I was originally gonna go with a more literal interpretation of this theme, but then I listened to Knife Under My Pillow by Maggie Lindemann one too many times (which is where I got the title from). If you remember Ghost in the Machine, this'll probably be familiar, and if you don't, just know that GitM!Mike witnessed the Bite of '87, and that childhood trauma is a helluva drug.
Eight-year-old Mike mumbled something under his breath about a bad dream. His mother scoffed, told him to just eat breakfast so he could go to school, she didn't have time for this.
Fourteen-year-old Mike held his breath as he sneaked down the hallway. The drawings and posters that lined the wall fluttered in a nonexistent breeze, trying to draw his attention away from what was in front of him.
Nine-year-old Mike squeaked, pulling his blanket tighter around himself. He stared up at the monster hanging from the ceiling, that matched his every step as he stumbled backwards.
Twenty-year-old Mike cursed quietly, his legs collapsing under him. He hated them, hated everything they stood for, and yet, waking up from one of those nightmares in an empty house was enough to, for a moment, make him want to cry for his family like a lost child.
Eight-year-old Mike just stared blankly ahead, brain struggling to process what he was seeing, even as the creature lifted its head, blood still dripping from its teeth.
Sixteen-year-old Mike pressed his hand over his mouth, trying to hide the sound of every single gasp. He felt the door being pushed open behind him.
Eleven-year-old Mike buried his head under his blanket. He had a feeling that wouldn't protect him, but maybe it would soften the blaring static that tore at his ears.
Fifteen-year-old Mike didn't answer when he heard a knock on the bathroom door. He splashed another handful of cold water on his face, not even hearing his sister Christine's snide comment.
Eight-year-old Mike Schmidt whimpered, looking up at the creature in front of him. It looked a bit like a fox, and a bit like a spider, with many legs and sharp teeth and-
Eighteen-year-old Mike shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, tapping his fingers against his legs. He didn't know where he was. He didn't know how he got there. He didn't know how to get out.
Thirteen-year-old Mike brandished his flashlight like a weapon. He was brave, he fought monsters, this shouldn't be a problem for him. His hands were still shaking.
Twenty-one-year-old Mike heard mocking laughter behind him. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't convince himself to turn around.
Ten-year-old Mike stumbled, tripping over his own feet, even as his legs ached and his lungs burned, because he could hear it behind him.
Twenty-four-year-old Mike sank his teeth into his thumb, eyes fixed on his bedroom doorway. He wanted to pretend there was still only one monster, pretend that damn job hadn't somehow left him even more broken than before.
Eight-year-old Mike cocked his head, looking at the tangled mess in Kids' Cove.