I Took in a Stray Cat. Something Else Moved In With Us. I…
0 reactions
I Took in a Stray Cat. Something Else Moved In With Us.
I found Tom about a month ago. He was lying outside in the snow, almost completely motionless. He was skin and bones, barely able to meow anymore; his tiny mouth opened in a silent scream when I stopped in front of him. My heart clenched, and I knew a cat really didn’t have much room in my already overcrowded apartment. But I couldn’t just leave him there.
Atlas took Tom’s arrival surprisingly well. Atlas has been with me since he was a puppy. This fall will mark six years. He was the kindest, most loyal animal I’ve ever known. Some kind of Bernese mountain dog mix, big, fluffy, a real gentle giant. I was worried about how he’d react to Tom, given the huge difference in size.
But Tom and Atlas bonded quickly. Tom was tiny, and I honestly thought he wouldn’t even last a day, yet he pulled through and started looking better in about two days. I didn’t really know much about cats, but I knew they were adaptable and tough. So I decided to skip the vet. Yeah, an excuse, really. To be honest, I didn’t have the money to take him.
Once I saw he was improving, I told myself I’d deal with it if he showed signs that something was wrong. It was a bad decision. I could have spared myself everything that followed…
Tom’s behavior wasn’t strange at first. His skinny little body moved with difficulty, especially in the beginning. He barely ate and spent most of the day just lying there. But I did what I could. I kept him warm in my apartment, gave him food and water. At first, I thought it was best to keep Atlas at a distance. In his excitement, he might’ve accidentally stepped on him.
Tom pulled through in about two days. He even seemed to be gaining weight. He became lively and curious, quickly exploring my small apartment, and he and Atlas found common ground. Tom, the gray kitten I’d found on the street, completely recovered within a week, and it even felt like he’d grown. During the day, he and Atlas slept together, playing like old friends. But the better Tom got, the stranger he started acting. It was as if he had only just realized he was living with a stranger. Or maybe he’d only needed me until I fixed him up.
Tom started hiding from me. Sometimes it felt like he was avoiding me altogether. I looked it up online, wondering if this kind of behavior was a problem, but most sources said it was normal for cats. Cats are strange animals, I told myself, so I let him be and hoped he’d adjust.
Still, Tom grew more and more unsettling. Whenever I managed to catch a glimpse of him under the bed or behind the radiator, he looked oddly round. Bloated, almost. No matter how much I tried to lure him out with food, he wouldn’t come. He hissed and scratched instead.
So I continued to let him live his life. He didn’t cause much trouble. He and Atlas coexisted just fine, though it bothered me more and more that I couldn’t tell if Tom was healthy. I was afraid he might pass something on to Atlas.
It didn’t take long for that worry to be replaced by another.
From one day to the next, Atlas seemed to hate Tom. I don’t know what happened between them or what could’ve set him off so badly. But when I got home, Atlas was barking like a maniac in the kitchen, right by the refrigerator. I could barely calm him down. Tom was crouched behind the fridge, hissing at us. His bloated little gray body looked like an overstuffed plush toy, seconds away from bursting.
That was when I knew I couldn’t wait any longer. Tom had to see a vet. I locked Atlas out of the kitchen, at least he wouldn’t be underfoot. But I couldn’t get Tom out from behind the fridge. The moment I got close, he lashed out and growled. So I waited. My plan was to sit on the floor next to the fridge and keep watch until Tom fell asleep. He had to sleep eventually.
What I hadn’t counted on was falling asleep first.
I jolted awake on the kitchen floor. In the darkness, all I heard was something wet slapping as it ran away, like a small animal sprinting through a puddle. I rubbed my eyes and pushed myself up off the hard tile. According to the clock, I’d only dozed off for about half an hour, but that was enough time for night to fall outside.
That’s when Atlas whimpered. Just a short, sharp sound, sudden and full of pain.
“Atlas?” I called into the darkness.
I reached out and flipped on the kitchen light. I took a quick glance behind the refrigerator, but Tom’s gray back was gone.
I hurried into the living room, but Atlas wasn’t on the couch.
“Atlas? Tom?” I called out again.
Then I heard it, another painful whimper, coming from the direction of the bathroom. It was followed by clattering and rattling, like something had crashed into objects in its way.
I ran to the bathroom, heart pounding. To my surprise, the door was closed. I grabbed the handle and opened it quickly, but my confusion only grew.
Atlas was standing in front of the shower. He was staring at the white tiles in the dark. The small storage table had been knocked over, but I didn’t notice anything else. Or maybe I did… maybe I was just imagining things, or it was a trick of the shadows. But for a split second after turning on the light, it looked like tentacles were hanging from Atlas’s nose.
It had to be his fur casting a shadow. That’s what I told myself.
I couldn’t find Tom anywhere. I tore the apartment apart over the weekend, but there was no sign of the cat. The only thing I could think was that he’d somehow escaped. I had no idea how he’d managed it, but there was nothing I could do. So it was just the two of us again, Atlas and me. My loyal companion. Atlas was the same as he’d been before Tom. I didn’t notice him searching for the cat at all. And honestly, it felt good, back to our familiar routine.
But over the next few days, Atlas started eating more and more. He still moved around, too. I took him for walks, let him run at the dog park. Still, he kept getting wider. I tried cutting back his food, but the little bastard always managed to dig something out of the kitchen cabinets. Or he ate anything he could reach.
Then one morning, Atlas changed.
He spent the entire day lying around. He didn’t really want to do anything. Just looking at him, he seemed severely overweight. Even his head looked bigger, his eyes bulging.
Every time I left for work, he was lying on the outdoor couch. When I came home, he was still there in the exact same spot. After a few days of this, panic set in. Please don’t let anything be wrong with Atlas.
That’s when I decided I’d take him to the vet that day.
But as I stepped toward Atlas, he started to growl.
“Atlas…” I froze. “Buddy. Come on. We need to go to the vet.”
Atlas growled louder. His abnormally swollen body seemed to ripple, his enlarged head pulled back as he bared his teeth and snarled.
“Atlas!” I snapped.
The dog barked angrily in response.
“That’s enough,” I said firmly. “We’re going. Now.”
I took a careless step toward him, reaching out my hand. What I didn’t expect was for Atlas, the slow, gentle Atlas, my harmless little sweetheart, to bite me.
There was a single sharp snap, and his teeth sank deep into my outstretched forearm. I screamed and yanked my hand back. Atlas, maybe because of my voice, maybe because something was still left of him, let go immediately.
Blood dripped onto my brown carpet, leaving small dark spots behind.
I stared at Atlas’s grotesquely bloated, waterlogged face in horror. Atlas is getting worse, the thought hit me all at once. My next thought went straight to the first aid kit in the bathroom.
I rushed into the bathroom and dropped to my knees, digging through the small lockable cabinet beneath the sink for the first aid kit. That’s where I kept all the medication and supplies. The small red box with the white cross was right there. I snapped it open and pressed the first roll of gauze I grabbed against my hand, which was bleeding worse by the second. Scattered and crouched on the floor, I searched for anything I could use to disinfect the wound.
That’s when I heard it again.
It sounded like someone walking barefoot through a large puddle.
I’d heard the same sound the day Tom disappeared, but this time it was louder. Much louder. And it wasn’t small feet, it was heavy steps.
Still crouching in the middle of the bathroom, my hand half wrapped in gauze, I slowly turned toward the sound.
A cold shiver ran down my spine.
Atlas was standing in the living room. He was staring straight at me with watery eyes that looked ready to burst from their sockets. His body was swollen like a balloon. But that wasn’t the worst part. His stomach had split open between his legs, and a watery, bloody fluid was spilling across the floor. Instead of the dog’s organs, something else was seeping out onto the tiles.
I didn’t know what I was seeing, but it felt like I was witnessing some kind of grotesque birth in my living room. From the dog I’d raised since he was a puppy, a pale, purplish, tentacled thing was forcing its way out. As the shapeless mass spread farther across the floor, Atlas grew smaller. Like air escaping from a balloon, except this balloon was my dog.
I couldn’t move. Not even an inch. Atlas didn’t make a sound. He stood there, rigid and motionless, while I stared with wide eyes as his body collapsed in on itself.
When Atlas had become so thin that there was almost nothing left but skin and fur, the slimy mass on the floor began to take shape.
I finally stood up, completely forgetting about my bleeding hand, and just watched in shock.
The purplish thing began to resemble a body. Its tentacles stretched out in every direction. On what looked like a misshapen, balloon-like head, tiny black dots appeared. They rotated slowly, clearly searching for something.
Its tentacles crawled across the floor, leaving slick trails of slime behind. Then the black dots stopped moving and locked onto a single point.
They had found what they were looking for.
Me.
The thing lunged at me immediately. It moved so fast it felt like it was flying. I heard its wet tentacles slapping and sliding across the floor, slick and sticky, and beneath that sound it was like dozens of tiny feet were tapping against the wooden floorboards. I only needed a split second to understand what was happening. I jumped for the bathroom door and slammed it shut with so much force I thought it might come off the hinges. I threw the lock closed. The moment it clicked, something on the other side hit the door like a wet sack being hurled at it. I stumbled back in panic.
I could hear it forcing its way closer. Slimy tentacles scraping and probing, searching for a way in.
“What the fuck is this…” I muttered, backing away from the door.
But it didn’t stop there. Through every crack in the door, every gap where even a single hair might fit, purplish, slick tentacles began to seep through. They groped blindly, searching for anything to grab onto. From the keyhole, a thicker tentacle began to grow, twisting and turning as it searched for the lock. This thing was smart. And it wasn’t going to give up on reaching me. Paralyzed with horror, my survival instinct finally kicked in as I watched those octopus-like limbs writhe in a nauseating attempt to get inside.
I needed something, anything… to defend myself. I kicked over the first aid kit in a panic, hoping something inside might help. But there was nothing. Nothing sharp, nothing heavy enough to throw. I spun in place, desperate, scanning the bathroom for an option. That’s when it hit me.
I hadn’t smoked in almost half a year, but my lighter was still sitting in my back pocket.
I pulled it out and flicked it. It worked immediately, the flame sprang to life. I grabbed the air freshener next to the toilet.
I had myself a flamethrower.
That’s when I heard the lock click.
I had less than a second. The tentacles snapped back so fast I only caught a blur of purple before they vanished. The thing pulled away from the door. Slowly, the bathroom door creaked open.
I held my breath, staring at the doorway like a hunting dog waiting for a command.
A flash of purple streaked upward, onto the ceiling, then onto the wall of the shower stall. I didn’t hesitate. I pressed down on the air freshener and sparked the lighter. A burst of flame shot out, engulfing the purple mass on the shower wall. But it was fast. Terrifyingly fast. Tentacles snapped through the air, there was another wet smack, and suddenly it launched itself at me from the floor, dodging the flames. I barely had time to drop the air freshener and throw my right arm up in front of my face.
Its tentacles wrapped around my arm, my head, my back. The long, cold appendages were sharp, lined with what felt like hundreds of tiny hooks. I felt them digging into my flesh, tearing into my skin. We crashed into a nightmare of motion, a violent, twisting struggle. No matter how hard I spun or tried to shove it away from my face, it only tightened its grip. I screamed, part pain, part rage, as we smashed into furniture, knocking everything over. One wrong step sent me stumbling backward, straight into the shower stall. The glass exploded into tiny cubes, and the thing and I crashed together into the shower tray.
I fought with everything I had, even crouched in the corner on one knee, trying to hold it back. But its tentacles were slick, multiplying, spreading. Half of it stayed anchored to me while the rest slowly crept toward my face. I felt something cold and thin brush against my nose, tickling it before pushing inside, toward my nostrils, my mouth, my ears.
Summoning every ounce of strength left in me, I forced myself upright and dragged us out of the shower. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that we were directly in front of the bathroom mirror. Rage flooded me. I lowered my head and charged, smashing the thing face-first into the mirror. The glass burst against its balloon-like body, and it let out a thin, shrill screech. Its grip loosened for just a moment, and I took it. I grabbed one of its slimy tentacles and yanked it free from my nose, slamming it harder into the shattered glass.
The creature convulsed and ripped itself away with tremendous force, dragging me along before breaking free. My head came loose, and I sucked in air, finally able to breathe again. But its tentacles still held on. One was wrapped tight around my arm, others hooked into my back like barbs.
I staggered toward the toilet. Kicking the lid open, I dropped to my knees beside it, forcing the creature down as best I could. With my free hand, I slammed the toilet seat down onto it. Again. And again. Glass shards embedded in its soft body crunched with every impact. I could hear it screaming inside my head, high-pitched and agonized, but I didn’t stop. I kept slamming the lid down until my arms shook.
I felt the thing thrashing against my back. This was my chance. I grabbed it with both hands, whatever shifting, unstable shape I could hold, and hurled it into the toilet bowl with all my strength. The disgusting mass barely fit, but I slammed the bent lid shut and threw my full weight onto it.
Then I reached for the flush handle.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but I pulled it anyway.
The toilet roared to life. The creature’s tentacles flailed wildly, searching for purchase. Water surged, pipes groaned, and the bowl overflowed, water spilling across the bathroom floor. I didn’t let up. I kept pressing the lid down as hard as I could. The pipes vibrated violently.
Then, with a loud, wet suctioning sound, the water level dropped.
To my shock, the creature seemed to retreat. The tentacles sticking out shrank, slipping back inside. The lid became easier to hold down.
And then, in an instant, it was gone.
I stood there, gasping in the wrecked bathroom. I was soaked—water, blood, sweat. My back, arms, and head were covered in small, bleeding cuts, like I’d been slashed with a razor.
Did I win?
The thought flashed through my mind, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the toilet.
“Jordi? Are you here…? Is everything okay?” came a familiar woman’s voice from the living room.
Addison. My neighbor. A terrible feeling shot through me, but something was faster. I heard it again, like something heavy moving through the pipes or the sewer. Like a massive clog being forced through.
“Jordi…? Are you in the kitchen?” I heard Addison call again.
I couldn’t get a single word out. My legs moved on their own. I jumped over what was left of Atlas’s twisted shell on the floor and ran toward the kitchen.
I heard a short scream. Then that wet, slimy sound again. The thing hadn’t left. It had just found an easier target than me.
I practically burst into the kitchen. Addison was leaning against the counter, her body shaking. And the thing… it was finishing what it had started with me. I watched as tentacles were sucked back into her nose, disappearing inside her.
“Holy shit…” I said out loud.
The woman, or whatever she was now, looked at me. Then she panicked and bolted. No matter how fast I lunged after her, Addison slipped past my hand. Like a cat, she twisted away effortlessly and ran out through the open front door.
I grabbed a kitchen knife and went after her. I chased Addison down the hallway like a madman, knife in my hand, gasping for breath, covered in blood and cuts.
It didn’t take long for things to get worse.
Addison was heading toward the stairwell when one of the apartment doors flew open in response to my shouting. A large man stormed out, furious.
“What the fuck is all this yelling?” he shouted.
The moment he saw me, I knew this was bad. From the outside, it must have looked insane, a soaked, bleeding lunatic with a knife chasing an innocent woman.
It was like hitting a concrete wall. I barely registered what happened before the man slammed into me, sending me crashing into the hallway wall. I hit the dirty carpet hard, dazed. He stepped over me, stomped on my hand, and kicked the knife away. Then he crouched down and punched me in the mouth so hard I spat blood everywhere.
“If I ever see you again, you piece of shit,” he screamed, pointing at me. “You crazy fuck.”
“No…” I mumbled through my split lip. “She can’t leave. That’s not who she...”
He didn’t respond. He just drove his foot into my stomach with brutal force. I gagged, coughing up spit and blood, choking.
Then he stood up and went back into his apartment, like he’d taken care of a problem.
I lay there on the hallway floor, staring toward the stairwell door. Addison was gone.
And all I could think was…
What the hell did I just let loose?
#entertainment
source
I found Tom about a month ago. He was lying outside in the snow, almost completely motionless. He was skin and bones, barely able to meow anymore; his tiny mouth opened in a silent scream when I stopped in front of him. My heart clenched, and I knew a cat really didn’t have much room in my already overcrowded apartment. But I couldn’t just leave him there.
Atlas took Tom’s arrival surprisingly well. Atlas has been with me since he was a puppy. This fall will mark six years. He was the kindest, most loyal animal I’ve ever known. Some kind of Bernese mountain dog mix, big, fluffy, a real gentle giant. I was worried about how he’d react to Tom, given the huge difference in size.
But Tom and Atlas bonded quickly. Tom was tiny, and I honestly thought he wouldn’t even last a day, yet he pulled through and started looking better in about two days. I didn’t really know much about cats, but I knew they were adaptable and tough. So I decided to skip the vet. Yeah, an excuse, really. To be honest, I didn’t have the money to take him.
Once I saw he was improving, I told myself I’d deal with it if he showed signs that something was wrong. It was a bad decision. I could have spared myself everything that followed…
Tom’s behavior wasn’t strange at first. His skinny little body moved with difficulty, especially in the beginning. He barely ate and spent most of the day just lying there. But I did what I could. I kept him warm in my apartment, gave him food and water. At first, I thought it was best to keep Atlas at a distance. In his excitement, he might’ve accidentally stepped on him.
Tom pulled through in about two days. He even seemed to be gaining weight. He became lively and curious, quickly exploring my small apartment, and he and Atlas found common ground. Tom, the gray kitten I’d found on the street, completely recovered within a week, and it even felt like he’d grown. During the day, he and Atlas slept together, playing like old friends. But the better Tom got, the stranger he started acting. It was as if he had only just realized he was living with a stranger. Or maybe he’d only needed me until I fixed him up.
Tom started hiding from me. Sometimes it felt like he was avoiding me altogether. I looked it up online, wondering if this kind of behavior was a problem, but most sources said it was normal for cats. Cats are strange animals, I told myself, so I let him be and hoped he’d adjust.
Still, Tom grew more and more unsettling. Whenever I managed to catch a glimpse of him under the bed or behind the radiator, he looked oddly round. Bloated, almost. No matter how much I tried to lure him out with food, he wouldn’t come. He hissed and scratched instead.
So I continued to let him live his life. He didn’t cause much trouble. He and Atlas coexisted just fine, though it bothered me more and more that I couldn’t tell if Tom was healthy. I was afraid he might pass something on to Atlas.
It didn’t take long for that worry to be replaced by another.
From one day to the next, Atlas seemed to hate Tom. I don’t know what happened between them or what could’ve set him off so badly. But when I got home, Atlas was barking like a maniac in the kitchen, right by the refrigerator. I could barely calm him down. Tom was crouched behind the fridge, hissing at us. His bloated little gray body looked like an overstuffed plush toy, seconds away from bursting.
That was when I knew I couldn’t wait any longer. Tom had to see a vet. I locked Atlas out of the kitchen, at least he wouldn’t be underfoot. But I couldn’t get Tom out from behind the fridge. The moment I got close, he lashed out and growled. So I waited. My plan was to sit on the floor next to the fridge and keep watch until Tom fell asleep. He had to sleep eventually.
What I hadn’t counted on was falling asleep first.
I jolted awake on the kitchen floor. In the darkness, all I heard was something wet slapping as it ran away, like a small animal sprinting through a puddle. I rubbed my eyes and pushed myself up off the hard tile. According to the clock, I’d only dozed off for about half an hour, but that was enough time for night to fall outside.
That’s when Atlas whimpered. Just a short, sharp sound, sudden and full of pain.
“Atlas?” I called into the darkness.
I reached out and flipped on the kitchen light. I took a quick glance behind the refrigerator, but Tom’s gray back was gone.
I hurried into the living room, but Atlas wasn’t on the couch.
“Atlas? Tom?” I called out again.
Then I heard it, another painful whimper, coming from the direction of the bathroom. It was followed by clattering and rattling, like something had crashed into objects in its way.
I ran to the bathroom, heart pounding. To my surprise, the door was closed. I grabbed the handle and opened it quickly, but my confusion only grew.
Atlas was standing in front of the shower. He was staring at the white tiles in the dark. The small storage table had been knocked over, but I didn’t notice anything else. Or maybe I did… maybe I was just imagining things, or it was a trick of the shadows. But for a split second after turning on the light, it looked like tentacles were hanging from Atlas’s nose.
It had to be his fur casting a shadow. That’s what I told myself.
I couldn’t find Tom anywhere. I tore the apartment apart over the weekend, but there was no sign of the cat. The only thing I could think was that he’d somehow escaped. I had no idea how he’d managed it, but there was nothing I could do. So it was just the two of us again, Atlas and me. My loyal companion. Atlas was the same as he’d been before Tom. I didn’t notice him searching for the cat at all. And honestly, it felt good, back to our familiar routine.
But over the next few days, Atlas started eating more and more. He still moved around, too. I took him for walks, let him run at the dog park. Still, he kept getting wider. I tried cutting back his food, but the little bastard always managed to dig something out of the kitchen cabinets. Or he ate anything he could reach.
Then one morning, Atlas changed.
He spent the entire day lying around. He didn’t really want to do anything. Just looking at him, he seemed severely overweight. Even his head looked bigger, his eyes bulging.
Every time I left for work, he was lying on the outdoor couch. When I came home, he was still there in the exact same spot. After a few days of this, panic set in. Please don’t let anything be wrong with Atlas.
That’s when I decided I’d take him to the vet that day.
But as I stepped toward Atlas, he started to growl.
“Atlas…” I froze. “Buddy. Come on. We need to go to the vet.”
Atlas growled louder. His abnormally swollen body seemed to ripple, his enlarged head pulled back as he bared his teeth and snarled.
“Atlas!” I snapped.
The dog barked angrily in response.
“That’s enough,” I said firmly. “We’re going. Now.”
I took a careless step toward him, reaching out my hand. What I didn’t expect was for Atlas, the slow, gentle Atlas, my harmless little sweetheart, to bite me.
There was a single sharp snap, and his teeth sank deep into my outstretched forearm. I screamed and yanked my hand back. Atlas, maybe because of my voice, maybe because something was still left of him, let go immediately.
Blood dripped onto my brown carpet, leaving small dark spots behind.
I stared at Atlas’s grotesquely bloated, waterlogged face in horror. Atlas is getting worse, the thought hit me all at once. My next thought went straight to the first aid kit in the bathroom.
I rushed into the bathroom and dropped to my knees, digging through the small lockable cabinet beneath the sink for the first aid kit. That’s where I kept all the medication and supplies. The small red box with the white cross was right there. I snapped it open and pressed the first roll of gauze I grabbed against my hand, which was bleeding worse by the second. Scattered and crouched on the floor, I searched for anything I could use to disinfect the wound.
That’s when I heard it again.
It sounded like someone walking barefoot through a large puddle.
I’d heard the same sound the day Tom disappeared, but this time it was louder. Much louder. And it wasn’t small feet, it was heavy steps.
Still crouching in the middle of the bathroom, my hand half wrapped in gauze, I slowly turned toward the sound.
A cold shiver ran down my spine.
Atlas was standing in the living room. He was staring straight at me with watery eyes that looked ready to burst from their sockets. His body was swollen like a balloon. But that wasn’t the worst part. His stomach had split open between his legs, and a watery, bloody fluid was spilling across the floor. Instead of the dog’s organs, something else was seeping out onto the tiles.
I didn’t know what I was seeing, but it felt like I was witnessing some kind of grotesque birth in my living room. From the dog I’d raised since he was a puppy, a pale, purplish, tentacled thing was forcing its way out. As the shapeless mass spread farther across the floor, Atlas grew smaller. Like air escaping from a balloon, except this balloon was my dog.
I couldn’t move. Not even an inch. Atlas didn’t make a sound. He stood there, rigid and motionless, while I stared with wide eyes as his body collapsed in on itself.
When Atlas had become so thin that there was almost nothing left but skin and fur, the slimy mass on the floor began to take shape.
I finally stood up, completely forgetting about my bleeding hand, and just watched in shock.
The purplish thing began to resemble a body. Its tentacles stretched out in every direction. On what looked like a misshapen, balloon-like head, tiny black dots appeared. They rotated slowly, clearly searching for something.
Its tentacles crawled across the floor, leaving slick trails of slime behind. Then the black dots stopped moving and locked onto a single point.
They had found what they were looking for.
Me.
The thing lunged at me immediately. It moved so fast it felt like it was flying. I heard its wet tentacles slapping and sliding across the floor, slick and sticky, and beneath that sound it was like dozens of tiny feet were tapping against the wooden floorboards. I only needed a split second to understand what was happening. I jumped for the bathroom door and slammed it shut with so much force I thought it might come off the hinges. I threw the lock closed. The moment it clicked, something on the other side hit the door like a wet sack being hurled at it. I stumbled back in panic.
I could hear it forcing its way closer. Slimy tentacles scraping and probing, searching for a way in.
“What the fuck is this…” I muttered, backing away from the door.
But it didn’t stop there. Through every crack in the door, every gap where even a single hair might fit, purplish, slick tentacles began to seep through. They groped blindly, searching for anything to grab onto. From the keyhole, a thicker tentacle began to grow, twisting and turning as it searched for the lock. This thing was smart. And it wasn’t going to give up on reaching me. Paralyzed with horror, my survival instinct finally kicked in as I watched those octopus-like limbs writhe in a nauseating attempt to get inside.
I needed something, anything… to defend myself. I kicked over the first aid kit in a panic, hoping something inside might help. But there was nothing. Nothing sharp, nothing heavy enough to throw. I spun in place, desperate, scanning the bathroom for an option. That’s when it hit me.
I hadn’t smoked in almost half a year, but my lighter was still sitting in my back pocket.
I pulled it out and flicked it. It worked immediately, the flame sprang to life. I grabbed the air freshener next to the toilet.
I had myself a flamethrower.
That’s when I heard the lock click.
I had less than a second. The tentacles snapped back so fast I only caught a blur of purple before they vanished. The thing pulled away from the door. Slowly, the bathroom door creaked open.
I held my breath, staring at the doorway like a hunting dog waiting for a command.
A flash of purple streaked upward, onto the ceiling, then onto the wall of the shower stall. I didn’t hesitate. I pressed down on the air freshener and sparked the lighter. A burst of flame shot out, engulfing the purple mass on the shower wall. But it was fast. Terrifyingly fast. Tentacles snapped through the air, there was another wet smack, and suddenly it launched itself at me from the floor, dodging the flames. I barely had time to drop the air freshener and throw my right arm up in front of my face.
Its tentacles wrapped around my arm, my head, my back. The long, cold appendages were sharp, lined with what felt like hundreds of tiny hooks. I felt them digging into my flesh, tearing into my skin. We crashed into a nightmare of motion, a violent, twisting struggle. No matter how hard I spun or tried to shove it away from my face, it only tightened its grip. I screamed, part pain, part rage, as we smashed into furniture, knocking everything over. One wrong step sent me stumbling backward, straight into the shower stall. The glass exploded into tiny cubes, and the thing and I crashed together into the shower tray.
I fought with everything I had, even crouched in the corner on one knee, trying to hold it back. But its tentacles were slick, multiplying, spreading. Half of it stayed anchored to me while the rest slowly crept toward my face. I felt something cold and thin brush against my nose, tickling it before pushing inside, toward my nostrils, my mouth, my ears.
Summoning every ounce of strength left in me, I forced myself upright and dragged us out of the shower. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that we were directly in front of the bathroom mirror. Rage flooded me. I lowered my head and charged, smashing the thing face-first into the mirror. The glass burst against its balloon-like body, and it let out a thin, shrill screech. Its grip loosened for just a moment, and I took it. I grabbed one of its slimy tentacles and yanked it free from my nose, slamming it harder into the shattered glass.
The creature convulsed and ripped itself away with tremendous force, dragging me along before breaking free. My head came loose, and I sucked in air, finally able to breathe again. But its tentacles still held on. One was wrapped tight around my arm, others hooked into my back like barbs.
I staggered toward the toilet. Kicking the lid open, I dropped to my knees beside it, forcing the creature down as best I could. With my free hand, I slammed the toilet seat down onto it. Again. And again. Glass shards embedded in its soft body crunched with every impact. I could hear it screaming inside my head, high-pitched and agonized, but I didn’t stop. I kept slamming the lid down until my arms shook.
I felt the thing thrashing against my back. This was my chance. I grabbed it with both hands, whatever shifting, unstable shape I could hold, and hurled it into the toilet bowl with all my strength. The disgusting mass barely fit, but I slammed the bent lid shut and threw my full weight onto it.
Then I reached for the flush handle.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but I pulled it anyway.
The toilet roared to life. The creature’s tentacles flailed wildly, searching for purchase. Water surged, pipes groaned, and the bowl overflowed, water spilling across the bathroom floor. I didn’t let up. I kept pressing the lid down as hard as I could. The pipes vibrated violently.
Then, with a loud, wet suctioning sound, the water level dropped.
To my shock, the creature seemed to retreat. The tentacles sticking out shrank, slipping back inside. The lid became easier to hold down.
And then, in an instant, it was gone.
I stood there, gasping in the wrecked bathroom. I was soaked—water, blood, sweat. My back, arms, and head were covered in small, bleeding cuts, like I’d been slashed with a razor.
Did I win?
The thought flashed through my mind, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the toilet.
“Jordi? Are you here…? Is everything okay?” came a familiar woman’s voice from the living room.
Addison. My neighbor. A terrible feeling shot through me, but something was faster. I heard it again, like something heavy moving through the pipes or the sewer. Like a massive clog being forced through.
“Jordi…? Are you in the kitchen?” I heard Addison call again.
I couldn’t get a single word out. My legs moved on their own. I jumped over what was left of Atlas’s twisted shell on the floor and ran toward the kitchen.
I heard a short scream. Then that wet, slimy sound again. The thing hadn’t left. It had just found an easier target than me.
I practically burst into the kitchen. Addison was leaning against the counter, her body shaking. And the thing… it was finishing what it had started with me. I watched as tentacles were sucked back into her nose, disappearing inside her.
“Holy shit…” I said out loud.
The woman, or whatever she was now, looked at me. Then she panicked and bolted. No matter how fast I lunged after her, Addison slipped past my hand. Like a cat, she twisted away effortlessly and ran out through the open front door.
I grabbed a kitchen knife and went after her. I chased Addison down the hallway like a madman, knife in my hand, gasping for breath, covered in blood and cuts.
It didn’t take long for things to get worse.
Addison was heading toward the stairwell when one of the apartment doors flew open in response to my shouting. A large man stormed out, furious.
“What the fuck is all this yelling?” he shouted.
The moment he saw me, I knew this was bad. From the outside, it must have looked insane, a soaked, bleeding lunatic with a knife chasing an innocent woman.
It was like hitting a concrete wall. I barely registered what happened before the man slammed into me, sending me crashing into the hallway wall. I hit the dirty carpet hard, dazed. He stepped over me, stomped on my hand, and kicked the knife away. Then he crouched down and punched me in the mouth so hard I spat blood everywhere.
“If I ever see you again, you piece of shit,” he screamed, pointing at me. “You crazy fuck.”
“No…” I mumbled through my split lip. “She can’t leave. That’s not who she...”
He didn’t respond. He just drove his foot into my stomach with brutal force. I gagged, coughing up spit and blood, choking.
Then he stood up and went back into his apartment, like he’d taken care of a problem.
I lay there on the hallway floor, staring toward the stairwell door. Addison was gone.
And all I could think was…
What the hell did I just let loose?
#entertainment
source
| 1,000 mlx | |
| 5 | |
| 0 |