She waited until the lights were off, footsteps faded, and the mansion settled into its nighttime creaks. Then she pulled a small flashlight from her apron and walked toward Leo’s room, heart pounding. Using the master key, she opened the door.
The sight broke her heart.
Leo wasn’t asleep. He was curled in the far corner of the bed, knees pulled to his chest, hands clamped over his ears as if trying to disappear. His eyes were swollen, his face marked with red patches no child should have.
“Leo,” Clara whispered. “It’s me. Grandma Clara.”
The relief in his eyes nearly brought her to tears.
“Grandma,” he whispered. “The bed bites.”
Not itches. Not feels weird. Bites.
Clara knelt beside the bed and stroked his hair. She asked him to stay in the corner, then turned to the pillow. It looked perfect—white silk, soft, harmless. She pressed her palm firmly into the center, mimicking the weight of a head.
Pain exploded instantly.
It felt like dozens of needles stabbing her hand. She gasped and pulled back. In the flashlight’s glow, tiny drops of blood appeared on her skin.
Her fear turned to fury.
Inside that pillow was a trap.
Clara turned on the light and marched into the hallway.