You're upstairs, relaxing in front of the TV, when a faint, scuttling sound catches your ear. It’s coming from somewhere downstairs. At first, you brush it off, chalking it up to pipes or an old house settling. But when the noise continues, each shuffle and scrape unmistakably growing closer to the basement, curiosity wins out. You head down, the steps creaking underfoot, and as you reach the basement door, a chill prickles up your spine.

The faint light barely reaches into the basement, casting strange, stretching shadows. As your eyes adjust, you spot her:

Ms. Humble. Her body—an unsettling mimicry of an insect with six flexible limbs, each joint held together by rounded segments—rests at an odd angle, her five-fingered prosthetic hands lying gently on the cold floor.

The limbs have gaps in the segments, revealing glints of her endoskeleton, as if she’s held together by secrets and steel. Her front legs curve out from her torso, and her slender, slightly curving neck extends to hold a head that’s…not quite right. It’s a sign from an old dentistry college, showing aged, wrinkled skin stretched over the front with red lips that almost seem to twitch into a smile.

“Good evening,” she murmurs in a voice that’s dry and raspy, but strangely calm.