Bumps live in the dark places, the deep places, the no-places between picture frames and walls.
They live in the under places and the lonely places and the places no one goes.
Bumps are parasites. They stalk bigger monsters, the less discreet ones. They wait until it’s dark and quiet and the monster is almost on top of its prey. Then…
A moment of distraction is just enough to make the prey turn to face the thing that will gobble them up.
Bumps have no eyes nor ears. Several hearts silently thump inside a coffin-like chest. You can’t hide or run or fight them off. They have no fear and no brain — but they’re quick to pounce.
Bumps are the too close for comfort howls in forests with no wolves. They are the weight on your chest when you wake too early from a dream. They are movement in the farthest corner of your vision, only to turn and find nothing there.
Their forms allow them no peace. Their agony is eternal and otherworldly. They exist on the threshold of Death’s door; not able to escape, nor permitted to slip through.
Some pity them. Some are simply curious. And to those I say, there is a way to see one for yourself.
In the day they turn to harmless shadows, sitting in corners, on bookcases, mingling with dust. But at night they roam. Sometimes they can be found in abandoned buildings, the kind where the paintings on the wall came from a can. If you’re lucky you may catch their reflection in a piece of broken glass. Better yet, find yourself in a Warpolian castle or an old house (the kind where sound defies the laws of physics) then find a closed door that opens on a room you’ve never been in.
Crouch. Close one eye. Look through the key hole.
Did you hear that? Turn around.