by Madam Z
When I was seven years old, my family lived in a small, ramshackle house that had only one bedroom, which mom and dad used, while my sisters and I slept on a bed in the living room. Mom always put us to bed way before I was sleepy, and usually I would just lie there, bored and disgruntled, until I finally fell asleep; but one night mom had left a pile of folded laundry on a table by our bed and right in front of my face was Mom’s peach-colored chenille bedspread, which, as I lay there contemplating it, gradually revealed an evil face in the folds. I couldn't take my eyes off of the face as it stared back at me, and then it spoke, in a deep, crusty voice... "If you touch this bedspread, you will die." The next day, Mom put the bedspread back on their bed and from then on, whenever I had to go into the bedroom, I would stay as far away from the bed as possible, as I could feel the malevolent presence of the demon and knew it was daring me to touch it, so it could kill me. One day, mom was doing some rare housework and wanted me to help, telling me to make her and dad's bed, but I refused, knowing that if I touched the bedspread I’d be dead; but she persisted, yelling, "I TOLD YOU TO MAKE THE BED,” and again I said, "NO!" She blew her top and grabbed my arms, forcing me toward the bed, while I fought and screamed, terrified as she pushed my hands onto the bedding and dragged my trembling arms across the bedspread, pulling it into place as I squeezed my eyes shut and prepared to die, though amazingly enough, I didn't die, and I've never been afraid of a bedspread since.
Madam Z (the one-and-only, and whose full catalog is here) maintains a must-read blog. Stop by.