The Closet.

It's not real. That's what I tell myself every night as I lay in bed with my hands over my ears.

I hate that stupid closet.

It's exactly the kind of closet that you read about in horror movies. In fact, every time I look at that closet I can't help but think about the Boogeyman from Stephen King's Nightshift.

I know that there is no such thing as the Boogeyman. However, as I lay in bed I hear noises coming from that closet.

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There can't be anything in there.

There are clothes. The clothes I wear to my restaurant every morning.

There are books. The books that I come home and read when I'm too tired to mess around with anything in particular.

It's all in your imagination. When you lay in bed you can make almost anything become real when your eyes are closed.

There's no one in there making noise.

There's nothing about the closet that's unusual.

It's just a closet.

It's nothing special.

That's what I tell myself every morning.

One thing I can't explain is the footprints that lead away from it into the hallway.