Natasha jerks awake, convinced that she felt something moving. Her gun’s in her hand, aimed at the empty space at the end of the bed - and she would relax if every instinct wasn’t screaming at her. Something doesn’t feel right.
She’s lowered the gun, although she keeps hold of it, when the second tug occurs. She watches the sheets shift again with no apparent cause, and while she points her gun again, she’s not sure what good it’ll do. “Who’s there? Identify yourself.”
The blankets billow suddenly as if a gentle waft of air has pushed them into outward, and eventually they again settle. At this point your fairly alarmed, something is indeed out of place here. When nothing again occurs, you begin to suspect that perhaps it had been a window left ajar, something, anything to make sense of it.
And then you catch sight of it, the small bulge beginning to rise from under the sheets, with you.
And it’s growing. Rising.
Natasha jerks at the movement, although as the blankets settle back once more, she slips the gun back beneath the pillow. A window. The air con. There are a thousand reasonable explanations, and she’ll do no good succumbing to her childish, irrational fear of that which she cannot see.
That is until she sees the very real shape shift beneath the sheets. She tries to move, but she’s rooted to the bed, paralysed by the very notion that there is no rationalising this. Eventually, self-preservation (always stronger than her fear, rooted more deeply than she understands) kicks her from the bed, scrambling away while never turning her back on the forming entity.