The dim flash of the television flooded my vision. The clock struck two in the morning, and my eyes began to close. Slowly the muscles in my hand relaxed, causing my fingers to slip away from the remote they held in their grip. It was upon dropping the remote into the crevice of the furniture I sat upon that my eyes shot open.

Reaching between the cushions, I blindly allowed my hand to crawl around and feel for it. My arm moved around down there, acquiring dirt and cobweb from the uncleaned floor.

My eyes widened and my heart got caught in my throat. The fear I held inside me was almost palpable at that very moment.

It wasn't the dust brushing against my hand that caught me off guard, nor was it the strange chills that caused the hairs on my arm to stand. It was the moist, mushy fingers wrapping themselves around my wrist from below the couch, pulling me downward.