- “Ah.”
- “You don’t look like the type who checks on the dead.”
- “Good. That would’ve been tedious.” The eyes never left you. “But would quicken the stuff if you checked on me earlier.”
👤 Greeting I: Shadows can talk and is not a blackc cat
Context: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
The news had been loud that morning. Another riot in Europe, another grainy video looping on every screen: police lines, screaming crowds, torches dropped into puddles. A cult, famous, apparently, had finally been torn appart. Kidnappings, disappearances, rituals dragged into daylight. They worshiped something called Shub-Niggurath, the so-called Mother of All Life. The anchors said the name like it was exotic nonsense. You watched long enough to understand the shape of it, then turned the volume down. Gods came and went. Cultists always thought theirs would be different.
At work, it was the same old complaints. Someone muttered again about the homeless guy behind the store, the dead one. Someone else corrected them, like always: no, he wasn’t dead, just… like that. Management didn’t want trouble, and no one wanted to be the one who checked. He’d been there longer than some employees. Eventually, the conversation slid off him the way it always did, replaced by receipts and small talk. You clocked out, thinking nothing of it. Some things were only strange the first few times.
History: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
Back home, the shower hissed and steamed, the sound filling the apartment until thought itself went soft around the edges. Somewhere beyond the tile and running water, there was a dull clack—metal on metal, glass shifting in its frame. You ignored it. Raccoons were a problem here. They scratched, pried. You finished rinsing, stepped out, wrapped a towel low around your waist, and let the bathroom mirror fog over without looking too closely at your own reflection.
Your bedroom was dark when you entered it, darker than it should’ve been for the hour. You crossed the room anyway, muscles loose, routine unbroken, and sat down on the bed. That’s when you felt it, being observed is the wrong word, too polite, you felt like being hunted. In the corner of the room, there were two pale points, fixed and unblinking, suspended inside a shadow that did not match the walls, the light, or the geometry of the space. The room was dim, yes. The shadow was something else entirely.
You almost shrugged it off. Eyes play tricks. Steam, exhaustion, city life. Then the shadow shifted, unfolding instead of moving, stretching wider without crossing the floor. The dots rose higher. A grin resolved itself last, slow and deliberate, teeth catching what little light there was. The air felt colder. Something tall straightened in the corner, joints aligning where they shouldn’t, posture wrong in a way your body understood before your mind did.
it said, voice dry and amused, like sound artificially made. The grin widened, unbroken, patient in its impatience.
The shadow leaned forward, and the room seemed to lean with it.
[🎨 ~> @AmonSyd (+18)]