A Bag by His Bed – Sort of Short Stories

By: Harry Watts

Dylan Harper braced against an October wind as he locked his Chevy in an otherwise deserted Walmart lot. Fluorescent bulbs buzzed overhead, casting stark pools of light over abandoned shopping carts. He hurried inside and returned with his usual haul—cola, energy drinks, a bag of chips. He’d tell himself later it was fuel for coding—but really, it was more for the company when caffeine wore off.

At the register, the cashier—lined eyes behind fatigued warmth—chirped, “Another late coder night?”

“Yeah,” Dylan lied. “Deadline.”

She handed him a gray plastic bag stamped with the familiar logo. “Hang in there.”

He nodded, drove home, dumped the bag on his nightstand, and sank into deadlines and laptops until exhaustion pulled him under sometime in the early hours.

He woke to the soft hum of his laptop. The pale gray bag lay beside him, half-open. He blinked in confusion. He had thrown it out—hadn’t he? He lifted it, crushed it, and tossed it into the trashcan. Then, finally, sleep reclaimed him.

Night three. Dylan scrubbed at grimy code screens until 2 A.M. His eyes flitted closed… then reopened with a start. The bag smoothed across his pillow, ink meant for sleep-quiet replaced by the scrawl: DON’T SLEEP.

“Who put this here?” His voice was a whisper, haggard. He checked—no marker in sight. No one else lived here. His pulse pounded in his throat.

He scooped the bag and threw it again. But dread had burrowed in.

Days dragged. He paced in winter breezes for fresh air. Shadows in corners. He kept his journal—scribbled lines like confessions: He’s here. I need sleep. I need to run. He shredded the bag, flushed the pieces. Drove to Walmart in daylight, collected replacements—then tossed them all. His apartment became a plastic-free zone out of panic. Still, at night: scratch, shift, hiss in darkness—Don’t sleep.

One night, delirious, he fell asleep on the couch. He jolted awake to a creak. The bag slid across the floor. Not underfoot—but alive. Incoherent panic seized him, and he lunged, smashing it with his lamp. The impact rang, shards struck his arm. He reeled, shaking, gasping. And still, it re-knit—plastic tendrils slithering, whispering.

Dim, predawn light trickled through moth‑eaten blinds. The bag crouched on his bed, unnatural.

“What do you want from me?” he rasped, lamp raised high.

The bag quivered. Ink pooled like blood.

Don’t sleep…

He advanced, breath hitching: I’ll destroy you.

He struck. The plastic burst with a muffled crack. Shards flew; ink spattered his skin.

He staggered. It crawled up, shifting shape. Desperate, he swept the lamp behind him, eyes locked on its slow advance.

“You’re not real,” he snarled, but his voice faltered in fear.

The bag lunged. He dove for the trash-can lid—holding it like armor.

It paused, then sagged. Ink-drips spelled nightmares.

“Stay away!” he screamed, chest heaving.

Silence. The bag lay collapsed.

He sank to his knees. “You’re gone…” his voice cracked.

Sunlight cut across his floor. He lay motionless, mind spinning through the horror:

The hiss, alive and malevolent.
The blow—the lamp’s thrum in his bones.
The shards—proof he faced something defying reason.

His arm throbbed. Tears burned his eyes. Why had he fought so hard? He clutched his side—shame twisting with relief.

His phone lit. Eliza’s voicemail: Call me when you can…

He exhaled. He realized: I’m still here. I need her voice.

He showed up at his sister’s that morning. Her small kitchen smelled of coffee and care.

“I… fought it,” he said, voice raw. “Something… in my head.”

She didn’t flinch. She wrapped him in a hug. “You’re safe now.”

They talked: the fear, the sleepless nights, the refusal to sleep. Dylan wept, embarrassed—his terror laid bare. She listened.

“You weren’t going crazy,” she said. “You were afraid. And you fought.”

Something settled in that hug—like dawn.

Back home, Dylan began small rituals:

He journaled—each night, entries of terror and small victories. Documenting trauma to order chaos.
He slept with the trash-can lid near the bed—protection, not fear.
He reclaimed his space—glass jars replaced plastic, cloth bags hung by the door.

Each day, the hiss in his head loosened its grip. He slept deeper, dreams gentler—of cocoons, light, sky.

One evening, he closed his journal with a flourish: I survived. I’m not broken. The room lay silent.

A light tap on the window drew his gaze. A Monarch butterfly hovered—orange and black—a creature reborn. It fluttered in, paused, then flew out into twilight.

Dylan watched, breath caught. He whispered, “Thank you.”

Months later, the apartment had changed:

A plastic‑free kitchen filled with jars and cloths.
His desk bore a leather-bound journal, pages full of reflection.
A butterfly-shaped pendant now hung from his keyring.

He thumbed a page: “I reclaimed my nights and my life.”

He smiled, choking on the joy of survival.

He switched off his lamp, lay down—and slept.