go.Jimmy.go

Some childhood friendships are meant to last forever.
Others should never have begun

I’ve spent the better part of six months trying to convince my therapist that I’m not crazy. So far, neither of us is having much luck.

It all started with what she calls a psychological episode. That’s a fancy way of saying I had a complete nervous breakdown. One minute, I was going about my perfectly ordinary life. The next, I was remembering something that had been buried in my mind for more than twenty years. Something I had spent most of my childhood desperately trying to forget.

My therapist believes writing about the experience might help. She calls it a form of catharsis. A way to confront the past, process the trauma, and eventually move forward.

I call it a terrible fucking idea.

But considering the alternative involves another increase in medication and possibly an extended stay in a facility where the doors only open from the outside, I’ve decided to give her suggestion a try.

Before I begin, there’s something you need to understand. When I was a little boy, I had an imaginary friend.

Now, I realize that doesn’t sound particularly unusual. Lots of children have imaginary friends. Some invent them to combat loneliness. Others create entire worlds populated by invisible companions who accompany them on adventures, share their secrets, and occasionally take the blame for broken lamps.

According to my therapist, it’s perfectly normal. Healthy, even.

I suppose that’s comforting if your imaginary friend is a seven-year-old named Danny who likes chocolate milk and playing with Matchbox cars. Mine was a little different.

For starters, he wasn’t invisible. He didn’t want to play. And he certainly wasn’t interested in being my friend.

In fact, I’m not entirely convinced he was ever imaginary.

Or human.

I was eight years old when the visits began. It was the first night of summer, and I remember being particularly excited because school had finally ended. Three glorious months stretched out before me. Three months of riding my bicycle, playing baseball, watching cartoons, and doing absolutely nothing that involved homework.

At that age, summer seemed to last forever.

Looking back, I wish it had ended the following morning.

The first visit happened on June 20, 1978. The summer solstice.

I didn’t know what a solstice was back then. All I knew was that it was the longest day of the year, which meant an extra few minutes of daylight before Mom finally ordered me upstairs to bed.

I still remember the weather that night. A thunderstorm had rolled through shortly after bedtime, bringing with it the kind of heavy summer rain that makes the gutters overflow and the trees scrape against the side of the house.

My bedroom window was cracked open a few inches, allowing the cool air to drift inside. Every so often, a gust of wind would catch the white lace curtains and send them fluttering into the room.

I was lying on my back, staring at the ceiling, when I heard it.

Scratch.

At first, I thought it was the tree outside.

Scratch. Scratch.

Then came a soft shuffling sound. Directly beneath me

There are certain sounds a child instinctively recognizes. The familiar creak of a floorboard. The comforting hum of a refrigerator. The footsteps of a parent coming down the hallway.

This wasn’t one of them. It sounded like something dragging itself across the floor. Slow and deliberately.

I pulled the covers up to my chin and stared at the bedroom door.

Maybe it was a mouse. That was the explanation I settled on. A mouse had somehow gotten into my room and was scurrying around beneath the bed.

Perfectly reasonable. Except mice don’t breathe like that.

I could hear it now. A faint, wet rasp.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

Beside my bed sat the Spider-Man night-light my mother had given me for Christmas. I’d always believed Spidey could protect me from anything.

As long as that little plastic superhero kept glowing, nothing bad could happen. At least, that’s what I’d told myself.

But when I opened my eyes, I noticed something strange.

Spider-Man was still glowing. Only now, his light seemed dimmer. And the shadow beneath my bed was getting darker.

I did what any frightened eight-year-old would do.

I prayed.

Not the usual bedtime prayer Mom had taught me. This was serious business. I was negotiating directly with the Almighty.

I promised God that if he made whatever was under my bed disappear, I’d go to church every Sunday for the rest of my life. I’d even pay attention. No more doodling on the collection envelopes or counting the ceiling tiles during the sermon.

I meant every word. Then I pulled the covers over my head and waited for morning.

I imagined waking to sunlight streaming through the window. Birds chirping in the trees. The neighbor’s bedsheets swaying on the clothesline.

Mom would be downstairs making breakfast. I’d smell bacon. She’d call my name and I’d race down the stairs, relieved that everything had been nothing more than a bad dream.

That’s how these things were supposed to work, you know? You close your eyes. You fall asleep, and the monsters disappeared.

But I didn’t fall asleep, and the thing beneath my bed didn’t disappear. It just stopped scratching.

For several seconds, the room was perfectly still. Then I heard something that made my stomach tighten. Three soft taps coming from the underside of my mattress. I could feel each tap against my back.

I wanted to scream for my mother, but my throat wouldn’t cooperate. My mouth opened, yet nothing came out.

Then came another sound. A long, slow scrape. Like fingernails being dragged across the wooden bed frame. Something was moving. Something was coming out.

I pulled the covers tighter around my body, tucking them beneath my legs so nothing could grab my feet.

Every child knows that rule. As long as your feet are under the blankets, you’re safe. It’s practically a law of nature. I believed it with every fiber of my eight-year-old being. Until I felt the mattress sink beside me.

I don’t know how long I lay there. Outside, the rain continued to hammer against the window, and somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled across the sky.

I kept my eyes shut. Whatever had climbed onto my bed was sitting beside me. I could feel its weight.

The mattress dipped farther. Then came the smell. Something damp and earthy, like the inside of a basement that had been flooded and sealed shut for years.

I held my breath. A cold pressure settled against my shoulder. Not quite a hand. Not quite anything I could recognize.

And then, very close to my ear, I heard a voice…

“Are you awake?”

It was a child’s voice. A little boy. Soft. Almost friendly.

“Are you awake?” it repeated.

I began to cry.

Not loudly. I was too frightened for that. Tears simply leaked from the corners of my tightly closed eyes and soaked into the pillow.

The thing leaned closer. I could hear its breathing again. That horrible, wet rasp.

Then it whispered something I’ll never forget:

“You’re supposed to look at me.”

I shook my head. The mattress shifted.

“That’s okay,” it said.

There was a pause. Then the voice changed. It became deeper. Older.

“I can wait.”

I don’t remember falling asleep that night. The next thing I knew, sunlight was pouring through my bedroom window, and Mom was standing in the doorway, telling me to get dressed.

Breakfast was ready. Bacon and eggs. Just as I’d imagined. For a few wonderful seconds, I convinced myself it had all been a nightmare.

Then Mom asked me a question.

“Why did you move your bed?”

I looked at her.

“What?”

“Your bed. Why did you move it away from the wall?”

I turned.

My bed had been pushed nearly three feet into the center of the room.

The Spider-Man night-light lay broken on the floor.

And there were scratches in the hardwood.

Deep ones.

Four long grooves running from beneath the bed toward the bedroom door.

Mom assumed I’d been sleepwalking. She told me not to worry about it and went downstairs.

I didn’t tell her what had happened. I didn’t tell anyone. Not that morning. Not that summer, and not for another twenty years. Because when I finally worked up the courage to look beneath my bed later that afternoon, I found something that hadn’t been left there the night before.

A small piece of paper, folded neatly in half.

I picked it up with trembling fingers and opened it.

There were only five words written inside. In the uneven handwriting of a child.

“I’ll see you on Thursday.”

And he did.

Every Tuesday and Thursday.

Every summer.

Always beginning on the solstice. Until the night I finally looked at him and it was over.

My therapist says that last part is important. That’s the part I’m beginning to understand, although I can’t remember what it was I saw that night.

She believes the human mind has an extraordinary ability to bury traumatic experiences, sometimes for decades. She thinks the events of that final summer were so horrifying that my brain simply locked them away.

Maybe she’s right. After all, until six months ago, I couldn’t remember any of this. Not the scratching. Not the voice. Not even the little boy who visited my bedroom twice a week.

But now I remember almost everything. And I wish to God I didn’t.

Because there’s something else I haven’t told my therapist. Something I haven’t told anyone.

Last night, shortly after midnight, I woke to a familiar sound. Three soft taps from beneath my bed. Then a little boy’s voice whispered through the darkness.

“Did you miss me?”

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The Seventh Echo is available now from 
Adverse City Publishing
© 2026 James Wood