A werewolf lived under my bed until I was about 12 years old. He was always there; it didn’t matter if the light was on or not.
If I was reading in bed and then had to go to the bathroom, I had to stand up and jump out into the middle of the room, so the werewolf’s arms (yes, arms) wouldn’t grab my legs. When I came back from the bathroom, always running, I had to leap back onto my bed as quickly as I could.
While afraid, I was also fascinated with scary creatures. We lived on a hill, and in the winter all the kids from the neighborhood used to come sledding in our driveway.
I used to tell stories about the roebuck (a male roe deer). I described the buck as a monstrous creature with large horns. It ate children, at times, and it would chase after you when hungry. One of my friends told me many years later that she had been terrified of going up the hill alone for fear of running into the roebuck.
Despite never having seen one, I very much enjoyed scaring others. I never told anyone that the monster visited my nightmares.
People and animals also turned to stone in my dreams, forever getting stuck in a place between life and death. I realized in my early teens that this stemmed from an episode of “The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe” from BBC that I had been subjected to at a friend’s house when I was 5.
When I turned 15, I got a new bed with a frame that went all the way down to the floor. I knew there would never be another werewolf (or other monster) hiding in my room. I finally felt safe.