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My mom always said to me that I was a very imaginative 4-year-old.

That everything I told her was all in my imagination.

“Merry, there’s no monster in here. I already looked,” she kissed my forehead. “Now go back to sleep.”

I still argued with her because I knew how the monster looked and where it hid.

“It’s all in your head.” She said.

But I saw it. It had this mucky, green scaly skin, and fangs that resembled thousands of tiny knives.

Its breath stank like rotten vegetables and its eyes… They were milky white but they stared right through me.

And it hid inside my dresser.

Waiting.

Waiting for me to come out.

16 years have passed, but as I dial 911 right now, I believe that mom was probably right—because this monster hiding in my dresser might look nothing like what I described to her.

I can hear this monster breathing heavily, and he seemed to have taken all my jewelry while I was asleep earlier.

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