It has many names. In India they call it Goggayya, in Africa it is called Dongola Miso, in the cold north it's called the Gryla. Where English is spoken it's often called the Bagman or Boogerman, but most commonly it is simply the Bogeyman. Parents invoke it to keep unruly children quiet in their beds. Frightened kids will lie petrified, scared that a clawed hand will grab them by a vulnerable ankle and drag them, kicking and screaming, into the unfathomable darkness beneath their beds.

Like most things of myth and legend, there is a grain of truth. The Bogeyman is real but It's a thing of waveform, not matter. No sub-atomic particles here, no substance that can be examined under a microscope. It is, quite literally, the stuff of shadows. And, as you might expect, it hates the light; cruel photons that interrupt its pattern, that dissolve its essence. And yes, like legend, it steals children, when it can.

Jenny is seven. Jenny knows the Bogeyman is real. She knows it lives under her bed and it wants to get her. She's heard it whispering and scratching under her bed at night. Unlike millions of other children around the world, in this case, Jenny is right.

Abigail is seventeen. She's a pretty girl, petite and blonde. She's used to getting her own way with a coquettish smile and dimples. It works on almost everyone. Everyone except the brats she has to babysit. Unlike Jenny, she doesn't believe the Bogeyman is real, but she knows the power of the Bogeyman, oh yes. With graphic details of its torments, she rules those young, impressionable minds unlucky enough to end up in her care. She rules them with an iron fist of fear.

"Will you read me a story?"

Abigail scowls. "No."

She stands in Jenny's bedroom doorway, her hand on the lightswitch. Jenny sits bolt upright in her bed, the pink, My Little Pony, bed covers bunched around her and a scruffy toy rabbit, also pink, clutched in her arms..

"Can I have a drink of water?"

"No."

"But I'm thirsty." Jenny doesn't whine. Her voice is steady, reasonable. She knows she has to be credible. To whine or show fear at bedtime wins her nothing from her parents, she expects the same of her babysitter.

"No." Abigail repeats.

"Can you leave the door open?"

Abigail sighs with exaggerated exasperation, "No. The TV noise will keep you awake."

"Can you leave the light on?"

"No."

"I mean, my night light."

Abigail smiles, the dimples come out.

"You're not afraid of the dark are you?"

Jenny nods her head, uncertain. She's still trusting enough of adults to try the truth sometimes.

"A big girl like you?" Abigail's smile deepens but never reaches her eyes. Jenny realises she's made a tactical error. She says nothing now, pinned by Abigail's knowing look.

"Is it… the Bogeyman?" The theatrical pause and astonished reaction from Jenny almost make Abigail laugh out loud.

"You know about the Bogeyman?" Jenny asks.

"The one under your bed?"

Jenny nods, solemn, face drawn, she squeezes her toy rabbit closer.

"Want me to check if it's there?" This is the part Abigail really enjoys. The pantomime of seeking out the monster, of pretending to get caught, of struggling and escaping, of coming within an inch of a horrible death. If she plays it right, Abigail knows she can leave a child in terrified, bed-wetting fear, silent and unmoving for the rest of the evening. But Jenny is shaking her head, very emphatically, no.

"I don't want it to get you," Jenny says.

Abigail moves to the bed, gets down on her knees beside it. "It only eats little kids. I'm too big," she says. Jenny is trembling, Abigail can feel it through the bed frame and is delighted.

"Don't. Please don't," Jenny begs.

Ignoring her, Abigail crouches down onto the soft, beige carpet and puts her head and shoulder under the bed. Out of the corner of her eye she sees movement in the deep shadows. Startled, she cries out, bangs her head.

"Abigail!" Jenny's scream is full of desperation and fear.

Abigail looks again; A dust bunny, disturbed by the movement of air, settles. Abigail grins with chagrin and then anticipation of what comes next.

"Oh, my God!" Abigail screams in mock terror. "It's here, it's got me!"

Jenny's answering shriek is piercing and loud. It makes Abigail grin even more. That's when the light bulb blows with a pop. It's chance, no supernatural intervention required, but it's what the Bogeyman has been waiting and waiting for.

Under the bed, it's pitch black now. The Bogeyman rises through the darkness to strike and fast, because as fast as light is, the Bogeyman is faster. Windows to the soul, that's what they say about the eyes. For the Bogeyman it's true. Photoreceptor cells are evolved to sense light but they are also a gateway for the shadow creature. It pours its essence into Abigail's eyes, along her optic nerves and into her mind. Neurons stutter, misfire under malignant attack, and Abigail thrashes, banging her shoulders and head repeatedly against the underside of the bed. Jenny sobs, her worst fears coming true, and tries to avoid the rocking mattress from throwing her to the floor.

Abigail's young soul is no match for this ancient phantasm. She is quickly subdued, destroyed, dispatched. This isn't the Bogeyman's first, it knows how to control its host's vacated shell. In the dark, dark bedroom the thing that wears Abigail's body rises unsteadily to its feet. Jenny lies shaking on her bed, unable to stop the whimpers that escape her tightly pressed lips, but the Bogeyman pays her no attention as it lurches from the room.

The night is young and so is its stolen body. The Bogeyman has much mischief it wants to try before the dawn.

I placed all my toys and shoes and even a throw-carpet around the bottom of my bed. Then, tucked everything as tight as I could between the bed-rails and the floor—-I even moved the now-empty toy-chest against the bottom of my bed, snuggling it tight to the throw-carpet that I had rolled up and wedged at the foot of the bed between the floor and bottom bed-rail. And I collected other things and set them in a corner. I didn't want anybody to trip over them.

I stole two flashlights from Dad's workbench and practiced turning one on and off until I had that process down pat! One under my pillow and the other under my covers next to my side. My older brother, Mike, had a solid-wooden baseball bat that was now nestled next to my right hand. And I had practiced swinging and retrieving it from under the covers until I felt that no Navy Seal could do better.

Rambo, our dog, I coaxed into my room with a bag of Doritos, his favorite treat.

I knew Mon would come in, and I had already planned an answer with a full-proof story.

"Eric what is all this?" Mon said.

"Oh— I'm cleaning my room. You said I should."

"Why all those things under you bed?" Mon said.

"I didn't want nobody to trip over them, so I thought that under my bed would be a good place until I'm done," I said.

"This doesn't have anything to do with that—that demon you say lives under there?" Mon said. She rolled her eyes once or twice, crossed her arms and stared directly into my eyes.

"Oh, that was just Mike playing around with some old wind-up toy. He stuck it up under my bed in the springs." Nobody believed me when I told them about demons, so I had to take matters in my own hand.

I tried to stay awake all night but before I knew it my eyes were losing their focus, and my eyelids started weighting a ton.

I heard Rambo growl. Then heard him growl louder! My eyes sprang open, and before I knew what, they settled on a face floating up from the bottom of my bed. Rambo looked in that direction, sniffed in the air, yet he didn't seem to see the face. But I could!

I grabbed the bat, sat up in my bed, then froze like a statue left at the North Pole a hundred-years ago. The room filled with a moist-mist that lived, or so it seemed, and settled over my bed like a morning frost upon a fresh-cut-lawn. And a cold chill grabbed me, held me like the nurse did when the doctor had to give me a shot: I could move, yet go nowhere, I could scream, yet not be heard, I could feel the chill but didn't shiver, and I could see Rambo, but couldn't call him. Only the face before me changing, contorting itself into a evil clowning demur ready to answer my deepest nightmares with a smiling grin.

As the face floated before me, it's heat mixed with the chill and gave me a sensation that I wished I never experienced, and one that I hope will never enter my world again.

"Little boy blue, I know who you are, you're mine dear kid, and only mine! No mother, no father— no dog named Rambo, will save you from me as time does flee. Yet, not now do I want thee— no not now is wrong. Only after life has nurtured you will I take thee at the appropriate time. And you might also think of me as your—Guardian Angel!! Haaaa…. You're in my web where I'll protect you—- until the time of my desires! " the demon said.

I screamed, but no sound utter from my lips! I jumped up holding the baseball bat, but really didn't move an inch. Rambo's fur stood high on his back, his teeth showed themselves, and his back arched-up. Yet, within a moment, Rambo settled on the floor and closed his eyes while his body relaxed into a quiet slumber.

I rubbed my eyes and called out to Mom. She came running into my room, flicked on the lights, looked around then came over to my bed. She hugged me, and told me that everything is Okay, and nothing is wrong. "Just Look," she said. Rambo has been by your bed all night long. See—there's nothing to be afraid of.

Dad came in. He said little. But he did utter "I'm going to have a man-to-man talk with Mike! He had no business scaring you like that." Dad went back to bed, but Mon kept hugging me, and she hummed a soft tune that I've always heard since the first days that my memory recorded what my ears picked up.

"Mom, it was so real," I said. My P.J's were wet at the crotch, my night-shirt soaked, and my forehead and hair were also drenched in sweat. And my face was watery from tears that didn't seem to stop——for the remainder of that night.

Oh, how that night has haunted me and haunted me, but not from the fear that the demon demonstrated, nor from his evil-dancing face that played upon my imagination, nor from his words that still echo around the inner-caverns of my mind when twilight acts upon us all. No, something Mon said.

"There is nothing under you bed, Honey, nothing in the house and nothing outside the house, you just had a bad dream, Honey. And you father is really going to have a talk with your brother. He shouldn't have scared you like that,"

"Will you be Okay now Honey," Mon finally said. "Rambo will stay here."

She kissed me on the forehead. Then covered me up. As she stood over my bed said looked around, grabbed her arms and said. "It is really cold in here!"

By now even Marissa had to admit that she should have buried the body further from the basement door. It really wasn't because it was illegal to bury a corpse within city limits – by the time her son was actually digging the hole they both knew it was illegal.

The looky-loos who wandered through the courtyard that afternoon also knew it was illegal. "What ya doin there? – burying a body?" her neighbors asked with a snide chuckle. In Old Louisville people could get killed in broad daylight and no one 'would see anything' – but try burying a body and the whole neighborhood turned out.

"No, we're just planting a tree," Marissa lied, desperately wanting to tell them the truth and shut them up.

Besides the nosey neighbors, the hole itself turned out to be a problem because the Victorian Era homes were built on one foot of topsoil covering four feet of landfill: bricks; wooden planks; and broken tiles. As Max dug the hole it fell to Marissa to get down on her knees and throw the trash towards a trash heap in the courtyard.

"Go get the box, Max," she finally told her son.

"You sure Mom? Lots of people keep walking past."

"You dump her and I'll shovel in what topsoil we have. The tree canopy will cover us if we do it fast."

And that's exactly how it went, followed by throwing the roots of the tree into the hole.

Really, Callie (before she became a corpse) had always loved Marissa. Every night Callie would slowly creep up her bed, climb onto Marissa's elbow, and drift off to sleep while purring contentedly. If only she hadn't clawed the grandkids and peed on the old woman's 1850s Bridgeport settee'.

Even when the woman gave the cat away, she always fought her way back through screens and doors and up staircases –reappearing as if by magic on Marissa's doorstep. Callie was devoted to her owner and was determined to sleep with the woman – come hell or high water.

The first night following the funeral proved tense. Her other cat, Sammy, sat at the top of the stairs watching something move in the darkness at the bottom. Eventually Marissa couldn't keep her curiosity at bay any longer and looked towards the base of the stairs. She seemed to see something and there was a sound with a scratching. "Probably an alley cat," she told herself.

By the second night, Sammy was still waiting there as if he expected Callie to claw her way through the doors as she had before. Marissa just huffed and went to bed.

Third night, 2 A.M. The old woman was finally in a deep sleep after taking a Benadryl, but what was that? – something on the bed crawling towards her. What, what? She opened her eyes, squinting into the dark. Oh, it was Sammy. The unreasoning terror began to increase however as her cat reached her elbow, climbed onto it and went to sleep purring – as if he had done exactly that hundreds of times.

Marissa was introspective at the tavern after telling her story to a friend over a beer.

"Your cat, the live one, had probably seen Callie do that so many times that he took the place of the dead cat. It happens sometimes – it's part of the grieving process, even for animals."

"I think he's possessed. It was just too weird. I think sometimes I should just dig her up and throw what's left in the trash," said the woman.

"No point to that, Rissa…the rats probably have her by now," replied Flattop Chris bluntly.

"The rats?"

"Oh yeah. With all the landfill in the ground rats have built extensive tunnels."

"Thanks for giving me a whole new vision of terror."

"It'll be okay, Marissa, I promise. Here, let me buy you another Bud to make up for my insensitivity."

The woman smiled at the young man and nodded in agreement. Things would work themselves out in time, and with enough beer, she'd sleep well tonight.

In spite of being drunk, something had shocked her awake. She sat up and looked at the clock but the numbers were a red blur. She looked at the French doors and noticed that one was slightly ajar. The lace curtains were moving at the bottom – probably just the wind. She should get up and close the door.

Marissa put one foot on the floor and then stopped suddenly. Sammy was crouched between her and the door, growling at the area under the bed. "What is it, Sammy?"

He looked up at her for a minute, turning his head sideways, as if confused himself before moving even closer to whatever was under the bed.

She heard a scratching now, like claws moving quickly on the wood floor. She couldn't look but she had to see it – what was it? She took hold of the cotton sheet lifting it slowly. She lifted it a little more, leaning over the side, looking, looking…

What was that, huddled towards the back? It had brown, and black, and tan fur. "Callie?" the old woman couldn't help but whisper. "Callie? – is that you?"

It moved. It started coming closer slowly. She could see the cat's nose and ears and her hollow eyes – but then the skin slipped and she saw beady eyes reflecting the light from the French doors over a pointed nose and sharp teeth. "Rat!" she screamed as Sammy charged under the bed. It was chaos, crazy madness followed by frantic scratching tearing across the bedroom floor and through the open door.

Marissa jumped off her bed and slammed the door shut, leaning against it, panting. She took a paint can and pushed it against the door before turning on the light. Callie's skin lay there on the floor. For some reason she could not explain, Marissa picked it up and began to cuddle it.

On the outskirts of Hiji, a pleasant city on Kyushu Island, with good views of Beppu Bay, the Mamiko family was just sitting down to dinner. The Japanese family was comprised of only three members: Takaya, the short black-haired father; his 39-year-old wife; and a baby of about 30 months. It was ordinary except for one peculiarity - on a shelf there was a picture of another baby, a few months older than their present son, with a black cloth on it. The photo was of their previous child, who hadn't lived past his 32th month, unfortunately.

After eating, the wife cleaned the baby's mouth, and then her husband lifted him up saying that he himself was going to take the child to his room.

As Takaya placed the son named Shuu on the bed, the infant spoke a few words to the father: "Me…fear…the…bed…darkness…" It wasn't the first time his child had expressed such confused terms. He knew, as a matter of fact, that a typical 30-month-old's vocabulary was made up of only about 350 words, and most toddlers were also able to combine a couple of words to ask questions or make statements. So, there was no problem if the infant seemed incapable of saying longer sentences.

As Takaya left the child, switching off the light, he kissed his wife, then put on his brown overcoat and went out: a long night of work was waiting for him.

As he was driving his white Daihatsu along the main road, the man considered all he had gone through the last two years. Since his first child's death, everything had changed.

He remembered clearly that his lost baby had also said the same confused things at night. Nothing strange, he had always thought, as every young boy was afraid of the darkness or of what lay underneath his bed. His parents had often told him that he had said the same thing – when he was a child. And everything would have been okay in his family, probably - if that terrible death hadn't taken place at home.

The sudden passing of babies was a rare occurrence, but happened occasionally, often making the parents loose heart. That was exactly what had destroyed their life, many months ago, when their beloved firstborn had died unexpectedly one night while in his bed. Even though such tragedies were mainly due to some undiscovered illness, a few still remained unexplained. They could have done nothing to prevent it, as the doctors had confirmed, but deep sorrow had pervaded their home, making his family's world fall apart.

One morning, while praying in a stone temple in Bungo Takada, trying to find some comfort, a hairless monk approached Takaya, telling him he recognized his face. The religious man was an old friend of his as they went to school together years ago, before their paths had taken them in different directions.

It was this man who gave the father some useful information. As he saw how desperate Takaya was, the monk revealed a secret that was part of some old temple traditions. Actually, it was an ancient tale similar to the legends told by common people, and a few of those had proven to be true, even though science would hardly believe in those.

"Baku are unearthly beings that devour dreams, as the myth goes," the religious man said, "doing harm to humans while eating their energy. They have a long history in Japanese art, too, but many think they could be the real cause of an infant's death."

As the father looked incredulous, the monk continued. "There's a reason why these creatures prefer eating a babies' dreams instead of an adult's…"

"That being…?" Takaya asked.

"Toddlers sleep and dream for longer times than common men. Babies usually eat or are asleep, you know. But older humans tend to go to sleep at a late hour, and dream less than the young ones…"

"True," Takaya nodded. "Something connected to aging then, I imagine…"

"Indeed!" the religious man stated. "But that is something that the Baku also know, obviously…"

The father stared at his old friend, visibly frowning.

"The Baku must eat several dreams in order to keep themselves strong, to live every day, and there's no better place for them to stay hidden, waiting, than under a young child's bed to get all the energy they need! But when men grow up, their task becomes more difficult and unproductive, so they leave, looking for another prey. Unfortunately, not every baby is strong enough to live until the day he becomes of no interest for such creatures of the night…"

The father took his leave from the monk, continuing his journey, but since then he had decided he needed to study that subject. Maybe something could come out…

And something did, later on!

While driving at night, the man checked his watch and saw that it was time to stop and go back the other way. His wife thought he was at work, as everyday at that time, but today Takaya had requested some hours off. He had some business back at home…

The father entered the front door, unseen, as everybody inside was asleep, then reached Shuu's room, making no noise.

The son looked quiet, but there was a strange scratching coming from under his bed. The man got down on the floor, in silence, and looked at the little metallic container with bars he had placed there before leaving home.

There was the horrible, almost colourless crawling creature! The automatic trap, made up of sacred iron as depicted in an ancient tome his friend had given him, had worked!

Then Takaya stood up, staring at his son's black pupils, lovingly.

Awakening, the child told the man again "Me…fear…the…bed…darkness…"

"Be afraid no more, my son" the father replied, hugging him. "There is no need for your fear, anymore…"

Around the campfire we all sat,
telling stories and unnatural facts.
For we boy scouts, on our annual trip,
away from the world, our fears and their finger's grip.

(A camp of summer fun and play,
at least they'd have our parents think that way.
A code of silence was sworn from each.
We'd never tell, they had long reach).
+

Under each tent a floor of wood,
protect us from the not understood.
This wasn't Haute Camp Have Some Fun
It was hardtack survival, 101.

Under the floors we'd never know
we dare not look the afear'd below:
bugs and rats and too fierce to mention.
Of this we were warned, our introduction.

To escape that initiation
under the floor I stove, I with fear and great trepidation.
She came to me most magically.
Moving, slit eyes aglow, so silently.
Her voice, my mind, taking its hold.
Rhythmically, hypnotically she said real slow,
"Be careful, my children, you do not hunt.
We live below your canvas bunks.
Deep in the dirt we can be found.
Forewarned!
When we travel, we make no sound."

And then surprise, to me she infused
"We see you young ones are much abuse'ed ,
the older boys bigger, tis no excuses.
They taunt and beat you, too extreme.

The leaders look on
for reasons kin beyond,
of which you'll discover, later, anon.
But right now, a bargain ,a deal, no loss of your life.
And I'll end these games of hellish strife."

I asked those eyes as if in a dream'
"What am I, young, suppose to do?
And why, should I, now help you?"
Wondering which could be worse here with her?
or
THERE, with them?

She answered as if I'd know what she means.

"Do not give us up to your leaders two,
And we'll take care of the rest for you."
I nodded, agreed, what could I do?

She rose and hissed and seemed to smile
"Cause if you do," while all the while
rattling, lightly hinting, tongue flicking,
(from under our beds from under the boards
was gone,
and like the light from a moon-cloud kiss,
promised).

Shivered and frightening.

He paused a long time, the phone pressed to his ear. "You have what you need removed? Uh, right… What's your address?"

That's a bad neighborhood. Bad people.

"I'm in the middle of another service call," Roddy lied, "but I'll be there as soon as I can. Ok, I'll see you then."

He could really have been there in ten minutes, but that was as fast as he wanted to move for a call to that part of town.

"Don't care if them bastards come after me. I ain't rushing to help one of them 'cause they got a critter in the house. Maybe if they'd gone with a regular builder instead of cheapin' everythin', they wouldn't have this problem."

Roddy stepped down from the cab of his dented, light-blue pickup and began to survey the scene. Older two story house, white painted fence, overgrown trees and a lot of wild-looking shrubbery. Plenty of room for pests to hide out. Roddy didn't have a yard, just a hallway outside his apartment, but he convinced himself that was to keep from having a place for varmints to take residence.

The whole family was outside, waiting for him. Mousy-looking lady with the sour look had to be the mom. Dude with the scratched face was the Dad. Must have tried by himself first—the cheap way. Little girl in pigtails crying had to be the one who found it.

Mousy Mom barked, "I called over three hours ago."

I guess I know who the cheap one is. There's always one in this neighborhood.

Roddy stopped dead in his tracks and challenged, "There are other exterminators in the book. Maybe one of them would take care of your issue faster."

Scratched Face jumped in the way, "No, no. The others all said this was a job for you. We're glad you're here."

None of them others will take on one of these.

"Where's it at?"

Scratched Face spoke up right away. "Upstairs. End of the hall on the left."

Pigtails added, "It's under my bed!"

They usually don't make it upstairs. Must be a hole in the vinyl siding near one of them trees. Great 'maintenance-free exterior' numb-nuts.

The screen door whispered slightly as his thick, green work overalls and steel-toed boots slid past the welcome mat. It paid to have extra layers for this kind of work. He held the tight-mesh cage in his right hand.

The damnable reek of those plug-in room fresheners almost made him gag as his footfalls padded gently up the deep-pile steps. Photos of Scratched Face, Mousy Mom, and Pigtails in exotic locations angled past him on his left. At the top his steel-toed boots against the hardwood hallway gave away his location, but there was little Roddy could do about that. It would have figured out he was near soon enough.

'Kaylee' was the name in rainbow colors on the door. It creaked open, an unfriendly warning, giving him a view of the carnage. Princess sheets and bedding lay shredded on the floor. Kids books were torn in hunks and tossed all over. Pieces of chewed Barbie dolls and accessories littered the bed. A fetid reek of burned hair curled his nostrils.

Only one critter smelled like that.

"It's Roddy," he announced. "I've come for you."

A strange hissing came from under the bed. Roddy pulled a small flashlight from a pocket and bent a knee to the floor just as he spotted the faint flashing from the wall.

Great. A camera in the kids room. Constantly monitoring Pigtails, finding everything she does that's wrong and nailing her on it. 'Modern' parenting shouldn't be allowed. A kid's room should be private. Now if I screw up they can play it back over and again or make me a laughingstock on YouTube.

He pointed the light under the bed. Something moved, but the ripped sheets hid it. He pulled a thick pair of leather work gloves from another pocket and said, "Okay, critter. Let's do this."

Roddy's coveralls were torn in several places when he came back out the front door of the house. In the back of his bare left hand were a few short quills. His right gloved hand held the lurching cage which Roddy had covered with a section of torn quilt from Pigtails' room.

"It's all right," he declared. "I got him."

"My quilt!" Pigtails protested.

Roddy scolded her. "They don't like sunlight."

Mousy Mom said, "Her grandma made the quilt. We need that back."

Roddy frowned at her. "Fine."

He pulled off the quilt. A dark brown creature like a cross between a porcupine and a baboon screeched and flailed in the cage, chewing and tearing at Roddy's other glove in its mouth. Its burned scent filled the air immediately and he put the cage on the seat in his pickup.

Scratched Face asked, "What is it?"

"Something out of nightmare mythology, a nixie. That'll be $500."

It took some coaxing but Mousy Mom finally gritted her teeth and handed him the check.

"Make sure you keep an eye out," Roddy told them. "With these things, there's always a nest somewhere else in the neighborhood. There's always one or two more."

As he drove off, Roddy could see how pale Scratched Face was. It made him chuckle.

As soon as he reached the first stop sign, Roddy turned to the creature. "I owe you for the heads up on the NannyCam so I'm going to open the cage."

The nixie growled, "Camera bad."

Roddy opened the cage door. The diminutive nightmare clambered out of the cage and calmly buckled himself in the seatbelt next to Roddy.

Roddy smiled. "Next, Walter, we do the neighbors. Didya see the size of that swimming pool? They gotta be loaded, and after they see the footage Scratched Face will show them from the NannyCam, this neighborhood will start paying out… big time."

Walter grinned, showing a disturbing number of teeth. "Ok, Boss."