Mister Nobody lives right here in my room
In a corner, somewhere on the floor.
Though I’ve never seen him—he hides in the gloom
And he never likes using the door.
He only comes out when you turn off the light.
I can’t see him but I know he’s there.
He comes out to visit almost every night.
He appears just to give me a scare.
He can disappear, using magic he knows.
Mother checked one time under my bed.
He had made himself look like a pile of my clothes.
That was all that was there, mother said.
I think I’ve heard him whisper—he never speaks loud.
And I know sometimes I hear him sigh.
He looks like an ink spot—he hasn’t a shape—
He’s a shadow, with one hateful eye.
His name is “Nobody,” that’s something I learned
The first night he gave me a scare.
For when mom tucked me in and looked under the bed
I heard her say, “Nobody’s there.”
And just to be sure I went to my dad
I asked him if mother was right.
And my father replied, without batting an eye,
“Son, Nobody comes at night.”
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