The story so far:
David's heart paused, his blood chilling, and every inch of his skin crawled. Despite everything he'd told himself about not being a kid, he felt exactly like he had all those years ago. He might not be six any more, but he had the same sinking fear, the same metallic taste in the back of his throat, the same lock in his throat.
His parents had put him through a lot of therapy for his night terrors. This was not real.
His bed gave a muffled creak, and he felt the comforter shifting. Icy cold sweat beaded on his forehead, and his breath wheezed out of his chest in a gust. He felt something solid next to him, another body in bed, but it radiated no heat.
David squeezed his eyes closed, gritting his teeth, willing himself to calm down. He'd practiced for years to control himself, to keep from screaming at shadows, to keep from panicing because of a half-heard noise. He was a grown man, with a job and responsabilities, a long time girlfriend, and a dog. He was not a little boy, and he knew there was nothing in the dark.
There was nothing to get him. Nothing was going to eat him, or pull him under the bed.
"Hello, David," came the sepulchre voice.