The first thing I noticed was the shine.
It wasn’t the pleasant shine of varnish or polished wood. It was a dull, stubborn gloss — the kind that catches the light just enough to say, I wasn’t always here. I was on my knees, cleaning under a shelf that hadn’t been moved in years, when my fingers brushed against something lumpy and resistant.
Sticky.
I pulled it out slowly.
It came free with a faint tearing sound, as if it had grown attached to the wood itself. In my hand was a strange, knotted mass — brown and irregular, studded with what looked like dozens of tiny pale beads. Seeds? Eggs? Pebbles? They were embedded all over its surface like a grotesque constellation.
There was a thin strand of fibrous material wrapped around it, almost like webbing. The whole thing felt organic. But not fresh. Old. Hardened in places, gummy in others.
I looked around.
No scratching sounds in the walls. No droppings. No chewed corners. No nests in obvious places. The house had been quiet.
Except for one detail.
In the far corner of the room, near the baseboard, there was a small hole — no wider than a thumb. And beneath it, a faint dusting of brick powder. Fresh enough that it hadn’t fully settled into the cracks of the floorboards.
Something had pushed through.
But what leaves behind a sticky clump covered in what looks like seeds?
For a moment, my mind jumped to worst-case scenarios. Some strange fungus colony? An insect hive? A rodent cache? I poked it gently with a screwdriver. It didn’t scurry. Didn’t crack open. Didn’t react at all.
Then it hit me.
The “seeds” weren’t uniform like insect eggs. They were…..
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