Becca piloted the yellow rubber duck along the surface of the bath water, launching it through a berg of soap bubbles with a “Whoosh!” and sending it soaring for a victory flight.

As the duck dove back into the water, I submerged a bar of soap and launched it up my daughter’s spine. Becca laughed and wriggled at the touch.

“Did that tickle?” I asked, setting the bar in the corner of the tub and reaching for the bottle of no-tears Muppet shampoo.

Becca resumed her duck’s circuit back through the bubble berg. “It makes me feel wiggy.”

“Wiggy?” Becca’s vocabulary was pretty good for a four-year-old. This sounded not like a mistake, but a word she had coined.

“You know, that oogy-feeling,” she explained, matter-of-fact, as the duck again launched and plunged. “Like worms in your hair.”

Sometimes I would pretend to hold an egg full of worms and crack it over Becca’s head, my fingertips wriggling over her scalp and down her back. Becca would squirm and squeal, “Again! Again!”

She set the sudsy duck on the edge of the tub, sat up, peered over the side, and scanned the floor near the toilet. “Can I read my book?”

My hands were busy massaging the shampoo into a lather and working it through her shoulder length blonde hair. “In the tub?”

“Yeah,” Becca said, pretending she didn’t know better. The board book pages would not survive a reading in the tub. She had not quite finished the book during her pre-bath big-girl potty time. Even though she could recite the tale word for word from memory, she did not like to leave it undone. After all, the story was a mystery that needed to be solved.

“Why don’t you finish it after your bath?” I suggested. I filled a large plastic cup to rinse her hair.

“It’s not a bedtime book, it’s a bathroom book, Daddy.” Duh implied.

I spied the book as I placed a finger under Becca’s chin and lifted slowly so she would face the ceiling while I rinsed the shampoo from her hair. Grover, the affable blue Muppet of Sesame Street fame, warned clearly from The Little Golden Book cover that there would be a monster at the end. This was Becca’s current favorite bathroom text. The suspense that built with each turning page stirred in her that wiggy feeling of nervous excitement, even though she knew full well that the book’s “monster” was only Grover himself, not scary at all.

“I’m afraid it’s too late,” I said and flipped the metal toggle to drain the tub. “Your bath is all done. Time to dry off.”

I enjoyed these times when it was my turn to get Becca ready for bed. Kim would handle my usual post-dinner dish washing and dog walking duties. It would not be long before their little princess was too big for her daddy to help with the bath routine. The dirty dishes and dog poo would never outgrow him.

Tonight, Kim had the bedtime story honors. Once that was complete and she clicked off the big light, I rejoined Becca in her bedroom.

“Good night,” I said with a kiss.

“Don’t let the bed bugs bite,” Becca chimed in with the sing-song benediction of her bedtime ritual.

I kissed her again, “I love you Becca-boo. Sweet dreams.”

Becca usually had no problems sleeping through the night. When she did stir, her trusty night light and soft, ragged blankie usually provided enough security to lull her back to dreamland.

But not tonight.

The hard oak floorboards that stretch along the hallway connecting her bedroom to the master bedroom are riddled with fifty-odd years of creaks and moans, alerting me to her midnight visit before she made it to the bedside. She stood cuddling her blankie in the crook of her neck, not making a sound. Kim remained still, breathing deeply, not quite a snore. The dog looked up sleepily from his spot at the foot of the bed long enough to make a quick assessment of the situation before dropping his head heavily back to the covers.

Even in the faint light of the room, I could see Becca’s lower lip protruding in a serious pout.

“What’s the matter, honey?” I whispered, not wanting to wake Kim.

Something unsettling she’d experienced during the day had crept to the forefront of her mind in the dark of the night.

“Will you lie down in bed with me,” she asked, “for just a few minutes?”

We’d had the discussion about how big girls can go to sleep all on their own. Becca had embraced that concept, though not enthusiastically. But tonight’s appeal seemed out of the ordinary. She was being haunted by some new bogeyman.

I smiled and wiped a tear away from her cheek with my thumb. What kind of father would I be to turn down the chance to provide my baby the feeling of safety and security as she drifted off to sleep?

The mid-July night was pleasant—low humidity. The warm breeze that blew in through the open bedroom window was a refreshing change from the past week of stagnant air conditioning. I tucked Becca into her twin bed and again kissed her forehead. She smiled, now certain that Daddy would keep her safe. She scooted closer to the wall, providing room for me to slide in next to her. I remained on top of the covers to allow myself an easier escape once she was conked out.

I laid on my back with my right arm cocked behind my neck and stared ahead, avoiding the allure of sleep as my eyes slowly adjusted to the dim room, illuminated only by the small, partially obscured night light. I felt as relaxed and content as any father could be.

Until an odd, shadowy movement caught my eye.

Given the room’s lighting and my state of semi-consciousness, I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like something was crawling across my shirt, from my belly toward my face. Perhaps the hungry bed bug of legend had come to feast at last.

My pulse quickened.

Maybe the shadows were playing tricks. My eyes strained to focus on my T-shirt. The folds of the shirt and the angle of the low light created ample shadows across my torso. I remained still, not wanting to alarm Becca, though every muscle in my body was now taut. I didn’t blink, I didn’t want to miss any possible movement, and was rewarded for the effort. One of the shadows suddenly moved with remarkable speed. It was huge. Becca stirred, not quite asleep. I didn’t want her to panic. I was there to protect. Yet panic seemed eager for a victim and I proved to be fertile ground as the enormous thing scurried closer. Closer.

Closer.

It crested the collar of my shirt. Instinct overpowered my rational mind. My left hand slapped wildly at the front of my shirt. I was sweating, my heart was pounding. But Becca remained unaware of any danger.

An open hand still firmly against my chest, I groped about it to detect the creature. A tickling at the base of my palm confirmed that something was there, trapped between my hand and my chest. An invader. If it was a spider, I could crush it dead, but had to know for sure. I didn’t want some fatally wounded creature of the night exacting its final revenge on my daughter.

Then a thought hit, the kind of thought that only comes in bed, at night, when the lights are low and the shadows long: that the thing might be slowly burrowing into my hand. Or worse, my chest—like some horrid, tiny monster from a B-movie on late night cable.

A gasp escaped my lips and I leapt from the bed, arms flailing as I snapped on the lights.

Becca sat up and rubbed her eyes. “What’s wrong, Daddy?”

“Uh…nothing, honey,” I tried to assure her, failing to assure myself, realizing my startled leap had allowed the fiend to fall from my grasp. I searched the bed, pulling back the covers and the sheets, then checking and re-checking my shirt, shorts, the floor. No writhing horror. No scurrying terror. No twitching corpse.

Nothing.

Becca’s innocence and drowsiness kept her from suspecting the true nature of this sudden urge to ransack her bed.

“Did you lose something?” she asked, now fully awake.

I slid the mattress away from the wall and surveyed the dark crevice. If it had made it that far, its escape would be certain.

“Daddy?”

I pushed the mattress back into place, cupped the back of her head in my hand, smiled and calmly replied, “I thought I lost something, but must have been mistaken.” She smiled in return, satisfied. I turned off the lights, returned to the bed, kissed and covered Becca, and, now very, very awake, reviewed the recent events in my mind.

It had all happened so fast, it was possible I had imagined it in a near-dream state. Had my subconscious latched onto that old saying about the bed bugs and fabricated the entire event? No. I was certain he’d seen it—some thing—had felt it against my skin. Yes, it was real. But where was it now? It had moved so fast. Could bugs move that quickly? My mind accelerated with my lurching heart. I re-propped my head with my cocked right arm and kept my left hand free, ready to strike at the first sign of movement. It had probably fallen to the floor when I had jumped up, and scampered under the bed or maybe the nightstand. I tried to focus on the thought that I was safe, they were safe—whatever it was, was gone now—gone for good.

Bugs really bother me, especially at night. I know it’s silly. I understand the math. I am thousands of times more massive and powerful than any lurking critter. But the thought of even a harmless millipede scampering across my body left me feeling all, well, wiggy—goose bumps, cold sweats, and chills down my spine. Picturing spiders or other ungodly nocturnal nasties crawling upon my little princess in search of her blood shifted my instinctive flight mode to paternal fight mode.

Becca cuddled close. After five minutes without further incident, I began to realize that the intruder was unlikely to return, especially if frightened or harmed. My breathing and heart rate returned to normal. Lulled by the warmth and reassurance of Becca’s body against mine, I felt my eyelids grow heavy. I could feel myself drifting off to sleep when there was an itch in my right armpit, the one next to Becca. I tried to ignore it, but the more I did, the more the itch intensified. I was wide awake again. Becca’s breathing revealed her escape to dreamland, so I carefully reached over with my left hand and slowly scratched the irritating spot. Mission accomplished, I re-set my left hand in a defensive position, and resumed my vigil.

The itch returned. The more inconvenient it is to scratch an itch, the more it seems to recur. Again, I waited, taking in deep breaths of the fresh night air, hoping in vain the itch would abate. First the bug, now this itch. I mood had swung from wiggy to vigilant to irritated.

It seemed my promise to calm Becca into sleep was satisfied, so I began plotting my escape without waking her.

The itch moved.

Eyes wide, I realized that the source of the itch was something inside my shirt, clawing its way through the hair in my armpit. The creature wound its way through the curly brush, soon to pounce from beneath the fabric of my shirt to Becca’s nearby head. Adrenaline flooded my bloodstream spiking my heart rate to light speed.

My left hand swooped in, the thumb and forefinger finding their prey and, with a pinch, halted any possibility of escape. A squeeze produced a discernable crunch, the sound of an exoskeleton under duress. I sat up, holding the insect captive. Becca stirred. “I’m just going to the bathroom. I’ll be right back,” I told her and made a quick exit.

In one fluid motion, I flicked the bathroom light on with my right elbow and shut the door behind with a kick of my foot. My thumb and forefinger squeezed together again, and was rewarded with another audible scrunch. I hovered over the gaping toilet bowl, positioning myself so that, upon the release of my vice-like hold, gravity would drag the bug to its watery tomb.

I released my grip, but nothing fell.

I shook my shirt and frantically checked the floor. Still nothing. Was I going mad? Had it flown away? I scanned the ceiling while grasping clumsily at my armpit. I decided to take my shirt off and shake it out. It wasn’t until my head was below the neck hole, inside the shirt, that I realized that that was where the bug must be. I imagined a multi-legged, fanged and venomous creature lunging at my nostrils. I stripped the shirt from my back with a quick jerk, shook the garment, checked the floor…nothing. I looked in the mirror—just in case.

There it was. On my head. Scurrying through my coarse, rapidly graying hair.

The wigginess intensified. My whole body convulsed as if electrocuted, my feet dancing as I slapped frantically at my head. Dislodged, the bug was smacked against the wall, then fell with a thud to the floor. A thud. Large enough to make a noise upon impact. Even after all the slapping and squeezing, it still moved with uncanny speed. Near the base of the sink, it made a frenzied dash for a crack in woodwork. Barefoot and freaked out, I whacked at it with the shirt, but the bug stayed its course. I grabbed Becca’s rubber duck and brought it crashing down on the six-legged fiend. It was an incapacitating blow.

“Duck you,” I said,

I plucked a tissue from the box on the toilet tank and brought the still-writhing insect in for closer inspection.

It was enormous. Black, with brownish markings, some kind of beetle, perhaps. Not a cockroach, but…what was this? I brought it within an inch of my nose—it had two huge pincers, like the claws of a lobster.

That’s when it leapt back to full life and onto my face.

I reacted as though set on fire. Sputtering and blowing viciously out of my nose in a panicked attempt to keep it from clawing its way into my nasal cavity and—who knows—raising a small family there. I bludgeoned my face with my hands and the creature fell again to the floor. This time, shoeless be damned, I stomped and felt a crunch beneath the meaty part of my foot. Remembering the big pincers, I retracted my foot and watched in horror and amazement as the thing continued to limp toward the door.

Becca’s Little Golden Book on the floor and caught my eye. I grabbed it and threw it onto my nemesis.

Just then, the bathroom door swung open and a bleary-eyed Becca stumbled in, still clutching her blankie. She stepped squarely onto her book, oblivious to the source of the crunchy, popping sound emanating from beneath it.

“Are you done going potty?” she asked. Why else would I be in the bathroom at this hour?

My eyes never left the book. Grover continued to smile that same Muppet smile, but now a new monster resided at the end of this book. On the back cover, to be precise. I stood breathless, waiting for a small claw to appear from beneath an edge of The Little Golden tomb, like a slasher flick villain refusing to die—this tiny monster determined to extract its hideous body for one final assault against my precious daughter.

“Daddy?” she asked, puzzled by my disheveled, shirtless, distracted state.

With a nervous, unconvincing smile, I suggested she go back to bed.

“I’m thirsty,” she protested, shifting her minimal weight to the foot not resting on the book. That might be all the hellish creature needed to escape. I rushed her back around the corner to her room, promising a cup of water in a moment. Back in the bathroom, I cautiously flipped the book over, revealing the very squished corpse of my waking nightmare. I wiped the remains off the cover with a tissue, then dropped it into the drink, flushing it into oblivion.

I put my shirt back on, filled a Dixie cup with water, turned out the light and returned to Becca’s bedroom. Her thirst quenched, I again reclined beside her and she in turn drew close to my side.

“Good night, don’t let the bed bugs bite,” she chanted, wrapping her tiny arms around me, snuggling close, sighing. Relaxed. Content. Asleep.

The inside of my eyelids revealed hordes of the deceased pest’s relatives swarming from the woodwork to take up where their fallen comrade had left off. They dispersed as my eyes shot open, yet every shadow moved. Squirmed. The gentle breeze crawled across the hair on my arms.

I laid awake for hours.