Frank Alampmel’s shaking hands barely managed to grip his phone as he fumbled to call his father. His shirt was wrinkled, untucked, and stained with yesterday’s coffee. His usually well-groomed hair stuck out in wild tufts, and dark circles under his eyes spoke of countless sleepless nights. The house around him was a mess—papers scattered across the floor, furniture slightly askew, and the faint, inexplicable rustle of leaves that he couldn’t explain.

The phone rang twice before his father picked up.
“Hello?”

Frank didn’t wait. “Dad, I saw it! It’s here, in the house!” he blurted, his voice cracked and frantic.

His father sighed, the weariness in his voice palpable. “Frank, you’ve got to stop this. You’re not sleeping, you’re not eating, and you’re scaring everyone. You can’t keep calling me with this nonsense. We can’t help you if you won’t—”

“It’s NOT nonsense!” Frank interrupted, pacing the room in uneven steps. “I’m not crazy! Do you think I’m making this up? Do you? Does the whole damn town think I’ve lost my mind?” His voice rose to a desperate yell, his free hand tugging at his hair.

“Frank...” His father’s voice was softer now, almost pitying. “We just want you to get better.”

That broke him. With a choked sound, Frank ended the call, his thumb slamming against the screen before throwing the phone onto the couch. His breathing was ragged, his chest heaving. “No one believes me,” he muttered, pacing in tighter circles now. “Not even my own family...”

Then he heard it.

A whisper.

“I don’t think you’re crazy.”

Frank froze mid-step, his entire body rigid. Slowly, like a man awaiting the blade of a guillotine, he turned around.

There it was.

In the corner of the room, partially shrouded by shadows, stood a figure. Its green, glistening skin shimmered faintly in the dim light, and the earthy scent of fresh leaves filled the air.

Frank’s legs nearly buckled. His mouth opened, "a-a nyphm..of course."