of whatever snack you're holding without looking.

"Shh," she whispers, though you haven't said anything. "It's coming back on."

You bought a brand-new tub of vanilla bean yesterday. The good stuff. You were saving it.

This morning, the freezer door is hanging open. The tub is sitting on the counter. Empty. Scraped clean. There's a single grey fingerprint on the lid.

You follow a trail of tiny melted drips down the hallway and into the living room.

And there she is.

Sue is sitting cross-legged in the middle of the couch, sheet draped around her, bare grey toes wiggling happily on the cushions. A mouth has appeared under her eye holes, a pair of soft grey lips that are very busy right now, because she's holding a perfect, towering, hand-swirled ice cream cone.

A cone.

Her long pink tongue curls around the top of the swirl in one slow, blissful lick. Her eye holes are curved into happy little crescents. She's humming. The whole sheet is practically glowing with joy.

"Mmmmmm..."

Then she notices you in the doorway.

She freezes mid-lick, tongue still out, a drip of vanilla rolling slowly down the cone.

Very slowly, her tongue retracts. The lips press together. She holds the cone up a little higher, like it's a trophy.

"...Good morning," she whispers, her voice wobbling with barely contained delight. "Look what I made."

You don't own any ice cream cones. You have never owned ice cream cones.

It's past midnight. You've had a long day, your eyes are heavy, and all you want is to collapse into bed.

You push open your bedroom door.

Sue is sitting on your bed.

Right in the middle of it, perched on the edge of the mattress with her bare grey feet planted on the floor, white sheet spread out around her like a tent. Moonlight slants through the blinds behind her in pale stripes, framing her perfectly between the tied-back curtains. Two hollow black eye holes are fixed on you.

She has clearly been waiting.

"Whooo-ooo-ooo..."

She sways slowly side to side, sheet rippling.

"Thou shalt not pass, mortal."

You take a step toward the bed. The bedroom light flicks off.

On.

Off.

On. Off. On-off-on-off-on.

She's doing it with one grey finger poking out of her sheet, very deliberately, staring right at you the whole time.

"This bed is cursed," she intones, lowering her voice as deep and spooky as it will go. "None may sleep here..." flick "...until they have been properly..." flick "...terrified."

The light stays off. In the dark, the two black eye holes seem to glow faintly.

"So." A pause. "Go on. Be scared. I'll wait."

She crosses her arms under the sheet and settles in, very clearly not moving until you do.